Full Circle by Collin Wilcox Page B

ago, perhaps a dozen sightseers had come down the path.
    “In my case,” DuBois went on, “the wolf pack includes law enforcement, various members of the insurance industry, several politicians, and perhaps the underworld.”
    “I know.”
    “That implies that they’ve contacted you.”
    Bernhardt made no response.
    “I instructed Powers to give you five thousand dollars, plus expenses,” DuBois said. “You accepted it, I assume.”
    “That’s why I’m here. Because I accepted it.”
    “Have others offered you money in connection with my, ah, problems?”
    Impassive, Bernhardt made no reply as he studied the small, frail man strapped in his high-tech wheelchair. Like his bodyguards, DuBois was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. A blanket covered his shrunken legs. After they’d gotten him out of the Mercedes and into his wheelchair, one of the guards had put a small electrical device in his lap, then covered it with the blanket. If Bernhardt were wearing a wire, the device would blank out reception.
    “Will you answer the question?” DuBois asked. Then, obviously with great effort, he added, “Please?”
    “Money has been offered.” Bernhardt spoke cautiously.
    “But you haven’t accepted.”
    “Not yet.”
    With an effort DuBois inclined his head as he said, “You might accept later, though. Is that correct?”
    “No comment.”
    Now DuBois spoke softly, from the depth of what was certainly a weariness that penetrated his very being: “My strength is usually limited, Mr. Bernhardt. After an hour or two, especially if there’s stress, I must rest. So, if you’ll allow me, I’m going to put my proposition to you as concisely as possible. Do you understand?”
    Bernhardt realized that, in spite of himself, he was drawn into the web of DuBois’s confidences. Because he believed they were confidences: the gift of truth, offered by one of the most powerful men in the world. Never during his lifetime, Bernhardt realized, would the drama of this moment be surpassed.
    “I’m aware,” DuBois began, “that the FBI has questioned you. I’m also aware that you’ve been approached by a man—a civilian—as you were leaving the Federal Building on Wednesday. I know this—” As Bernhardt moved as if to interrupt, DuBois slightly shook his head, a mute request for permission to continue without interruption. “I know this because I ordered Powers to contact Herbert Dancer, the man for whom you were working when this all began, about seven months ago. I contacted Dancer because I’d learned that the FBI might be about to question you, and I wanted to verify that possibility. They did question you, twice. Their purpose was to get to Betty Giles through you. They’ll charge her with receiving stolen goods, then offer to drop the charges if she testifies against me. As for the civilian who contacted you, and who you later visited at the Fairmont, I assume he—” Suddenly DuBois broke off. Startled, Bernhardt saw the frail head fall back against the wheelchair’s contoured cushions, saw DuBois’s eyes close, saw his right index finger touch buttons on the chair’s arm. Moments later the bodyguard who’d stayed with the car was coming fast down the walkway. Beside his employer now, the bodyguard, obviously the man in charge, took a medicine vial from his pocket and shook out two pills, one white, one red. Now he touched DuBois’s flaccid cheek. In response, DuBois’s eyelids fluttered, and the pale purple lips parted. The bodyguard put the two pills on the old man’s tongue while one of the two drivers arrived with a glass of water. Three spasmodic gulps, a cough, a momentary convulsion of the rattled cords of the throat, and the pills were swallowed. Moments later, DuBois’s eyes opened, then came into focus, fixed on Bernhardt. DuBois coughed again, then began speaking in a low, clogged voice:
    “I don’t trust Dancer, and I’ve instructed Powers to terminate him.