Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read online

  He nodded. “She said that she likes boxing and has gone to the fights.”

  “Interesting,” Borger said. “What else did you talk about? Did you mention Elena?”

  Itani brightened at the mention of her name.

  “You talked about Elena?” Borger pressed, attempting to keep concern from his voice.

  Another nod. “I told her that I had a girlfriend named Elena.”

  “I see. Did you tell her that Elena was here at the house last night?”

  “Yes. Where is Elena? Will I see her before I leave for Washington?”

  “No, Iskander. She had to go out of town for a few days. We’ll arrange for her to come see you after you have a few bouts under your belt.”

  “Good,” he said. “I would like to see my brothers before we go.”

  “That’s impossible,” Borger said, “but you’ll see them soon. I promise you that.”

  He induced trance in Itani and worked at reinforcing his hatred of Jews and Israel, and particularly of George Mortinson. He ended the session after twenty minutes, and Itani went downstairs to work out.

  * * *

  Now alone in his study, Borger mentally revisited every aspect of the situation and its potential ramifications for him.

  Things had been meticulously thought out well in advance.

  Once Itani had been identified as Mortinson’s assassin, there would be some people who could link him to Borger and the “treatment” he’d received, although that number had been kept to a minimum. The housekeeper and cook would be shocked that an assassin had been in the house. They’d cleaned his room and fed him his meals, and they would question their employer about it. He would simply say that he, too, was shocked and had no inkling that Itani was capable of killing anyone. He’d treated him for headaches in order to allow him to resume his boxing career. End of story. That this obviously deranged young man had gone to Washington to assassinate a presidential candidate was beyond his, Borger’s, wildest imagination: “If only I had known, if only I had seen signs of his insanity.” And, of course, he would offer to work closely with the authorities to unravel the illness that had driven Itani to take a public official’s life.

  The CIA would deny any involvement should some investigative reporter seek to link the agency with Mortinson’s assassination. The agency’s scientific and medical research projects were funded by the Congress and designed to enhance national security. Borger was an esteemed member of the medical community whose contributions to these valuable projects were well known. For anyone to think that someone of Borger’s stature would be involved in a political assassination was absurd.

  Puhlman and Gibbons would travel to Washington using phony IDs that were readily available through Landow. Itani would make the trip under his own name. Borger would enhance Itani’s amnesia by phone, virtually wiping out everything leading up to the assassination, including his stay at the house, the flight to Washington from San Francisco, and the hours immediately preceding his attack on Mortinson.

  Would Itani’s amnesia hold up? He’d bet his professional reputation on it. But he also knew that the only fail-safe way to ensure that Itani could offer nothing to the authorities was his elimination.

  Prior to Itani delivering the fatal shot to Mortinson, Puhlman and Gibbons would be on their way back to San Francisco, again flying under assumed names. There would be no record of their having been in Washington at the time of the assassination.

  Every potential problem had been addressed and worked out.

  Except there was a dead prostitute named Elena.

  His friend Mica Sphere knew too much.

  And now a meddling psychologist in Washington named Nicholas Tatum threatened to undo everything he had accomplished with Sheila Klaus, and by extension place him in jeopardy.

  Something had to be done, and he had four days to do it.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Meg Whitson sat with a dozen people in her office at the candidate’s Washington headquarters. Everyone was aware that the campaign was coming down to the wire, and that every step leading up to Election Day had to focus on avoiding any major gaffes no matter how far ahead in the polls Mortinson was.

  “Let’s go over the schedule for the next week,” Whitson said as everyone dutifully opened their notepads to the printed schedule that had been distributed earlier in the day.

  “Wow, he’s not taking a day off for a whole week,” someone quipped, accompanied by a chuckle.

  “He wanted to,” said Whitson, “but I laid down the law.”

  Those in the room knew that if anyone could lay down the law to Mortinson, it was Meg Whitson.

  “I want to concentrate on the rally four days from now,” she said.

  It was billed as a meet the candidate event to be held in the Woodrow Wilson Plaza, a four-acre courtyard adjacent to and part of the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center on Pennsylvania Avenue in downtown D.C., the largest building in this city of large buildings, 3.1 million square feet of multiuse space designed to bring together the best minds to forge a national forum for the advancement of trade. The building, owned by the General Services Administration, was the only federal building dedicated to both government and private use; many lavish weddings and political events had been held there, as well as numerous international trade conferences.

  The thinking behind the rally reflected Mortinson’s approach.

  Some in his camp advised that it be a fund-raiser, a suggestion that Mortinson vetoed. The campaign was flush with cash, especially since the polls showed him to be far ahead. Fat cats seeking favors who would ordinarily finance the Republican Swayze’s campaign saw the writing on the wall and had started writing large checks to fill Mortinson’s coffers, as had major corporations that were now free to donate as much as they wished thanks to the recent Supreme Court decision that gave them that right. “The whores know which side their bread is buttered on,” Mortinson quipped in private to close aides. In public he advocated taxpayer-supported elections with the big-money interests cut out, although he knew there was scant chance of that ever becoming law. “This is no longer a country by and for the people,” he proclaimed in some of his speeches. “The corporations own the country, and it’s time to give it back to the people.” That message resonated with a majority of voters, who were fed up with the stranglehold lobbyists and corporate leaders had over elected officials and the resulting legislation that favored them. Some of Mortinson’s political advisers urged him to tone down those remarks for fear of losing the support of business, but Mortinson overrode their objections. “I want the voters to know who I am and what I stand for,” he preached at staff meetings. End of discussion.

  And so the rally four days hence would bring together chosen representatives of hundreds of civic organizations, unions, teachers, firefighters and police officers, charitable groups, government workers, community organizers from major cities, local athletic clubs, the clergy from every faith and some of their parishioners, senior citizens and schoolchildren, and Mortinson’s cadre of friends who’d stood with him since his days as a family member of Wisconsin’s preeminent political dynasty and as a U.S. senator. Music would be provided by one of the city’s top Dixieland jazz bands, and booths would be set up for guests to enjoy soft drinks, popcorn, and other snacks.

  Of course the choice of venue had generated some amused comments from political pundits. After all, the building was named for Ronald Reagan, a Republican, and Mortinson had uttered some critical words about the fortieth president during the campaign. But he’d always been quick to assure that he’d admired Reagan the man, which he did, and keep his criticisms to policy matters about which they differed. No sense in alienating Reagan lovers in the crowd.

  “What happens if it rains?” someone asked.

  “It shifts indoors,” Meg said. “The space has been cleared.”

  The Secret Service agent charged with protecting the candidate, and who attended as ma
ny staff meetings as possible, took the floor. “We have concerns,” he said. “It’s my understanding that the senator will give a speech but then insist on personally greeting everyone in attendance.”

  “That’s right,” said Whitson. “After Governor Thomas gives his own talk as the VP candidate and introduces Mortinson, the senator will speak for twenty minutes. Following that, he, the VP, and their families will form a reception line, and those in the crowd will have an opportunity to shake their hands and have a photo taken with them.”

  “How long is the Reagan Building booked for?” a staffer asked, not bothering to disguise the cynicism in his voice. “There’s how many people on the invite list, five hundred?”

  “Four hundred and forty,” Meg Whitson replied. “The Wilson plaza can accommodate eight hundred.”

  “And he’s going to shake hands with four hundred and forty people?” the aide asked, his cynicism even more pronounced. “And have pictures taken with them?”

  Whitson laughed. “Senator Mortinson is the fastest handshaker in the business,” she said. “Besides, he feels that because many of the invited guests will have come great distances, the least they can go home with is a photograph. Governor Thomas is good at photo ops and handshakes, too. The gathered will get to press the flesh of the next president of the United States and spend a few days in D.C. visiting the monuments and seeing how Congress runs.”

  Someone at the meeting laughed. “They take one look at how Congress runs and they’ll renounce their citizenship and won’t be able to vote anyway.”

  “Do I sense a skeptic in the room?” Whitson said.

  No one answered, and she turned to the Secret Service agent who was indulging in a habit whenever he was dismayed at something—rubbing his shaved head. “I know this puts a strain on your people,” Whitson said.

  “That’s a lot of people getting close to him,” the agent replied.

  “True,” said Whitson, “but the guests have been carefully selected.”

  The agent was tempted to challenge that—he’d heard it too many times before and seen the results—but he didn’t say what he was thinking. “We’ll do our best,” was what he settled for.

  Everyone in the room knew that he and his people would. Anything less would be disastrous. Everyone also knew that the Secret Service was the best, the most efficient and loyal security detail in the world. Still, bad things could happen, and had. There was never a moment when Mortinson was on the campaign trail, out in public shaking hands and schmoozing with the voters, that concern about his safety wasn’t on everyone’s mind.

  “Okay,” Whitson said, eager to end the meeting and get on with other items on the agenda,” the senator leaves three hours from now for San Francisco and the fund-raiser out there. He’ll stay overnight and be back in D.C. tomorrow.” She read off a list of names of those who would accompany the candidate, which included her. “Let’s move,” she said. “We’re that close, so no mistakes.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, as the charted jet carried Senator George Mortinson, members of his staff, and a cadre of reporters to San Francisco, another jet landed in Washington. Puhlman led Itani and Gibbons from the terminal to a black SUV with deeply tinted windows. The driver said nothing as they loaded their carry-on bags into the back and got in. There was no need for him to say anything. He knew what the plan called for.

  He drove into the District and pulled up in front of the Allen Lee Hotel on F Street in Foggy Bottom, where two rooms had been reserved for Puhlman and Gibbons using their false identities. They checked in, went to their rooms, waited what they considered a decent amount of time, and walked out to the waiting SUV.

  The next stop was the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania. Puhlman, carrying an overnight bag that had been in the SUV, accompanied Itani inside, where he checked in using a credit card bearing his name that had been provided by Colin Landow. They went to the room, and Puhlman emptied the bag of its contents—a few items of clothing that he put on hangers in the closet, underwear and socks that were placed in a dresser drawer, and a kit containing toiletries that was hung on the back of the bathroom door.

  “This is my room?” Itani asked.

  “Later,” Puhlman replied. “We have to go someplace else for a while.”

  Itani looked puzzled but didn’t press. Part of his conditioning by Borger involved doing whatever Puhlman instructed.

  Back in the SUV, they headed for a nondescript house in a Virginia suburb that had been rented by Colin Landow through a front organization. The Central Intelligence Agency also had such safe houses, but Landow didn’t dare use any of them for this mission.

  Itani had grown visibly agitated during the flight despite being fed a series of Puhlman’s answer to a Tom Collins. He’d squirmed in his seat and uttered some almost unintelligible four-letter words; at one point Puhlman thought it might be necessary to physically restrain him. The in-flight movie was a silly comedy that did nothing to ease Itani’s obvious discomfort at being strapped in a seat and wedged between two large men for more than six hours.

  Now he huddled in the backseat of the SUV, again between the two men, as it headed for the safe house.

  “You okay, Iskander?” Puhlman asked at one point during the drive.

  “No, I am not okay.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I want to see my brothers and my mother.” He’d expressed the same desire during the flight.

  “Look, Iskander,” Puhlman said, “Dr. Borger told you that once you had a few bouts under your belt, your brothers and mother would be brought to see you fight. Now isn’t the time.”

  “When do I fight?”

  “Soon.” He leaned across Itani and said to Gibbons, “Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got to get you licensed in D.C. before you can get in the ring.”

  “My opponent,” Itani said. “Who is he?”

  Borger had prepped Gibbons about how to answer such questions, and the former leg breaker for San Francisco’s loan sharks grappled with remembering what Borger had said.

  “There’s a couple of possibilities,” Gibbons said. “You might be filling in for a fighter who flunked his physical.”

  “Who is he?”

  Gibbons wanted to smack Itani in the mouth. He was fed up with the questions and couldn’t wait to reach their destination and get out of the car. Instead he patted Itani on the leg and said, “Hey, kid, just be patient. Doc Borger has invested a hell of a lot in you, so don’t get antsy, okay?”

  Itani looked angrily at Gibbons. He’d grown to dislike the gruff-talking man and his short temper. Puhlman, too, had gotten on his nerves. He wished Dr. Borger was with them. Borger was a wise and kindly gentleman who had his, Itani’s, best interests at heart. And Elena was his friend—his girlfriend. He missed her as much as he missed Borger and wondered how long it would be before he again saw her, held her, breathed in her perfume, and luxuriated in her soft skin.

  As they drew closer to the house, Itani wanted to call off the trip and return to San Francisco. Why did they have to travel all the way to Washington, D.C., for him to fight? By the time they pulled into a driveway shielded from the street by a row of high, thick hedges, he’d decided that he wanted to talk with Borger and told Puhlman this.

  “He’s pretty busy,” Puhlman said.

  “I want to talk with him,” Itani insisted.

  Puhlman looked at Gibbons, whose expression reflected his displeasure.

  “All right,” Puhlman said. “We’ll call him once we’re settled inside.”

  The three-bedroom house was a nondescript cape, white with black shutters. The small patch of lawn in front was in need of mowing, and flowers in a narrow bed now competed with weeds.

  “Who owns this place?” Gibbons asked Puhlman as they carried their suitcases in through the front door.

  “It doesn’t matter,” was Puhlman’s grumbled reply. The trip had tired him and he wanted to
nap. But that would have to be later. He looked into each of the bedrooms and assigned Itani the middle one; Puhlman and Gibbons would take the rooms on either side. Gibbons opened the refrigerator and saw that it was fairly well stocked. Nonperishable groceries in brown paper bags sat on the red-and-white Formica counter. Landow had done a good job of anticipating their needs for the few days that they’d be there.

  Heavy maroon drapes covered all the windows. A small television set sat in a corner of the living room, whose furniture was worn and drab; a cushion on a tan love seat was torn. The only telephone, tethered to a landline, sat on a table next to the love seat.

  A door from the kitchen led to a flight of crude wooden stairs leading down to the unfinished basement. Puhlman whispered to Gibbons, “I’ll be right back,” as he opened the door. Using a flashlight he’d retrieved off the kitchen counter, he slowly went down the stairs. He trained the flashlight’s beam into a corner of the dirt floor where a table was covered with a bright blue plastic tarp. Puhlman removed the cover. Beneath it was a gray metal box with a padlock. He took a key from his pocket that Borger had given him and undid the lock. The hinged top opened easily, revealing the box’s contents, a Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver that held five rounds of .38 special ammunition, and a box of those bullets. The third item was an ID tag encased in plastic with a blue ribbon with which to hang it from the neck. The ID read ISKANDER ITANI—WESTSIDE BOXING CLUB, SAN MATEO, CA.

  He returned everything to the box with the exception of the ID tag, but before rejoining the others he placed a call on a special cell phone he’d been supplied.

  “The items are here,” he told the man who answered.

  “Good. Put them on the front step.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  Puhlman carried the box up the stairs and deposited it on the front steps of the house. The man who’d taken his call was parked at the corner, lights off, his vantage point allowing him to see the house. After Puhlman had left the box and disappeared inside, the man drove to the front of the house, got out, retrieved the box, placed it in the backseat, and drove off.