Washington Masquerade by Warren Adler

asked.
    Hodges shrugged.
    â€œDepends on your tolerance for conspiracy theories,” Fiona said. “Whatever we come up with will be suspect. It had better be airtight.”
    â€œStay with it,” the Chief said. “We need to keep one step ahead of the Feds.” He lowered his voice. “Eyes and ears of Big Brother are everywhere. I just wanted you to know that we’re being monitored. I didn’t have the office swept for bugs. Don’t want them to know we know. Keep the talk natural but guarded, although there might come a time when I signal to disengage. Got it?”
    â€œCheck, Chief.”
    It was, of course, a scary notion, hence their little outdoor meeting venue. But it had its logic. There was no way to prevent the implication that the Administration might be running a hit team against its critics, and there were serious believers out there who bought into such conspiracy theories—and not only the fringe media. Soon the blogging world would become operative, and the accusations would go viral. Fiona understood the game. The Administration had to counter in some way. Their hope was that the cops would sign off on suicide, but that was becoming more and more of a stretch.
    Later, over coffee at Sherry’s, Fiona and Izzy exchanged private theories. Fiona grew thoughtful and tapped a finger on her lips.
    â€œYou first,” she said.
    Izzy took a deep sip of his coffee and squinted into his cup as if his thoughts swam there.
    â€œI read a batch of the man’s columns. The President was his whipping boy. He showed zero tolerance for anything the President did—ran roughshod, never ending. Every column was brutal. My take? I doubt the Administration was complicit. That’s reaching, but you know where I stand, Fi. I’m not a fan, and I didn’t read him before his death. But I don’t like having our President maligned.” He lifted his hands. “Okay, I know. I’m not letting it stand in the way of my neutrality on this matter. Nevertheless….” He paused and looked up. “It is quite possible that some very offended loyalist could have let his anger get out of hand. You can’t deny that the columns could be very motivating for a wildly partisan presidential fanatic.”
    â€œWho’s denying it? I read him regularly. His stuff did have swaying power. He sure got the juices flowing and came down hard on the President. But a blatant hit by the order of the big man or one of his ardent staffers? No way. It’s a leap. A supporting stranger, maybe, but that takes the onus off the Administration.”
    â€œLook at us, Fi. We’re buying into it?” Izzy asked.
    â€œIt can’t be avoided,” Fiona mused. “What the Administration wants is for us to come up with a conclusion that keeps such an idea at bay. They want suicide or accident to be our official call. That takes them off the hook.”
    â€œWe better be right,” Izzy said. “Or the opposition and President haters will behead us.”
    â€œOn the other hand, speaking of heads. If we go for suicide or accident, the Eggplant becomes head—get the reference?—of the FBI.”
    They finished their coffee, paid the bill and waved good-bye to Sherry.
    ***
    As predicted, there was no holding back. After the initial revelation of Burns’ demise, speculation began in earnest all over the place. The media bullhorns began their work. Burns could have, might have, and some said should have, been the victim of some government shenanigans—a CIA operation, a special ops buried deep underground, a hit squad of trained assassins. Even the President’s loyalists were cagey in their defense against the rumormongers.
    Fiona, an old hand at such speculation, had underestimated the deluge by half. The flood of letters and e-mails, many anonymous, grew exponentially. Telephone tips multiplied. Almost all were based on the assumption that