Текст книги "Strachey's Folly "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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"Maynard," I said, "are you suggesting there's a connection between the approval of NAFTA and Ulmer's murder more than two years later? Ulmer died in a street robbery—officially, at any rate. What could the connection be?"

"Timmy says your cop friend Chondelle Dolan told you there's always been doubt about Ulmer's homicide having been a simple mugging, on account of the type of weapon used."

"Timmy is right about that."

"But what the connection to NAFTA might be, I don't know. I was just thinking of Carmen LoBello's story about a scandal that would have rocked the country and maybe reversed the Republican congressional landslide in '94 if it had come out. Suter got high and mentioned this awful thing that had been preying on his mind last January. That's when Ulmer was murdered. Then Suter dumped LoBello a few weeks later. Jim always dumped everybody a few weeks later. But still, the timing of all that struck me as interesting."

"It is."

"It's too bad you couldn't have asked Jim about it when you were down there."

"I may be heading back to the Yucatan. So I can still ask him. First, Maynard, I may phone Jim, if I can track down his number, which he wouldn't give me. He said if I ever called, Jorge might answer. But now I'm wondering if Jim might not be in immediate danger." I described to Maynard the violent deaths earlier in the day of Hugh Myers, the Log Heaven GM dealer, and Nelson Krumfutz and Tammy Pam Jameson.

"But," Maynard said, "those incidents would seem to buttress Jim's story of a drug-smuggling operation, not a NAFTA connection. Unless, of course, the NAFTA campaign and the drug cartel are somehow interrelated."

"Yeah. Unless that."

I told Maynard I guessed I'd have to speak again with Red Heckinger and Malcolm Sweet, who seemed to be Suter's eyes and ears in Washington, and his main local contacts. "Who are those two goons anyway? I had half a lunch with them the other day, and they're about as subtle as Willard Scott. They seemed to want me to think they were mob-connected, but it was all the worst sort of amateur theater and not convincing."

"They're lobbyists for the Pennsylvania Association of Broadcasters. One of them is originally from Log Heaven– Heckinger, I think. Jim has done some lobbying and PR work for the PAB over the years. In fact, that's how I think he made his first connection with Betty Krumfutz, who always looked out for the PAB's interests. They're a couple, and they've been known to give dinner parties at their place in Georgetown, where, following coffee and after-dinner drinks, the guests have been asked to move into the den and spank each other."

"Somehow I'm not surprised to hear this."

"In fact, Bryant Ulmer was part of that circle, and Alan McChesney, too, and McChesney's boyfriend, Ian Williamson."

"I met McChesney in Burton Olds's office on Tuesday," I said, "and Williamson was there, too. McChesney spoke poorly of Suter—as so many men do—and told the usual story of ecstasy with Jim and then a sudden nothingness. McChesney also said he wouldn't be surprised if Jim was mixed up in a drug operation with Jorge—yet another vote for that scenario."

"I wonder what made Alan think that. Jim was never involved with out-and-out crooks before, that I ever heard. Did Alan mention that he saw me on Saturday, not long before I got shot?"

"No, your name never came up in our conversation. Following Suter's instructions, I was still being cagey on Tuesday as to what I was investigating and for whom."

"That's funny. I saw Alan at the quilt display near Jim's panel, and he might reasonably have connected any investigation of Jim with me, since Alan knew we were friends, and he would surely have read or heard about my getting shot down on E Street later on Saturday. McChesney must have seen you and Timmy at the quilt, too. I was going to say hi and introduce you, in fact, but Alan was talking to some other people, and then we came to the quilt panel with Jim's name on it, and soon after that he was gone."

At that moment, an idea that had been vague in the back of my mind moved forward and began to take on an actual shape. But I did not yet recognize the exact shape of the idea, and I said only to Maynard, "It is odd that McChesney didn't make the likely connection and maybe even ask me if you were my client. But he didn't."

"McChesney is not famous for being dense."

"What's he famous for? Besides after-dinner spankings?"

"For thoroughness and decisiveness. And, I guess I should add, ruthlessness."

"Oh, ruthlessness, too."

Mrs. Krumfutz had not yet emerged from her bedroom, where she had gone to change clothes, but a knock came at the front door now, probably, I figured, Mrs. Krumfutz's good friend Marion Smith. Before answering the door, I spoke briefly with Timmy again, assuring him that I would soon head back toward Washington. I advised him to remain in Maynard's room with its police guard outside, and without hesitation he said he would.

A small female face was now peering in through the bottom stepped window in the Krumfutz front door. As I moved to open the door for Mrs. Smith, I decided that when I found a pay phone on my way out of Log Heaven, I would not call Heckinger or Sweet or Alan McChesney or even Jim Suter. I would phone the airline and make some necessarily convoluted arrangements for a fast trip back to the Yucatan.

Chapter 26

Just before noon on Saturday, October 19, a week almost to the hour from the time Maynard had stared in amazement at Jim Suter's panel in the AIDS memorial quilt, I pulled off Highway 307 onto the beach road at Los Pajaros.

I had spent the previous evening, on my return from Log Heaven, checking in on Timmy and Maynard at GW, then shaking any tail Ray Craig might have still had on me by slipping on and off a variety of subway trains at D.C. Metro Center and other nearby stations. I ended up at the Farragut West station, near the White House, where I caught a cab to National Airport.

I had booked the first leg of my journey under the name of Cray Mameluke, paid cash for the ticket, and arrived un-interferred-with in Miami soon after midnight. There I reserved a seat on a 7 a.m. flight to Cancun under the name Donald Stra-chey, the name the airline would see on my passport. If my movements were being monitored, I guessed, this would be done at the Washington end, rather than in Cancun, and surely not in Miami, a mere transit point that was one of several to the Yucatan.

From my hotel near Miami International, I phoned May-nard's hospital room and woke him up so that I could be reassured that he was safe. He was, as was Timmy, asleep on a couch in the nearby visitors' lounge. I also phoned Chondelle Dolan at home, woke her from a sound sleep, too, and described what I had learned over the past four days from Carmen LoBello, Betty  Krumfutz,   Maynard   Sudbury,   and—for  what  it  was

worth—Jim Suter. I said I might need her advice and help when I got back to Washington, and she said fine.

Dolan told me, "It looks like maybe your boyfriend the conspiracy nut wasn't such a nut after all."

"Could be, but I'm still having a lot of trouble believing that a Catholic schoolboy's lurid fantasies about what makes the world go round might actually exist in modern-day reality. The evidence, however, does seem to keep pointing that way."

Dolan said, "The world we live in isn't the same world it was just ten years ago. Nowadays they don't call these things conspiracies, though. Now it's called synergy."

Dolan soon hung up to resume the night's sleep I'd interrupted, and I, too, caught a few hours of restless semicon-sciousness, before heading to the airport and the flight to Cancun, my second in three days.

When I rounded the first bend in the Los Pajaros beach road, I saw not one but three vehicles in the driveway of Jorge Ramos's house. The big mud-spattered Suburban was there, along with a couple of Jeep Cherokees. I drove on, glancing at the house in hope of catching a glimpse of Suter. All the lou-vered windows were open, but I saw no one inside moving about.

Walking up and boldly knocking on the front door would have been macho in a way that might have been appreciated locally, but it might also have been suicidal. So if Suter was inside the house and still alive, I knew I'd have to get to him in some other way. I turned around at the next driveway, maneuvered my rental car through the mud and potholes back out to the main highway, then drove back up 307 to a hotel near Yalku.

I rented snorkeling equipment, reluctantly leaving my passport as collateral, and returned to the beach road, parking at a closed-up and apparently unoccupied house a third of a mile up the beach from the Ramos house. I changed into my bathing suit, and ten minutes later I -was floating twenty yards off the Ramos beach, interested in the gray ray that flopped across the sandy seafloor six or seven feet beneath me, but even more interested in the scene on the Ramos terrace. Two large, muscular, dark-haired men in chinos and polo shirts were seated in the shade of the house, one on a chaise and one in a deck chair, and a third man in a skimpy bathing suit—I recognized him from the now all-too-familiar head of hair—sat stretched out on a chair in the sun.

For fifteen minutes I swam slowly back and forth, like a U-boat off Scotland, hoping the two guards, if that's what they were—was one of them Jorge?—would go inside the house. Finally one of them did get up, but the other one stayed put. The one who went inside, however, returned shortly with a couple of bottles, it looked like, and another object. The second man then joined him at a round table where they both seated themselves and began to do something with the unidentifiable object. A deck of cards? No, the motions were not card-playing motions. When the two seemed to become more deeply engrossed in their activity, I moved in closer to shore. Suter now seemed to be looking my way, so I lifted my mask, pointed theatrically at my upper lip, then vigorously and repeatedly shot Suter the finger. When I saw him stiffen and continue to stare at me, I pulled my mask back down and resumed an easy breaststroke in a northerly direction.

A moment later, when I glanced his way, Suter stood up, slipped out of his bathing trunks, and headed toward me in a leisurely way. With the sun above him, he was magnificent to behold. But now his beauty kindled not appreciation or desire in me, just sudden anger. What a careless, destructive man he was. And when he reached me and chimed, "Strachey, I thought you'd never show up!" it was all I could do to keep from swatting him with my snorkeling mask.

I snarled, "You are getting people killed! Do you know that?" Startled, Suter said, "Who? Now who's been killed?" "Why, Nelson Krumfutz and Tammy Pam Jameson and Hugh Myers! Suter, you dumb fuck! What did you tell Jorge that you told me?"

Suter lost his coordination for an instant and nearly slipped under the water. He recovered, gestured urgently toward the north, and as we both began to swim that way, he said breathlessly, "They knew you were here on Wednesday. They asked me what I told you. I told them I made up a story to throw you off." He watched for my reaction as he swam.

"You made up the drug-smuggling story? All of it?"

"The part about Nelson Krumfutz and Hugh Myers, sure. I thought you'd be smart enough to be scared off by the whole drug-gang angle. These are not people you want to want to play with, even a little, and I wanted to impress that on you, Strachey. That's all I meant to do. And the Ramoses do have drug-gang connections. Not in Pennsylvania though. Just in Washington and Alexandria."

I looked back toward the Ramos house. The two men were still seated, absorbed in whatever they were doing. "Well, Jim, you miscalculated. You miscalculated badly."

"They actually killed Nelson and Tammy Pam?" Suter said, spitting seawater.

"Well, of course they did! Somebody in Washington was telling them that I was not only competent but dogged, so they couldn't risk Nelson's coming up with a convincing denial. They had to kill Nelson and Hugh Myers, not because they were witnesses to drug smuggling, but because they were witnesses to your lie. And the Ramoses decided that once 1 uncovered your lie, I would go after the real and even worse crime that the bunch of you were involved in. For Christ's sake, Suter, don't you understand how vicious and remorseless the Ramoses are? You tell me how savage they are, but you don't act like you really understand it. Jesus!"

Suter stopped swimming and looked at me. We were close enough to shore now for our feet to touch bottom. We stood there in the crystalline blue water, the Caribbean sun blazing down on us, and he said, "You know what really happened, don't you?"

"A lot of it, yes. You can fill me in on the rest."

"How did you figure it out?"

"A number of people provided information that I pieced together. That's usually the way an investigation goes—a lot of digging, a certain amount of luck. In my asking around about you, Jim, Carmen LoBello was especially helpful."

Suter actually had the decency to blush. "Carmen's pissed off at me, I suppose."

"You don't suppose it. You know it. And let me tell you something else, Suter. I think I noticed a small sore on my upper lip yesterday. If you gave me herpes, the Ramoses are going to feel like Rosie O'Donnell in your life next to me."

"I seriously doubt that," he said mildly. "Anyway, I wasn't oozing viral fluids on Wednesday, so you're probably safe. Look, Strachey, I've made a decision. It looks like I really have no choice. I'm ready to take you up on your offer. Get me together with some uncorrupted authority, if you can find one—I'll take a chance, I guess, on Janet Reno's Justice Department—and I'll tell what I know in return for a chance just to disappear and start over."

"Oh, you've made that decision, have you? When did you make it?"

"Just now." Suter looked back at the two men bent over the table on the Ramos terrace. "I'd have made the decision an hour ago if I had known you were going to show up and rescue my ass. But I had no way of knowing you were going to find me irresistible a second time. I guess I'm just a lucky so-and-so. Now, how do we get out of here?"

I looked up at the men on the terrace and said, "I don't know. How do we?"

"Is your car nearby?"

"Just up the beach."

"Jaime and Ramon are absorbed in their dominoes. It will be fifteen minutes before they notice that I'm not here. Let's go."

"You're naked."

He shrugged. "Have you got an extra pair of shorts and a T-shirt?"

"Sure. But I don't know about shoes that will fit. And whatever else we'll need to get you on a plane at Cancun. Your passport, for instance."

Suter began to swim again, faster this time, and I swam with him. "We've got one stop to make, "where I can pick up clothes and documents. Anyway, we're not going to Cancun. As soon as they realize I'm gone, Jaime and Ramon will notify the Ramoses, and they'll be watching for me at the airports in Cancun and Merida and probably Chetumal. There's another way out of here that I've been working on since we spoke on Wednesday. It'll take more time than flying to Miami, but it's uncomplicated and I know the people involved—they're actually competitors of the Ramoses—and I know this will work."

I said, "Don't tell me. We're going to be driven for four and a half days in the back of a truck to the outskirts of San Diego, where we'll crawl under a chain-link fence by the light of the moon and hope we're not ripped apart by Border Patrol rottweilers."

Suter looked at me as he swam, his wet locks gleaming in the hot light. "No, what I have in mind is easier than that—and a lot more romantic. We'll be traveling by sea. We can cuddle naked under the stars, Strachey, and make love again."

What a piece of work he was. "Jesus, Suter, do you really call what we did the other night making love?" He seemed to hear what I said, but Suter did not meet my eye and did not reply. "Anyway, I told my boyfriend I wouldn't screw around with you again. So that's that. Forget it. What we can do tonight is have a long, informative talk. With you doing most of the talking and all of the informing."

"I can see that you're going to insist on being in charge. Doesn't your boyfriend get tired of that? It really seems to me, Strachey, that you've got some control issues to work out."

I ignored this drollery—if that's what it was; you never knew with Suter—and soon we came to the deserted house where I had parked my rental car. We walked out of the water and across the beach. A small group of nude sunbathers lay on towels twenty or thirty yards away, some with their heads beneath makeshift palm-frond shelters, but none seemed to show any interest in us.

Suter and I shared the one towel I had with me, then quickly dressed, with Suter slipping into the extra briefs, khakis, and T-shirt I'd brought along. The pants were a little loose around his slim hips, so I gave him my belt to hold his drawers up. Suter crouched in the backseat as we passed the Ramos house. I stopped at the main highway while he hopped into the front seat, and I followed his directions north up Highway 307 toward the resort and retirement town of Playa del Carmen. I made a quick stop to return the snorkeling gear and retrieve my passport, and then—like all the other maniacal drivers on the two-lane highway—we moved fast.

Half an hour later, on the outskirts of Playa del Carmen, Suter returned to the backseat and crouched down again—he said the Ramoses had people working for them everywhere on the Yucatan coast—and directed me down a muddy road with ruts like canyons and into a compound where the road dead-ended.

Suter conversed briefly in Spanish with a middle-aged man in work clothes—something about a boat and a trip and the weather. Suter told me he'd be right back, he had some phone calls to make—it did not reassure me that apparently I was not to overhear these conversations—and then he disappeared into a bright blue, one-story cement house with bars on all the windows.

I climbed out of the sweltering car and stood looking around. There wasn't much to see, just the house and a high cement wall around it with shards of glass embedded on top. The workman stood impassively next to the side door of the house, smoking a cigarette, and, it appeared, waiting for Suter.

I said, "Buenas tardes."

"Buenas tardes, " the man replied.

I gazed some more at the wall.

Suter returned a few minutes later wearing his own khakis, T-shirt, and leather sandals and carrying a large black canvas suitcase. He handed me my clothes and said, "Get your stuff out of the car. Manuel will return the Chevy to the rental agency. We're being picked up."

"I believe I have to turn the car in. And under the terms of the rental agreement, I'm the only person authorized to drive it." Suter smiled. "Just give Manuel the keys. It'll be fine." Suter pulled a roll of U.S. bills out of his pants pocket, peeled off four fifties, and handed them to Manuel.

"The keys are in the ignition," I said. "I guess I'm not the boss after all."

"Sure you are," Suter said, showing me his famous teeth– and cold sore.

Seconds later, a decrepit VW Bug, with one dented gray fender and one dented green one, pulled into the compound. The driver was a slender, tanned bleached blond in scruffy cutoffs. He had a tattoo of three intertwined nasturtiums on his left shoulder. He looked Californian, but Suter greeted the man in Spanish, which, when the blond replied, sounded like his native language.

I rode in the front seat with the driver and Suter slouched in the back, our bags upended on either side of him. After ten minutes of bumping and sliding up and clown a series of un-paved back roads north of town, we came to a simple wooden house on the seaside that appeared deserted. We quickly carried our bags around the house, where a small boat was beached. The blond unlocked the beachside door to the small house and soon carried out an outboard motor. After he had resecured the house, we shoved the boat into the water and the blond attached the motor to it. We climbed aboard with our bags. The blond got the motor going and soon we were headed north. "What's this from?" I asked Suter. "The Old Man and the

Sea? Kon-Tiki?"

He grinned and said, "It's a Carnival cruise, Strachey. Romance on the high seas. I'll be your Kathie Lee, if you'll let me."

The blond cracked a little smile. I said nothing until we rounded a palm-lined point, and there looming ahead of us, bobbing on the light swell, was a forty– or fifty-foot cabin cruiser.

"Oh, I see," I said. "That looks comfortable enough."

"It is," Suter said.

"Where are we headed? Key West? Miami?"

"No, we'll soon be on our way to La Coloma."

"Where's that? Florida?"

"Cuba."

All I could think to reply was "None of this would surprise Timothy Callahan."

Suter said, "It's simple. Nobody will be watching for us in Havana. From there we fly to Mexico City—there are several flights a day—and then on to Washington. A piece of cake."

"If you say so, Jim." I wondered again what Timmy would make of this twist out of Maclnnes or Ludlum, and what I should make of it.

Chapter 27

Now tell me the truth. The whole truth, if you're capable of it," I said to Suter.

We were stretched out on a couple of chaises under the stars on the foredeck of the cruiser, the Leona Vicario from Playa del Carmen, as it headed north-northeast across calm water. We had finished a light supper, as Suter had described it—a loaf of bread, two bottles of beer, and a rubbery object the youngest crewman had found in the sea, hacked up on a board with a machete, and sprinkled with lime juice. Suter had asked me how I thought the fresh conch was, and I said fair.

"I'm capable of telling the truth when it suits my interests," Suter said, "which it frequently does, and which it certainly does now. Most people in Washington would describe me as a truth-teller, in fact. Of course, when it doesn't suit my interests to tell the truth . . . well ... I guess you could say that that means I have some veracity issues to work on."

"That's how you might put it. I'd just say you're a liar."

"Not tonight." Suter waved his beer bottle at the magnificent starry vault above us. "How could anybody be anything but a truth-teller in the face of that?"

"Now there's a good line, Suter. A new one, too, for you."

He grinned.

"So where did you get the money that's in the suitcase? I saw you grab a gob of bills a while ago and pay off the captain of this boat. Is that suitcase you picked up in Playa stuffed entirely with U.S. currency?"

"Yes, it is." He smiled.

"Whose is it?"

"I'd say it's mine."

"Do the Ramoses say it's yours?"

He raised his bottle to the stars. "Fuck the Ramoses."

"Is it drug money?"

"Some of it."

"What's the rest of it?"

"The Ramoses' sources of income are wide-ranging."

"Uh-huh."

Suter added nothing more.

I said, "Won't they soon miss the money?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's cash Jorge has been skimming off the family operations over the past two years. He had it hidden under the roof of a house he owns in Playa. After I heard that Maynard had been shot and some of the Ramoses were out of control, I took the money and stashed it with some friends of mine in anticipation of what I am doing now—disappearing from the Ramoses radar screen. Jorge will have rushed back from Merida tonight after hearing that I'm gone. But he won't be able to tell his family that I took three point two million dollars' worth of their money, because then they could say, 'What money, Jorge?' The Ramoses will be scouring eastern Mexico for me, not because I've got their money—which they will never be told about—but because of what I know about them."

"Because, for instance, the Ramoses know that you know that they bought the NAFTA vote."

"You got it."

"These assholes actually changed modern history. Jesus, Suter."

He shrugged. "There's no need to be melodramatic about it, Strachey. NAFTA might have passed anyway. It was close."

"Oh, well, when you put it that way ..."

"It was a question of switching seventeen votes. Alan Mc-Chesney coordinated the campaign. I helped out, and so did a couple of other Hill people with Mexican-government business contacts and experience."

"Was the White House in on this?"

"Those clowns? Don't be silly."

"So the most historic piece of US. trade policy of the decade was made not by U.S. or Mexican elected officials, but by—who?"

Suter was staring at me now wide-eyed. "Are you really as naive as you sound?"

"No, I'm not. So who got what in return for their NAFTA votes?"

"The only outright buying of votes," Suter said conversationally, "was in the House. NAFTA pretty much sailed through the Senate. Of the seventeen House votes purchased, six were for vacation houses on the beach at Los Pajaros."

"Congressman Grandchamps, whom we saw on the beach on Wednesday, was one of those?"

"Right. Mexican law forbids outright ownership of beachfront property by foreigners, but there are easy ways around that. Banks hold the titles to property, and North Americans and other non-Mexicans buy long-term leases. So anybody planning on nailing the NAFTA vote-sellers need only follow the paper trail through the Mexican banking system."

"Okay. That's six."

"Another seven voters," Suter said, his curls fluttering in the warm breeze, "simply wanted campaign contributions that were laundered and untraceable. Vacation houses are nice, but for most House members reelection is what they anguish over night and day. They have to. It's how the system is set up. And overall, it works."

"It works for those who can afford to buy into it, yeah. So that's thirteen votes. Four to go."

"Three congressman wanted young women, and one wanted young men. There's nothing complicated about those motives, is there, Strachey?"

I said no.

"Strachey, you look discouraged." Suter shifted in his chaise and flopped a lithe bare leg over the side. "You needn't be. Few congressmen are out-and-out crooks like these seventeen. Most House members are—how to put it?—only as smart as they need to be. But they are, by and large, an honest lot who—even if they pocket wads of campaign cash in return for their votes– only accept cash and favors from those industry and other groups whose positions they honestly agree with. That's not corruption, that's enlightened self-interest."

"How did McChesney identify seventeen congressmen who were buyable on NAFTA? That must have been a project in itself."

Suter grinned. "You'll love this. Alan hired a psychological and public-opinion consulting service—an outfit that does focus groups and whatnot—and had these guys insinuate themselves into the summer party retreats in '93– Newt ran one for the Republicans and the Democrats had theirs—touchy-feely conferences where the participants all bare their ideological souls and plot strategy to save mankind through party-sponsored legislation. The consultants came back with a list of twenty-six names of male and female representatives of both parties who were considered buyable types. We only used seventeen names. The other nine Alan was holding in reserve."

I swigged from my beer. "Fascinating."

"Isn't it?"

"So who shot Maynard? And why?"

Suter said nothing. His bare chest rose and fell in the moonlight. He shifted on his chaise but didn't speak.

"Maynard was your friend," I said. "Once he'd been your lover. Not that that would have singled him out in a crowd."

Suter ignored the slur. After a moment, he said, "When Maynard saw me in Merida last month, I was afraid something insane like this would happen. I'm just sick over the whole thing, honestly. I thank God Maynard survived the shooting. I just thank God for that."

"So who shot him?"

"According to Jorge, two of the Ramos drug gang in Alexandria shot and meant to kill Maynard. Alan McChesney told them to do it. Alan saw Maynard at the AIDS quilt display reading pages from the Betty Krumfutz campaign bio on the panel with my name on it, and Alan thought / had submitted the panel and was sending messages to Maynard and other people about where I was and what I knew about Alan and the Ramoses. Alan had the Ramos goons rip the papers off the panel, shoot Maynard, and search his house for connections with me as well as any incriminating information Maynard had that he might be getting ready to publish. Of course, no such information existed and Maynard had no such plans. Carmen LoBello had submitted the quilt panel to embarrass me, and the whole bloody chain of events started with nothing more than an absurd misunderstanding."

I thought again of Timmy and his feverish conspiracy theories, and I said, "In your letter from Merida to Maynard warning him away from you and all this crazy crap, you instructed him not to reveal your whereabouts under any circumstances to (a) anyone on the Hill or (b) anyone in the D.C. Police Department. Why did you tell him that?"

"On the Hill, Alan might have heard about it. Alan knew where I was, of course, but what I was really telling Maynard was 'Don't connect yourself with me. Don't even mention me if you want to be safe from Alan and the Ramoses.' And the Ramos drug-operation people have their own dirty cop high up in the D.C. department. A Captain something-or-other."

"Milton Kingsley?"

"That's it."

So I was the chump, after all: the conspiracy-theory skeptic, the literal-minded (lapsed) Presbyterian, the naive provincial– Rutgers, Southeast Asia, Albany—who believed that individuals, simply being clumsy or neurotic, were behind nearly all major human folly. "My partner, Timothy Callahan—who attended parochial schools as a child—predicted some huge and melodramatic thing like what you have just described to me. I told him he was paranoid."

Suter laughed.

"I told him he'd read too much Sanders and Ambler and Ludlum. I told him the cause of almost all human misery is individual human weakness. I told him conspiracies like the one you just described to me exist only in popular entertainments and that real life is at the same time simpler and a hell of a lot more interesting than big, complicated, secret plots are."