“I’m sorry it’s come to this, sir, but I don’t see any other way.”

PART FOUR

No Half Measures

#4

KARLY HAMMIL

Mr. Crawford had said to meet her at a look-out point in Crissy Field. He had arranged for her to take a temporary leave of absence from the campaign, saying that she had contracted glandular fever and would be out of action for at least a month. That, he said, would be enough time for them to come up with something better, but she knew that she would never be going back. In the meantime, he had promised that he would see to the money and the rendezvous was so that he could deliver her the first instalment. She had driven up to the park and sat in her car and watched as the sun went down over the Bay. It had been a bright day and, as the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the rusty red metal of the bridge glowed brightly in its dying rays. The lights of Treasure Island and, beyond that, Oakland, began to flicker, twinkling in the gloaming, growing brighter.

Karly wound down the window and let the air into the car. She took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, held them to her mouth and pulled one out with her lips. She lit it, sucking the smoke into her lungs, closing her eyes and enjoying the hit of the nicotine. The park was empty save for a couple of joggers who were descending the hill back towards the city. The night grew darker. The last ferry headed back to the mainland from Alcatraz. A jet laid down grey vapour trails as it cut through the star-sprinkled sky overhead. Gulls wheeled on lazy thermals. It was a spectacular view.

She saw the high-beams of a car as it turned up the steep road that ended in the vantage point. Karly finished the cigarette and flicked the butt out of the window. The car was an old Cadillac and it was struggling with the incline. As it drew closer she could see that it was dented on the front-right wing and the number-plate was attached to the chassis with duct tape. It slowed and swung into the bay next to her. She squinted through the glare of the headlights but they were bright and she couldn’t make out anything about the driver or the passenger. The door opened and the driver came over to her side of the car.

41

Julius had a small TV set on a shelf above the door and he was flicking between channels; they were all running with the same story. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the presumptive candidate as Republican nomination for President, had been found dead in his hotel room. Details were still sketchy, but the early indications were that he had taken his own life. Suicide. There was unconfirmed speculation that he had been found on his bed next to a bottle of scotch and empty bottles of prescription sleeping tablets. The anchors on all of the channels were reporting the news with the same breathless, stunned sense of disbelief. A major piece in the political life of the country had been swiped from the board. Friends and colleagues were interviewed, some of them fighting back tears. No-one could believe that Robinson had killed himself. It didn’t make sense, they said. He had been full of life. He had been determined to win the nomination and, now that he had almost achieved that, he was gearing up for election year. To do this, now, to end it all when he had so much to look forward to? It didn’t make any sense at all.

There were four other customers in the place today. They were all watching the television.

“Unbelievable,” Julius said as he slid a spatula beneath a burger and deftly flipped it. “Someone like that just topping himself? Don’t make no sense.”

“Goes to show,” said one of the others. “You never know what’s in a man’s head.”

The coverage switched to an outside broadcast. It was a hotel. Flashbulbs flashed as a figure emerged from the lobby of the hotel and descended until he was halfway down the steps, a thicket of microphones quickly thrust into his face.

“Turn it up, would you?” Milton said.

Julius punched the volume up.

Milton recognised the man: it was Robinson’s Chief of Staff, Arlen Crawford.

“Mr. Crawford,” a reporter shouted above the hubbub. “Can you tell us what you know?”

“The Governor was found in his room this afternoon by a member of the election team. Paramedics were called but it was too late — they say he had been dead for several hours. We have no idea why he would have done something like this. I saw him last night to talk about the excellent progress we were making with the campaign. I saw nothing to make me think that this could be possible. The Governor was a loud, enthusiastic, colourful man. This is completely out of character.” He looked away for a moment, swallowing, and then passed a hand over his face. “More than just being my boss, Jack Robinson was my friend. He’s the reason I am in politics. He’s the godfather to my son. He was a good man. The best.” His voice quavered, almost broke. “What happened this morning is a disaster for this country and a tragedy for everyone who knew him. Thank you. Good day.”

He turned back and made his way into the hotel.

“It might be a personal tragedy,” Julius opined, “but a national one? Nah. Not for me. Boy had some pretty strident views on things, you know what I’m saying? He wouldn’t have got my vote.”

Milton’s phone rang.

It was Eva.

“Afternoon,” Milton said. “Are you watching this?”

There was no reply.

Milton checked the phone’s display; it was definitely her. “Eva?”

“Mr. Smith,” a male voice said. “You’ve caused us a whole heap of trouble, you know that? And now you’re gonna have to pay.”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s not important.”

It was a southern accent. A low and lazy drawl. A smokey rasp.

“Where’s Eva?”

“She’s with us.”

“If you hurt her—”

“You ain’t in no position to make threats, Mr. Smith.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“About?”

“You know what about. We need to be sure you won’t mention” — there was a pause — “recent events.”

“The Governor.”

“That’s right.”

“And if I persuade you that I won’t say anything you’ll let her go?”

“Perhaps.”

“Right. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

There was a rasping laugh. “Perhaps and perhaps not but if you don’t play ball with us now, well then, it’s a definite no for her, ain’t it? How much does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“Gonna have to speak to her to make sure about that.”

Milton’s voice was cold and hard. “Listen to me — she doesn’t know anything.”

“Then maybe we just need you.”

“Where are you?”

“Nah, partner, it ain’t gonna happen like that. We know where you are. We’ll come to you. You stay right there, alright? Finish your meal. We’ll be along presently.”

42

They arrived in an old Cadillac Eldorado. Milton was sat in the back, in the middle, a large man on either side of him. He had checked the joint out after he had finished speaking to the man on the phone and could guess which of the other four patrons had followed him inside: a scrawny, weasely man with three days’ worth of stubble and a face that had been badly scarred by acne. Milton stared at him and the man had eventually found the guts to make a sly nod; emboldened, no doubt, by the prospect of imminent reinforcements and his opinion that they had the advantage. That knowledge wasn’t enough to stiffen his resolve completely, and, as Milton stared at him, his confidence folded and he looked away. Milton had wondered if there was some way he could use the man to even the odds but he knew that there would not be. What could he have done? They had Eva, and that, he knew, eliminated almost all of his options.