Empire (Empire 1)

“They don’t check with me,” said the guy. “Don’t you get it? I’m not in charge of things. I’m an aide to an aide. I’m a flunky. They tell me, get these messages delivered, get these arms bought using this account and get them delivered to that group and by the way, use this guy, this Malich guy, as your messenger. I don’t know anything about you.”

Today of all days, Cole couldn’t be sure of anything, but this guy was believable enough. And it made sense. If something really ugly was going on, there’d be people pulling strings on other people pulling other strings. Everything kept at six removes from the actual conspiracy.

Malich seemed to believe him, too. He let go of the man’s belt.

But Cole needed to know something, too. “Show me your White House ID,” he said.

Annoyed, now that he didn’t have to be quite so afraid, the guy pulled out his ID and held it up for Cole. The name was Steven Phillips. And when Malich caught a glimpse of it, he was really pissed off. “You mean that was your real name all along?”

“I never said it wasn’t!” protested Phillips.

“You said you couldn’t show me ID because then I’d know your real name.”

“That was before I was sure I could trust you,” said Phillips.

“So you’d rather use the National Security Adviser as your ID badge?”

“By then I didn’t think you’d believe me unless I hauled out the big guns.”

“So the NSA does this for you all the time?”

“He’s my boss.”

“And is he the one who got you to use me as your errand boy?”

“No.” But the expression on his face said yes.

“This is not the time for more secrets,” said Cole quietly.

“He didn’t run it,” said Phillips. “But he introduced me to the guy who gave me the stuff for you to do.”

“And who is that?” asked Malich.

“He wouldn’t tell me his real name or show me ID. That’s how I got the idea of doing that with you. I’m so stupid. If my work for him had anything to do with this . . .” He waved a hand toward the damaged south wall of the West Wing.

“I’m giving you an assignment right now,” said Malich. “Find out his name. Or at least find his face. Or at least give me a damn good description of exactly what he looks like and exactly where you met and every assignment he gave you that you didn’t use me for.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because, Mr. Steven Phillips, whoever controlled you probably has something to do with killing the President, and since they’re setting me up to take the blame for it, and you’re associated with me, your ass is on the line right along with mine.”

“They’re setting you up?” Phillips seemed to think this was a ridiculous idea.

“I can bet that when they trace these guys back to some miserable fleabag rental they’ll find a convenient copy of my report, with my name attached, and it’ll be the exact copy that I provided, so my fingerprints will be on it.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To make it look like the U.S. Army was behind the assassination of the President of the United States. And if they tie you to it as well, then what does it look like to the media? To the public? A Republican Party hack—that would be you—and a gung-ho officer in Special Ops provide the plans and the weapons to the terrorists who assassinated the President.”

So Malich’s secret work for Phillips dealt with the weapons trade.

“Who would believe that?” said Phillips.

“The public will eat it up. I can see the op-ed headlines now: ‘Prez Not Right-wing Enough for Red Staters.’ ”

All of a sudden Phillips was crying, but fiercely. “They can’t say that,” he said. “I loved that man. He was the best President—”

“They can say it. They will say it. They’re dying to say it. If they can paint this whole thing as a vast right-wing conspiracy, you think they’ll hold back because it makes no sense?”