“You wanna play it that way, then I suppose no. We’ve got the addendum to the original ME’s report, proves your David was taking love suppositories from Stefanski. We got the photos, proves the cover up. Then, of course, we’ve got the four dead black guys and the dead cop, which makes it a cover up plus five murders. And we got you as the primary beneficiary of the entire exercise. In the strictest legal sense does this put dick in the wringer? I’d guess not. Not sure on statute of limitations issues. I think the clock on murder runs forever, but I don’t think they can get you for that. Don’t know about the conspiracy stuff, or the aiding and abetting stuff. Or even that they can prove you knew. So, does this mean you’re going to the joint? I was a betting man, I’d bet no. But that’s not the real problem, is it? It comes out your whole career was built on killing some guys, including a cop, well, getting a hummer from an intern gonna look like small ball.”

Clarke sat looking at the photo. “All these years, I’ve waited for this to come back. I didn’t run, you know, for president – not the first couple times it would have made sense. Afraid of this, afraid someone was holding out, waiting.”

Weaver just sat. Thing he’d learned interrogating people, turning people, when they’re busy torturing themselves, don’t interrupt. He’d let Clarke drop all the way to the end of the rope, let him feel the tug.

Finally, Clarke looked up. “Why now? Just over your job?”

“Name Zeke Fisher mean anything to you?”

Clarke shook his head.

“That’s who took the picture. Ezekiel Amos Fisher. My mentor, actually. That’s who Riley called to clean up little Davey’s mess. Well, not Riley, Paddy Wang. Riley called Wang, Wang called Fisher. You know Wang, right?”

Clarke nodded. “Still do, talked to him last week, trade agreement with China.”

“Well, Riley needed somebody but figured this was a little over his head, so he called Wang, and Wang called Fisher. And less than ninety-six hours after you found the bodies, Fisher had the whole thing wrapped up tight in a bow of dead radicals.”

“I was horrified, you know, when I heard. My god, five dead, including that cop–”

“Not so horrified you didn’t run for senate, though. Not so horrified you didn’t start talking up David Hurley like he was the white Martin Luther King. Not so horrified you didn’t ride his corpse into office.”

A tired, sad smile from Clarke. “Not that horrified, no.”

“Anyway, Fisher took the photos, and he held on to the paperwork. Guess he figured having a pet senator might be a good idea someday. He was still regular Agency back then, back before the Church Committee, back when the Agency could color outside the lines. He kept these in his private files. Anyway, things changed, and guys sitting in your chair found out they got their hands tied maybe a little tighter than they liked, and they set up the group I run, or ran. Zeke ran it first. He bought it in Laos, in 1978. And I took over. And this,” Weaver reaching out and tapping the photo, “was part of his legacy. But there’s another part. There’s Zeke’s kid. Ishmael. That name you know. The story you don’t.” So Weaver told him. The family history, the car bomb, the murders in Chicago, the clusterfuck in Moriah, the whole thing.

When Weaver had finished, the president got up and walked over to the sideboard against the wall, poured a couple of inches of whiskey into a glass, then sat back down.

“So this Ishmael Fisher is trying to clean up his father’s mess somehow?”

“Can’t say for sure,” said Weaver. “Fits with what our shrink worked out.”

“And if he’s taken alive, he knows?”

“About you, sure. And about better than thirty years of other shit we need to keep in the dark.”

The president took a long pull on his drink.

“So what do you need?”

“I need InterGov back. I need somebody to keep the Judge off of me. I need shooters. Ten of them. Good ones. And one last thing. It’s likely to get loud and messy the next week or so. We won’t leave any fingerprints on anything that points back easy, but I need to know somebody’s got our back here. It’s too late for nothing to come out. Press’ll be chasing lots of shit, but we’ll be able to muddy the water up well enough they won’t be able to make any of it stick. But we need to close ranks here. People start pushing, I need to know somebody’s gonna push back, hard, not get all weak at the knees.”

That tired smile from Clarke again. “My character, actually, is more in the weak at the knees camp. Always have known that about myself, and have always tried to keep too much stress off my knees as a result. But I don’t suppose I have much choice this time, do I? You’ll wrap this up quickly?”

“Yeah, but you gotta move fast,” said Weaver. “Start making your calls now. I need to be up and running in the morning. Then I’ll wrap it up just like last time. In body bags.”

Weaver’s alarm went off at 4am. If Clarke was playing ball, Weaver would know by now. He picked up the phone and called the ops desk.

“It’s Weaver. You guys get word?”

“Yes. You’re back in charge.”

“OK. What’s our disposition on Fisher?”

“Ferguson and Chen are on the ground in Chicago. Ferguson said he’d send for shooters once he reconnoitered. Just got a roster on the QT out of Langley fifteen minutes ago. We have some reinforcements coming in. Should have them by 1200. I told Langley to send them straight to Andrews. Didn’t figure they’d do us much good here.”

“You told them right. Have everybody muster at the hangar. I want us wheels up by 1500.”

“Chicago?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll notify Ferguson.”

“Negative. He or Chen been in touch at all since I was put back on top?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep them out of the loop.”

A pause on the other end. “Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER 41 – CHICAGO

Ishmael Fisher took a quick reading with the range finder from the planned location of his next hide.

Fisher had planted cameras and mics in seventeen churches, all over the city. Once Weaver picked up the signals, he’d have to start running intel, matching possible targets against locations, trying to ID shooting hides, trying to set up ambushes. He wouldn’t have enough bodies or enough time. And he wouldn’t get a signal here. Not until the chosen day.

CHAPTER 42 – CHICAGO

Lynch, Slo-mo, Starshak, McCord and Cunningham were crammed in a corner both at McGinty’s. 10am, the place not open yet, McGinty in back cleaning up.

Starshak had the paper from 1971, files on the Hurley case and the raid on the AMN Commando. Lynch brought what he’d found in the garage, papers scattered around the table. Lynch ran down what he knew, and Cunningham filled them in on the spook angle, on Ferguson, the Dragon, Fisher.

“This shit has all got to tie together,” Starshak said. “Too many intersections.”

“Whatever happened back in ’71,” Lynch said, “this Fisher’s got the facts. And he had them before we did.”

“But why now?” said Starshak. “Been forty years.”

“Doesn’t matter in a way,” said Bernstein. “We’ve got enough to start putting a murder case together for 1971.”

“Murder case for who?” Lynch said. “Riley’s dead. Old man Hurley’s dead. Riordan’s dead. I checked on the ME from 1971. Anthony? Guy who put the serology together? Died of a heart attack the same night my dad was killed.”

“Convenient,” Starshak said.

“You want more convenience? The two Feds in my dad’s notes? The ones at that meeting? One was killed in action in 1975. The other one died in a car crash in 1977. This Zeke Fisher? If he’s not dead, he’s gotta be a hundred years old. And I can’t seem to prove he was ever alive.”

“Except now we have somebody half that age with the same name running around the city shooting people,” Bernstein said.