your agenda by illegal means; who are you to deny me the same right?”
In truth, Buchanan had no response to this statement. And Thornhill’s
in tractably calm demeanor only reinforced the helplessness he felt.
“Any questions about the meeting with Milstead?” Thornhill asked.
“You have enough on Harvey Milstead to put him away for three lives.
What are you really after?”
Thornhill chuckled. “I hope you’re not accusing me of having a hidden
agenda.”
“You can tell me, Bob, were partners.”
“Maybe it’s as simple as wanting you to jump when I snap my fingers.”
“Fine, but a year from now, if you pop up like this, you may not leave
under your own power.”
“Threats from a solitary lobbyist to me.” Thornhill sighed. “But not
so solitary. You have an army of one. How is Faith? Doing well?”
“Faith is not a part of this. Faith will never be a part of this.”
Thornhill nodded. “You’re the only one in the crosshairs. You and
your fine group of felonious politicians. America’s best and
brightest.”
Buchanan stared coldly at his antagonist and said nothing.
“Things are coming to a head, Danny. The show will be coming to a
close soon. I hope you’re ready to exit cleanly.”
“When I leave, my trail will be so clean, not even your spy satellites
will be able to pick it up.”
“Confidence is inspiring. Yet so often misplaced.”
“Is that all you wanted to tell me? Be prepared to escape? I’ve been
ready to do that since the first minute I met you.”
Thornhill stood. “You focus on Senator Milstead. Get us some good,
juicy stuff. Get him to talk about the income he’ll have when he
retires, the nominal tasks he’ll have to perform as window dressing.
The more specific, the better.”
“It heartens me to see you enjoying this so much. Probably a lot more
fun than the Bay of Pigs.”
“Before my time.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve made your mark in other ways.”
Thornhill bristled for a moment and then his calm returned. “You’d
make a fine poker player, Danny. But try to remember that a bluff when
one is holding nothing of value is still a bluff.” Thornhill put on
his trench coat. “Don’t trouble yourself, I can find my way out.”
In the next instant Thornhill was gone. The man appeared and
disappeared at will, it seemed. Buchanan leaned back in his chair and
let out a quick breath. His hands were trembling and he pressed them
hard against the desk until the quivering stopped.
Thornhill had thundered into his life like an exploding torpedo.
Buchanan had become, essentially, a lackey, now spying on those he had
been bribing for years with his own money, now collecting a wealth of
material for this ogre to use as blackmail. And Buchanan was powerless
to stop the man.
Ironically, this decline in his material assets and now his work in the
service of another had brought Buchanan directly back from whence he
had come. He had grown up on the illustrious Philadelphia Main Line.
He had lived on one of the most magnificent estates in that area.
Stacked field stone walls-like thick gray brush strokes of
paint–outlined the grass perimeters of the vast, perfect lawns, on
which was situated a sprawling twelve-thousand-square-foot house with
broad, covered porches, and a detached quadruple-car garage with an
apartment overhead. The house had more bedrooms than a dormitory, and
lavish baths with costly tile and the luster of gold on something as
commonplace as a faucet.
It was the world of the American blue bloods, where pampered lifestyles
and crushing expectations existed side by side. Buchanan had observed
this complex universe from an intimate perspective, yet he was not one
of its privileged inhabitants. Buchanan’s family had been the
chauffeurs and maids and gardeners, the handymen, nannies and cooks to
these blue bloods. Having survived the Canadian border winters, the
Buchanans had migrated south, en masse, to a gentler climate, to less
demanding work than that required by ax and spade, boat and hook. Up
there they had hunted for food and cut wood for warmth, only to watch
helplessly as nature mercilessly culled their ranks, a process that had