Of all Parmele’s Cabinet appointments, Wayne Garson had been the most controversial. Before being tapped by the newly elected president to be his attorney general, the tall, rawboned former Louisiana attorney general had the reputation of being a tough prosecutor, an advocate of the death penalty and a champion of the unborn, a deeply religious man who seemed to ride above the rough-and-tumble politics of the Bayou State. Parmele had spoken against the death penalty during his campaign, and was an advocate of a woman’s choice when it came to ending a pregnancy.

So, the pundits asked, why choose Wayne Garson as your attorney general?

Although political adviser Chet Fletcher wasn’t the one asked publicly for an answer, it had been his choice when asked by the president for recommendations. The polls had indicated that Parmele, even though he’d won the election, was perceived by many in the country as being too liberal, too soft, particularly with social issues. Garson would add muscle to the administration. Of course, there was the hurdle of Garson’s confirmation hearings, which became more contentious than most other such hearings in recent memory. Garson’s gruff personality and impressive knowledge of the law and the Constitution carried the day. It was almost as though senators on the panel were reluctant to challenge Garson’s views and experience. He couched responses to questions about his views on abortion and capital punishment, was confirmed, and lost little time in shaping Justice in his own image.

Garson and Fletcher’s meeting wasn’t on the White House schedule, by design. Each man had been involved in earlier official meetings; their entry into the small office seemed to just happen, accidental and unplanned. Garson arrived first, preceding Fletcher by barely a minute. The AG, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the room-“You forgot to remove the hanger, Mr. Attorney General,” was a favored line around Washington -was admiring a painting on the wall when Fletcher entered. Fletcher closed the door and lost his hand in Garson’s meaty fist.

“What’s on your mind, Chet?” Garson asked, folding himself into a chair and narrowing his eyes.

Fletcher told him what he’d heard, that Alaska senator Karl Widmer was planning to hold hearings into the period when President Parmele headed the CIA.

“Ancient history,” Garson muttered.

“Not so ancient, Wayne,” Fletcher countered. “And possibly damaging to the president beyond repair.”

Garson grunted. “Go on, tell me more.”

“Details are sketchy at best,” Fletcher said, taking a chair across from the AG. “I have people trying to come up with more. Private sources, very discreet.” If he was looking for a nod of approval at pursuing the matter with discretion, he didn’t get it from Garson. He continued: “What we know at this juncture is that Senator Widmer has made contact with a man named Louis Russo.”

“Who’s he?”

“Mafia in New York. He lives in Israel now.”

“ Israel? A former New York mafioso?”

“He was placed in the federal witness protection program a number of years ago.”

“He turned?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“What the hell does Widmer want from a Mafia turncoat?”

“His testimony about the president.”

“When he headed the CIA.”

“Yes.” Fletcher lowered his voice to a whisper. He leaned close to Garson and said, “The Eliana matter.”

Garson’s expression said that he either hadn’t heard Fletcher or hadn’t registered what he had heard. Then his face changed from puzzlement to recognition. “I understand,” he said, his whisper more gravelly than Fletcher’s.

“This Russo, I’m told, claims to have been hired to kill Eliana.”

“By the CIA?”

An affirmative nod from Fletcher.

“Back when-”

“Yes.”

“Is he claiming that the president ordered it? When he was at the Company?”

“I’m not sure. I just know that the potential ramifications are immense.”

“Are you sure of what you’re saying?” Garson asked.

“No. But we must find out, and do it fast.”

“How did Widmer end up with this Mafia type?”

“I don’t know.”

Garson grimaced and hunched his shoulders, running a hand through his thicket of unruly gray hair. “Know what I think?” he said.

“What?”

“I think you’re right-if this Russo is who you say he is, and if he’s willing to lie in front of a Senate committee.”

Garson’s assumption that Russo would be lying if he testified might have provided a modicum of comfort to Fletcher. It didn’t. If this thing progressed to the point of a former member of the Mafia testifying that the president of the United States had, while head of the CIA, in fact, ordered the assassination of a Central American leader, one of the many spins put on it would be that he was lying, seeking his day in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame, demented, ailing and losing his faculties, a criminal, a lifetime liar and cheat, all the usual, the dupe of a vindictive senator out to destroy a presidency.

Better not to have it happen in the first place.

“Can you find out more about Russo and what he intends to say in front of the committee?” Fletcher asked.

“I’ll get on it,” Garson replied gruffly.

“It has to be kept away from the White House.”

“You damn well bet it does,” said Garson, standing. “And from Justice, too. Does he know?”

“The president? No.”

“Better he doesn’t until we have a better handle on it.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

The 747’s PA system came to life from the cockpit: “We’ll be landing in twenty-two minutes.”

Parmele put on his shoes and laced them. Fletcher waited for the president to speak. He’d laid out everything he knew about the Widmer hearings, which was considerably more than Walter Brown had known. Parmele remained silent during Fletcher’s briefing. Shoes tied, he turned to his political adviser, smiled, and said, “I think I owe the Mafia a debt of gratitude, Chet.”

“Sir?”

“For getting rid of this turncoat. What’s his name? Louis Russo? They did me a favor.”

“But there are the tapes and notes, sir. And I expect that the writer will be called to testify, too.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky with him, too. What do you know about him?”

Fletcher started to respond, but Parmele cut him off. “I’m sure he didn’t vote for me,” he said with a small chuckle. “Do what you can, Chet. I’ll be damned if some hack writer and a lying mafioso are going to deny me a second term.”

The president slapped Fletcher on the back, left the office, and went to the press section, where he told reporters, “Sorry I couldn’t be with you earlier. I’m sure Robin has taken good care of you.”

“Sir, any comment about why Mrs. Parmele decided at the last minute to not make this trip?” he was asked.

Parmele flashed a big smile and said, “She’s probably gotten bored of hearing me extol her virtues on the stump. Needed a day off from me-and you. See you on the ground.”