Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [76]
“Back when—”
“Yes.”
“Is he claiming that the president ordered it? When he was at the Company?”
“I’m not sure. I just know that the potential ramifications are immense.”
“Are you sure of what you’re saying?” Garson asked.
“No. But we must find out, and do it fast.”
“How did Widmer end up with this Mafia type?”
“I don’t know.”
Garson grimaced and hunched his shoulders, running a hand through his thicket of unruly gray hair. “Know what I think?” he said.
“What?”
“I think you’re right—if this Russo is who you say he is, and if he’s willing to lie in front of a Senate committee.”
Garson’s assumption that Russo would be lying if he testified might have provided a modicum of comfort to Fletcher. It didn’t. If this thing progressed to the point of a former member of the Mafia testifying that the president of the United States had, while head of the CIA, in fact, ordered the assassination of a Central American leader, one of the many spins put on it would be that he was lying, seeking his day in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame, demented, ailing and losing his faculties, a criminal, a lifetime liar and cheat, all the usual, the dupe of a vindictive senator out to destroy a presidency.
Better not to have it happen in the first place.
“Can you find out more about Russo and what he intends to say in front of the committee?” Fletcher asked.
“I’ll get on it,” Garson replied gruffly.
“It has to be kept away from the White House.”
“You damn well bet it does,” said Garson, standing. “And from Justice, too. Does he know?”
“The president? No.”
“Better he doesn’t until we have a better handle on it.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
The 747’s PA system came to life from the cockpit: “We’ll be landing in twenty-two minutes.”
Parmele put on his shoes and laced them. Fletcher waited for the president to speak. He’d laid out everything he knew about the Widmer hearings, which was considerably more than Walter Brown had known. Parmele remained silent during Fletcher’s briefing. Shoes tied, he turned to his political adviser, smiled, and said, “I think I owe the Mafia a debt of gratitude, Chet.”
“Sir?”
“For getting rid of this turncoat. What’s his name? Louis Russo? They did me a favor.”
“But there are the tapes and notes, sir. And I expect that the writer will be called to testify, too.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky with him, too. What do you know about him?”
Fletcher started to respond, but Parmele cut him off. “I’m sure he didn’t vote for me,” he said with a small chuckle. “Do what you can, Chet. I’ll be damned if some hack writer and a lying mafioso are going to deny me a second term.”
The president slapped Fletcher on the back, left the office, and went to the press section, where he told reporters, “Sorry I couldn’t be with you earlier. I’m sure Robin has taken good care of you.”
“Sir, any comment about why Mrs. Parmele decided at the last minute to not make this trip?” he was asked.
Parmele flashed a big smile and said, “She’s probably gotten bored of hearing me extol her virtues on the stump. Needed a day off from me—and you. See you on the ground.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
As Adam Parmele, president of the United States, winged south in search of a second term, Alaska Senator Karl Widmer was hard at work in Washington, D.C., doing what he could to deny him another four years.
The mood in the senator’s suite was not upbeat that morning. Members of his staff knew what the tenor of the day would be the moment the aging, cantankerous Alaskan stepped through the door. They’d learned to read his walk, posture, and facial expressions, and the tone of his voice when, or if, he bothered to return their greetings.
He’d started the day by attending a morning prayer breakfast with like-minded legislators. The exhibition of kindness to his fellow human beings was quickly left behind. He ignored those saying “Good morning, sir,” as he entered his private office, flung his jacket on a couch, and took the chair behind his desk.
Carol, his lead secretary, followed him in carrying a sheaf of phone messages. “Senator,