Chapter 55—The unexpected phone call
7:18 p.m., Thursday, December 29
“I said you are plotting the assassination of the President of the United States,” the caller said. “You and four of your associates have been meeting for at least two weeks, and you have decided to kill the President. Now, would you like to get a look at my story before you hear about it on cable news?”
“You’re crazy,” James said. “Where did you ever get an insane notion like that?”
“I’m crazy, am I?” the caller asked. “Well let me tell you just a little about what I know. Right now you are driving back from your fourth planning meeting. … Would you like me to name names right now? Because I am prepared to do it. …”
“What are you looking for?” James interrupted, not wanting to discuss the subject over his cell. At that point James began to suspect a possible extortion plot.
“I want you to read my story.”
“I’ll read it, but I still think you’re crazy,” James said.
“Good,” the caller said. “And we’ll see just how crazy you think I am after you have read it.”
“How are you going to get it to me?” James asked.
“It will be inside the mailbox at your apartment.”
“You mailed it?” James asked.
“No, I just slipped it into your box.”
“That’s pretty damn stupid,” James said, “what if someone else gets hold of it?”
“Well, I suppose you should probably get there first, don’t you think?” With that, James heard his mystery caller disconnect.
For the next several moments James just stared numbly out of his windshield, but continued driving. He could feel his heart race, and beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. Finally, he called Allison.
“Al,” he said, “we’ve got a situation.”
“What’s up? Allison asked. “You’re still on the road, right?”
“I am, but I just got a very disturbing phone call.”
Allison paused before responding, and then asked, “Okay, what exactly does that mean?”
“We can’t discuss it now, or over our cell phones—but just imagine the worst. We have got to get together tonight. There’s no time to waste.”
“Okay, I suppose I could meet you somewhere,” she said. “What do you recommend?”
“I have to stop by my apartment, then we should meet at your place.”
“My place?”
“It will have to be your place.”
“In an hour?” she asked. “Is that about right?”
“Hour and a half—maybe even two. Can’t be sure what the traffic will be like.”
“That’s fine, call me about ten minutes out,” Allison said.
They disconnected, and James continued to drive, and to stare straight ahead with unfocused eyes.
When James arrived at his apartment, he stopped outside at the curb, and engaged his four-ways. He asked the doorman to keep an eye on his car as he ran into his building. When he opened his mailbox, he found a thick manila envelope. It was taped shut at the top. “Won’t find any DNA on this one,” he thought, as he ripped it open.
Inside he found a neatly printed document of about forty pages, with a short table of contents on the first page: “Meeting One, Meeting Two, Meeting Three, Meeting Four.” Immediately he turned to the last segment—Meeting Four. There he found a transcript of the entire meeting he had just attended. Quickly he slid the material back into the envelope, and raced back to his car, thanking the doorman with a ten dollar bill on the way to his car.
James realized just how disconcerted this had made him, and he started to check himself on everything he was doing. He took a look at his gas gauge. He made sure to turn his flashers off. He was careful to observe traffic signals, and obey the speed limit. The last thing he needed to have happen would be to get stopped for a violation.
The whole drive over to Allison’s apartment seemed to take only a moment. “I’m here already?” he muttered, as he speed dialed her number. “I’m nearly there,” he said, when she answered.
“James, this is how we have to do this,” Allison said. She was having second thoughts about having James join her in her personal apartment. “Park in the rear ramp. Combination is 61113. That gets you in the ramp. Then ring Bernadette from the rear entry, and I will buzz you in. Get on elevator three. The code for that is 11613. Get off on the fourth floor—Bernadette’s apartment is the only apartment on the fourth floor.”
Allison was loath to surrender the privacy she enjoyed as Bernadette. But this was a special circumstance—an emergency. She needed to avoid Secret Service scrutiny. James would have to get past the Service at the rear door. That would be no problem. But she could not allow him into Allison’s apartment. Once he was inside the building, she reasoned, he would have no problem getting to Bernadette’s apartment, provided she give him the proper codes.
James did as she directed. He parked in the rear private parking garage, and she buzzed him in the building. He then rode the elevator to the fourth floor, and knocked on her door.
As she opened the door, she went on the attack. “What’s this you’re telling me?” She spit out, looking more agitated than inquisitive.
Under ordinary circumstances James would have made a comment about the secret apartment. But he was altogether too troubled at this time. “I don’t know yet,” he replied. “This fellow called me on my private cell. He shouldn’t have had that number. At first I hung up. But he called back immediately, and said this one word—assassination. That got my attention. He then told me that he had deposited a document in my mailbox.”
Holding up the envelope for Allison to see, James said, “This is what he left for me. He said it is an article he is set to publish.
“I have no idea yet what it involves, but I soon should. I’ve only just begun to scrutinize it. I will say, at least on the surface, it looks to be very detailed, and very damaging.”
Allison had already poured herself and James large drinking glasses of Scotch. Each drink had a single rapidly dissolving ice cube floating on top. She knew this was going to be a very long night. And she knew James would be studying this document, line by line, and word by word. She was used to his style. She knew he would not be asking her opinion about anything, at least not for a long time.
At some point, she had no idea when it might be, James would determine the document’s origin, and, more importantly, the motive behind it. He might, along the way, need to ask her about certain specifics—details that only she would know about. But he would not be looking to her for any help drawing a conclusion. There might be opportunities down the road for her input; but for right now, the best service Allison could offer would be to remain at his side, but to keep quiet until called upon. She had found that Scotch, and plenty of it, helped her relax enough not to interrupt.
Allison quickly found her glass to be half empty. She realized that she had already dramatically mellowed out. But James had not yet shouted his customary “I’ve got it!” So Allison slid her glass over to him and took his. Within twenty minutes, she took both glasses, announcing that she was going to “freshen them up.” She topped both off (this time skipping the ice altogether), and returned to where he was working.
Finally, after over two hours of pouring over the transcript, it was obvious even to a substantially inebriated Allison that James was on to something. Rapidly he started flipping pages, checking notations, then skipping from the middle of the document, to the end. Then back. He repeated this nervous exercise in a near feverish frenzy.
Then it all stopped. He slid his chair back, and just stared at the ceiling. “Al, I’ve got something here. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I see a definite pattern. Take a look at this. Let me show you what I am talking about. It is just plain shocking.”
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