PARAMOUR
GERALD PETIEVICH
Copyright ©1991, 2001 by Gerald Petievich
Smashwords Edition
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For S/P4 John G. Petievich,
U.S. Army Military Police Corps
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The position of Special Agent, U.S. Secret Service, requires that the incumbent cover designated security posts in connection with the protection of the President of the United States, whose safety is not only a matter of the utmost national concern but international in scope. If qualified, an agent may be assigned permanently as a member of the White House Presidential Protection Detail.
Special Agents so assigned may be exposed to physical combat, exchange of gunfire, and other hazards inherent with major assignments.
U.S. Secret Service Manual, Sect. 402.56, para. 13
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ONE
Outside, the White House night-lights, though unobtrusive, kept the grounds well illuminated. Other than some midsummer traffic noise coming from Pennsylvania Avenue there was only the muffled sound of two way radios carried by the uniformed officers as they moved from post to post at half hour intervals. Inside, the First Family was ensconced in the privacy of their second floor living quarters. Other than the working shift of Secret Service agents and a few maintenance and communications employees, the White House halls were dim and hushed.
U.S. Secret Service Agent Ray Stryker, a lanky, thirty-nine year old man with weathered features, was trudging down a long cement corridor in the White House basement: a labyrinth of offices and security cubicles, storerooms . . . and a bomb shelter designed to withstand a nearly ground-zero blast. In obedience to a recently initiated security procedure, he was perfunctorily checking (he didn't want to say "shaking") doors. His shift of duty on the White House Presidential Protection Detail was nearly completed. In fact, he'd signed off on the command post log a few minutes early to make the final security check: anything to shorten the drudging four to midnight shift.
Stryker's right knee was aching as it had for the past three years ... ever since the President's trip to Peshawar, Pakistan. There, Stryker had been "working the running board," as close in presidential motorcade security duty was called in the Secret Service. Running alongside the left rear fender of 90OX, the presidential limousine, keeping his eyes trained on the crowd line, he realized just an instant too late that the limousine had turned toward him slightly. He was helpless as the heavy bulletproof tire rolled over his foot and wrenched his entire left leg in a clockwise motion upward into the wheel well. Though the multiple bone fractures, set by a turbaned Pakistani doctor, had healed in the normal time, the knee had never been the same. But what the hell. Though in motorcades he was now limited to driving the limo or being a "gun man" inside the car, he could still play soccer as goalie, and the injury, though leaving with him a dull, continuous ache, hadn't affected his seniority on the White House Detail.
At the White House Situation Room, where he remembered President Bush spending thirty six straight hours during the 1991 Persian Gulf War, he tested the double combination locks on the tall steel doors. Secure. Using a ballpoint pen attached to the wall with a short string, he wrote his initials and the date, 8/12/96, on the Secret Service Form 1632 Secure Area Log.
Moving door to door farther down the hallway, he felt the fatigue that comes from sheer boredom. During Stryker's entire tour of duty today, the President's only activity outside his private quarters had been to come downstairs to attend a black tie dinner honoring the newly elected President of Zaire. All attendees, including both Presidents, the first ladies, and the other guests, had looked weary of the affair from beginning to end.
Stryker's mind was on his next three day weekend. He would take care of some errands Friday at his Fairfax, Virginia condominium. On Saturday he'd play soccer for the Fairfax Vikings, a team made up mostly of single government and military employees sponsored by Shaughnessy's Pub, where he spent a lot of time during off hours. Sunday would be spent with his seven year old daughter Kelli, whom, per the divorce decree, he was allowed to visit twice each week. After taking Kelli home, if he felt like it he'd ask his next door neighbor if she wanted to grab a pizza. Perhaps Flora would spend the night with him as she often did whenever her steady boyfriend was at sea.
Passing the open door of the White House Communications Center, Stryker waved casually to Ed Sneed, a strapping, uniformed army major whose sole duty, in the imminence of nuclear war, was to rush upstairs and give the President the secret military code needed to launch missiles and thus blow up the world. Sneed, his teammate on the Fairfax Vikings, gave a little salute.
Farther down the hallway, Stryker checked a line of doors known as the Special Projects Office. The locks were secure. Per the Secret Service Standard Operating Procedure (SOP), he was required to check the safes inside.
Stryker took out a three by five card on which he'd noted the day's code. Referring to the note, he tapped three number combinations on a cipher lock and waited a moment. There was a thud click as the lock came open. Stryker pulled the heavy steel door to enter. Inside, he flicked on the light.
There were two desks in the room, and the floor was covered with a utilitarian red carpet common to White House offices. The walls were covered with maps hidden by black CLASSIFIED drapes. To the right was a door to a small conference room. Both it and the room he was in were soundproof. Moving to a row of security document safes lining the facing wall, he checked the printed logs taped to the top front drawers. Today's date was written on the last line for each log, next to the initials MK. Starting at the left and moving right, he tugged at the drawer handles.
One wasn't locked.
Feeling his heart quicken, he pulled open the heavy drawer. It was full of hanging file folders.
There was the sound of the steel door clicking shut. Stryker whirled and saw a familiar face ... and a gun being raised to the level of his head. "Don't," Stryker said, instinctively reaching for his own revolver.
With his breath at full stop, Stryker thought he heard a click, but he wasn't sure. Then there was a sudden excruciating stab of pain in his head and the world turned bright white and exploded . . . into a devastating sense of peace.
****
TWO
A fetid breeze wafted from the Potomac River.
Special Agent Jack Powers, U.S. Secret Service, ended his daily five mile jog at a sidewalk newspaper rack in front of the enormous Watergate apartment complex. He was wearing blue nylon jogging shorts, a white T shirt, and a pair of Nike running shoes he'd purchased on sale at Woodward and Lothrup. Soaked in perspiration, he stood on the corner, arms akimbo, taking deep breaths. The workout had relaxed him, freed him from stress. Though the rest of his day would be planned and overseen by others, the early morning was his.
He tugged gently at the waistband of his shorts, picked change from a tiny waist pocket, and dropped the coins in the news rack's coin receptacle. He raised the clear plastic cover and took a copy of the Washington Post.
Looking both ways, he crossed Virginia Avenue with the green light. Heading slowly along New Hampshire, as was his custom after the morning run, he scanned the front page. The President was even (51 percent to 49 percent) in a CBS campaign poll, and double digit inflation and record high unemployment was continuing. The U.S. economy continued to be outpaced by a booming, barrier free Europe led by a reunified Germany. The President's popularity had dropped consistently, owing to his stumbling approach to foreign affairs in the Middle East. With the presidential election only three months away and the polls showing the President even with his challenger, the Chief Executive's job would be to maintain balance and avoid any last minute glitches that could push him from power.
Powers turned the page. Having protected five different Presidents, he knew that though Presidents were invariably men of unbridled ego and ambition who thrived on adversity, they were equally invariably deeply pierced by criticism. As Powers could attest, the presidency ate some men alive.
At the second stoplight, Powers paused over an article headlined PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS FOREIGN POLICY CRITICISM. In it, presidential press secretary Richard Eggleston stated the President's intention to address the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce on Friday of next week.
From rumors he'd heard recently while traveling with the President on the campaign trail, Powers surmised that since the speech was planned for a Friday, the President's real reason for traveling to the West Coast was to confer with the movie industry fat cats who financed his campaign, some of whom were rumored to be jumping ship. The entire trip, though undertaken for strictly partisan political purposes, would be paid for by the government, and the presidential party would probably spend the weekend at their usual lodging in Southern California, the newly refurbished Breakwater Hotel in Santa Monica. Accordingly, since the shift change for the White House Detail was scheduled every other Friday, Powers would still be working the day shift on the West Coast ... the same tour of duty as Louise Fisher, an attractive Santa Monica police officer whom he dated when in town.
But this presented a problem.
Though Louise was a veritable sexual athlete, she was incapable of making conversation about any topic except herself. Long ago, Powers had tired of her persecution stories centering on a male chauvinist patrol lieutenant she believed was out to get her and of her incessant bragging about her prowess as starting center on the police volleyball team. For this reason, it was difficult to spend long periods of time with her.
Therefore, Powers decided to request a shift change to the 4 P.M. to midnight shift. This way, while in Santa Monica, he could enjoy sleeping with Louise at her beach condo after he got off work but could avoid spending long stretches of off duty time enduring her depressing stories. Instead, he'd have the daytime hours free to meet other women at the beach.
If nothing else, twenty two years of being a member of the Secret Service's White House Detail had taught him the importance of conscientious advance planning.
Powers had been in charge of advance security arrangements for the last California trip. The advance man arranged security at each and every location on the President's California itinerary and bore the final responsibility for his safety from the time the President arrived until Air Force One lifted wheels up on departure. Powers liked advance duties. As well as the challenge, it was an easy way to make a lot of overtime pay.
By the time Powers reached Washington Circle he'd finished skimming the newspaper. At the entrance to the Georgetown Arms, a drab brick front apartment building like the others lining both sides of the street, he shoved the paper into a curbside trashcan. Then he lifted a metal dog-tag chain from around his neck and used one of the two keys attached to it to open the front door. The foyer reeked with the odor of mildewed carpet. At the elevator, he pressed a button and waited.
Turning to a large mirror on the facing wall, he saw his reflection five foot ten with height proportionate to weight, a full head of closely cropped dark hair flecked with gray, thick eyebrows, clean features, and, except for the premature wrinkles around his eyes from years of scanning thousands of faces in thousands of crowds looking for potential assassin no distinguishing traits. Hell, he was just another forty-four year old jogger.
In his drab rent by the week apartment (it didn't make sense to lease a DC residence when he was only in town a few days each month), he lifted his soaking T shirt over his head and hung it over the bathroom shower rod. Pulling two Velcro fasteners open, he freed himself from a custom made elastic holster wrapped tightly around his midsection like a rib brace. From a pocket in the holster, he slipped out a snub nosed .38 revolver wrapped loosely in Saran Wrap as protection from jogging perspiration.
He'd developed this method of carrying the gun when he and the other agents on the White House Secret Service Detail were required to follow President Jimmy Carter on his daily jogs. After a couple of trials with other materials, Powers determined that one thin layer of Saran Wrap kept the gun dry but didn't interfere with firing. To be sure, he'd tested the plastic wrapped piece by firing more than a hundred rounds with it at the Secret Service firing range in Beltsville, Maryland.
Though the weapon was annoying during exercise and caused a slight abrasion where it rubbed against his waist, he carried it because he knew the odds were that in Washington, DC, crime capital of the world, some armed robber would eventually, some day when he least expected it, accost him while he was jogging. If so, Powers would surprise him with the .38 and blow his head off.
After a long shower, Powers broke starch on a fresh white shirt. After pulling on his trousers and sturdy wing tipped shoes, Powers weighted his belt with his work equipment: revolver, handcuffs, a Motorola HL 20 radio receiver-transmitter keyed to the White House frequency, a small tear gas canister, and a leather case containing an identification pin providing access to Location Rain City, a secret underground bomb shelter near the Pentagon where the President would be spirited to safety by the White House Detail in the event of nuclear war.
He shrugged on his conservative blue suit jacket, then checked the contents of his Secret Service issue metal briefcase containing the other items he was required to have in his possession at all times when on duty: his official passport, two pistol speed loaders, a small flashlight, a book of government transportation requests good for flights on any airline in the world, an extra set of handcuffs, air force aviator sunglasses, and an extra pair of wing tip shoes with the rubber nonslip soles required by Secret Service regulation. He checked to see that all faucets and appliances were off in the apartment and then headed downstairs to catch the Metro.
At the East Gate to the White House, Powers held up his Secret Service identification card to Betty Manning, the Secret Service Uniformed Division officer manning the guard booth. She had freckles, red hair drawn back tightly, and a white Secret Service uniform shirt tailored to accentuate her full figure. Once during a presidential visit to Japan, he'd slept with her.
Rather than examining his ID card closely, she just smiled. "I thought you were gonna call me last weekend."
"Sorry, I got tied up," he said, moving quickly past.
She extended her middle index finger and held it to the glass as he hurried through a doorway covered by a blue awning and into the White House basement.
Powers strolled down a wide marble walkway past the White House barbershop and the Travel Logistics Office, stopping at the nicely decorated navy mess facility, the White House's restaurant.
He glanced both ways in the hall. There were no Secret Service supervisors in sight, so he went inside. Though, per the Secret Service White House operations manual, agents of the White House Detail were forbidden to use the mess with the White House staffers, general officers, and politicos, Powers had been eating there for years. After enjoying a breakfast of eggs and pancakes served to him by Ramon Valiente, a gray haired Filipino mess steward whom he discreetly tipped to ensure being seated at a reserved table in the corner away from the door, Powers paid his bill and continued down the hall. Just past the White House photographer's office he stopped at a door marked W 16: the Secret Service White House command post. He used his own key in the lock.
Inside, a bank of black and white video screens lined the walls, focused on the on duty Secret Service agents at their respective White House guard posts: mostly young, agile-looking men in Hong Kong suits similar to the one Powers was wearing, standing in hallways and corridors and in front of White House doors and windows even on the roof-ready to defend the White House from an air attack with Redeye and Stinger hand held surface to air missiles.
On the other side of the room, fellow members of the oncoming day shift checked the duty board for messages, inspected revolvers, and inserted molded radio earpieces connected by a thin wire to the radios on their belts.
Special Agent John Alphonse Capizzi, a slack jawed olive-complexioned New Yorker with a pencil thin mustache, was fastening his shoulder holster. His dark striped suit and styled ebony hair gave him the appearance of a Wall Street broker, or perhaps a dissipated Italian diplomat. The youthful Capizzi, a varsity league ass kisser and diligent student of the Secret Service promotion system (the "rabbi system"), which eschewed written or oral promotion tests for supervisory caprice, was, everyone on the detail said, destined to be Director someday.
Ken Landry, a tall broad shouldered African American, was sitting in a high backed chair in front of a cluttered radio console busily making notes. A decorated Marine Corps veteran, Landry was the only agent assigned to the White House Detail longer than Powers (three months and thirteen days on the seniority list). Recently promoted to be shift leader, Landry had avoided the myriad cabals and alliances within the Secret Service bureaucracy because he recognized that, as a black man, he would suffer for being ambitious if such a coalition backfired. Instead, he had simply outlasted the White House Detail hotshots and, through seniority, moved slowly up the promotion ladder. At forty nine, Landry still held the record for push ups and chin ups in the monthly Secret Service physical agility tests.
Powers liked and trusted him.
"Ken, since there's no travel on the schedule, how about putting me on the four to twelve shift for the next couple of weeks?" Powers said, keeping his voice down so others couldn't hear. "I have some things to take care of during the day."
Landry looked around to see that no one else was listening. "My man," he said, without looking up from his paperwork, "may I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Are women all you ever think about?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've heard about the trip to California next week and you're trying to rearrange your schedule around pussy."
"If there's a problem "
"Do you ever think about anything else? Like baseball. Do you ever think about baseball?" He looked up and winked. "Enjoy the beach, my man."
"Appreciate it. "
Landry tore a page off his note pad and stood up to face the group of agents. "Listen up! The man will be staying in the House all day. He'll be having lunch in the Blue Room with Congressman Lyman from Pennsylvania, who happens to be on the Appropriations Committee. So if you're standing post when they walk by, look sharp; Lyman can cut the Secret Service budget. We're working on Whisky frequency today."
He referred to his notes.
"Be advised that last night at twenty three hundred hours a lunatic named Myron Foxbettor, fifty one years old, approached the East Gate carrying a garden hoe and a box of Tide, which he was pouring over his head. He made verbal threats against the President and was committed to the psychiatric evaluation ward at St. Elizabeth Hospital.... An hour later one Richard Gastineau, thirty three years old, also approached the gate. Gastineau, who was costumed like Charlie Chaplin, said he'd been hired to throw a lemon pie in the President's face. This whipdick was also committed to St. Elizabeth's. A search of his car revealed a lemon meringue pie, which is now being analyzed by Technical Security Division. That's all I have. Any questions?"
"Is it true we're going to Santa Monica next week?" Capizzi asked.
"There's no travel scheduled at this point. So those of you who are thinking about asking me to change your shifts in order to get beach time on the Coast can just forget it. Gentlemen, I spent five years on this detail before I dared ask my shift leader for so much as a sick day, much less a change to another shift. So a word to the wise should be sufficient." With a straight face, Landry glanced at his wristwatch. "It's about that time. Let's make the push."
There was some good natured grumbling, and the agents filed out the door to man the interior guard posts. While the Secret Service Uniformed Division was responsible for manning the exterior posts, those visible from Pennsylvania Avenue and to visitors on the White House tour, the on-duty shift of plainclothes special agents was responsible for the close in posts. In the Secret Service manual for protective operations this system of guard posts was referred to as "the concentric theory of security," a meaningless term coined by the Director, Rexford J. Fogarty.
Powers took the stairs to the East Wing two at a time. Because of seniority, he relieved the agent standing outside the Oval Office.
For the rest of the day, at half hour intervals, Powers and the other special agents on duty would move, in succession, from one guard post to another throughout the White House: from the door of the Cabinet Room, to the door of the Oval Office, to the door leading to the President's study, and so on. Standing at these posts with arms either crossed on his chest or casually behind him or at his sides, shifting his weight now and then and balancing alternately on the balls of his feet to avoid fatigue, he would watch young White House staffers, Congressmen and Senators, generals, admirals, cabinet members, and members of the Vice President's youthful staff rush in and out of various offices carrying papers and speaking fiercely in hushed tones.
White House staffers said little to Powers and the other on duty Secret Service agents during the course of the average day. Powers had accepted his place in the hierarchy long ago: inside the White House, he was simply an observer, a symbol of security in a place already protected by spiked fences, electronic barriers, outside guard posts, and every type of alarm imaginable. Looking like gun carrying cigar store Indians, he and his colleagues would come to life only in the event that someone already admitted through the elaborate screen of security tried to harm the President.
And Powers knew this was very unlikely.
In fact, the only action he'd seen while pushing post inside the White House was the time an insane army private, Leroy Mildebank, had stolen a helicopter from Fort Meade, Maryland, and tried to land it in the White House Rose Garden. Once it was established that the chopper was unauthorized, every special agent within range, including Powers, had emptied revolvers and Uzi submachine guns at it. Private Mildebank, uninjured because the military craft was bullet-resistant, had calmly turned off the chopper blades and surrendered outside the Oval Office.
Nevertheless, even though Powers kept vigilant because it was his job, he hated pushing post in the White House itself because, though his job was certainly necessary, it was monotonous. The only human contact he'd have all day, except for other special agents, was when some power-hungry politician or admiral asked him, with restrained condescension, where to find the nearest rest room.
When the President traveled, there was plenty of excitement. Powers had been one of the agents who wrestled the gun from John Hinckley's hands moments after Hinckley shot President Reagan. He had also been standing two feet from President Ford when Sara Jane Moore opened fire. A bullet had whizzed so close to his face that the recurring memory, like the nightmares he'd experienced after returning from Vietnam, still occasionally woke him in the middle of the night.
Powers had just taken his post at the door of the Oval Office when there was the sound of static in his earpiece. He adjusted the squelch, to hear Landry inform him via radio that Chief of Staff David Morgan was headed for the Oval Office to see the President. Soon Morgan stepped off the nearby elevator. Fiftyish and with a receding hairline, the most visible member of the White House staff wore a pinstriped suit with a tight fitting vest. Perpetually squinting because he was too vain to wear eyeglasses, he moved deliberately, ever conscious of maintaining an assured demeanor.
Powers nodded. Rather than ignoring him completely and entering the Oval Office, Morgan stopped.
"Good morning, Jack."
"Good morning, sir." And since you've taken the time to speak, you must be going to ask a favor.
"Jack, would you be good enough to check with your command post to find out if Dick Eggleston has arrived yet?"
"The President is alone, sir."
"I'm aware of that, Jack. I want to know if Eggleston has arrived."
"I'm not allowed to use my radio net for anything other than Secret Service official business," Powers said in the impersonal but nonthreatening tone he'd developed over the years for dealing with power freaks, as he called them. Powers believed Morgan just wanted to kill time because he was early for the meeting and to remind Powers of Morgan's dominant position in the pecking order something power freaks like to do.
Morgan son of Durward V. Morgan, of the stock brokerage house of Morgan, Arbogast and Klingheim; author of the President's winning election ad campaign featuring well-known movie actors in folksy heart to heart television spots , graduate of the Fletcher School of Diplomacy and former U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union gritted his teeth and looked momentarily at the ceiling.
Thriving on intrigue, Morgan, who'd been active in both political parties at one time or another before coming to the White House, spent most of his time shielding the President from ambitious staffers or military zealots attempting bureaucratic end runs. A genius at limiting political damage, he was the power behind the throne in the White House, and everyone knew crossing him meant a one way ticket right out of the administration. But Powers felt there was little Morgan could do to him. The way he saw it, he'd been working in the White House before Morgan arrived, and he'd be there when Morgan was ushered out by the next administration.
A couple of minutes later Richard Eggleston, the hulking presidential Press Secretary, stepped off the elevator. Morgan immediately entered the Oval Office. Powers winked at Eggleston and touched his watch in a mock scolding manner as Eggleston reached the door. Eggleston smiled. In Powers's opinion, Eggleston was the hardest working member of the staff. An easygoing former Yale journalism professor, Eggs had mastered the art of reinterpreting the President's controversial remarks for the press corps each time the President stepped on his dick during one of his infrequent press conferences. He had the unique ability to twist gaffes into something sounding reasonable.
While Morgan and Eggleston were inside with the President, Powers could hear their voices clearly and was pleased he would have something to occupy his mind for the half hour until rotation, when, like a robot, he would move to the elevator post. He stepped a little closer to the door, permissible within the special orders of the Oval Office post.
They were talking about the Middle East again, in serious tones. From what he had learned inadvertently as a bystander during similar discussions and White House briefings, Powers had come to appreciate the President's dilemma. The incursion of American troops to stem the aggression of Iraq's ruler Saddam Hussein in the early nineties had backfired. Rather than produce a Pax Arabia, the Arab masses, fueled by the fires of Islamic fundamentalism and enraged by the sight of foreigners treading on the sacred soil of Islam, had risen up against their rulers. With new, radical regimes in Jordan and Lebanon, for the first time in modem history the Arabs were asserting their power as a coalition. With this worst case political scenario a reality, in 1992 President Bush had been forced from office rather than run for re election.
Syria, America's sworn enemy, had emerged as leader of the alliance. Taking advantage of the power vacuum caused by the destruction of the Iraqi war machine, Iran had promptly joined the new alliance. Forged by hatred of the infidel, and strengthened by a flood of arms from the Soviet Union, the Arabs had taken the first move toward reclaiming the glory of the Pharaohs, of Carthage and Babylon: the forming of a coalition. Syria's strongman Hafez al Assad, champion of the dispossessed Palestinians and promulgator of worldwide terrorism, was now flag bearer for most of the Arab world. And Syria believed there was only one more roadblock to reclaiming the glories of the distant past: Israel.
Whether the United States, with its continued dependence on Arab oil, would defend Israel against the new Syrian led coalition was the test of the administration. American public opinion was split over whether the United States should risk American lives in another war, one with much greater potential for loss of life, but there was no assurance that a general settlement of the Arab Israeli conflict could be reached. The President, at his lowest point in the polls, had his political career riding on whether to risk American lives and fortune again by pledging unqualified United States support to Israel. During the discussion, the President spoke softly, as was his habit, bluntly probing the others for their honest opinions.
Then the conversation changed to the upcoming election debate.
"They're pushing for two hours," Morgan said.
"That's great if we're ahead," the President said. "But if things are rocky it could be a killer."
"We have great confidence in our President," Eggleston said, in the disarming, jocular fashion that made him well liked not only by the press but even by cynical Secret Service agents.
"We have to go with the assumption that I will be either slightly behind in the polls or even. With everything that has occurred there's no way I'm going into this election as a sure winner," the President said. "They're going to hang the Middle East around my neck like a great big albatross."
"Good point," Morgan said.
"If we limit to an hour we cut the risk potential," Eggleston said. "Anything can happen. Jesus, Nixon got hurt because of perspiration on his upper lip. I say we limit time. We limit risk."
"And if they're ahead and refuse to debate?" Morgan said. "What if they tell us to go pound sand up our ass?"
Straining to hear, Powers moved even closer to the door.
"Then you say I'll go to the American people and tell them presidential election debates are sacred," the President replied. "We've had them ever since Kennedy and Nixon, and we are prepared to debate anywhere on any date they choose. Tell them we'll screw them with that position every day until the end of the campaign. They'll debate, all right. Have no fear."
"Yes, sir," Morgan said.
"Mr. President, there is also the question of standing or sitting. You are taller, and we feel that if you are standing during the debate it will give you a psychological advantage. They of course want both candidates to be seated."
"I'll stand, and he can have a riser on the podium so we will appear to be the same height," the President snapped. "Next question."
"They're insisting on Philadelphia over San Antonio," Morgan said.
"Forget Philadelphia," the President said. "I want San Antonio."
There was the sound of the phone. One ring, then footsteps. A discussion ensued, but Powers couldn't make it out.
The door opened.
The eavesdropping Powers caught his breath. Stifling the urge to jump away from the door, he turned casually as if to clear the doorway.
"The President has a question for you," Morgan said, holding an eyeglass front with lenses by the bridge. The temples had probably been removed, so they would fit nicely in Morgan's vest pocket without making an unsightly bulge in his tailored suit.
"Just a moment, sir."
Powers used his radio to notify Agent Bob Tomsic, manning the Cabinet Room post down the hall, that he would be entering the Oval Office. From Powers's earpiece receiver came the sound of two clicks, an informal acknowledgment of the message by Landry in the command post. Less than a minute later, Special Agent Tom Harrington, a sad eyed man who looked older than his forty years, appeared from the stairwell.
"I'm working utility. What's up?" Harrington said.
"The man wants to talk to me."
"I'll cover the post."
Powers entered the Oval Office and Morgan closed the door behind him. The President was sitting behind an antique oak desk on which were three telephones.
Without looking at Powers, the President continued his telephone conversation for a moment, then tapped the mute button. "Jack," the President said. "San Antonio. The Alamo. Is there any security reason why we can't hold an election debate there?"
"You should probably ask Director Fogarty "
"I'm asking you."
"Yes, sir. The streets can be blocked off and a tent could be set up outside for the press."
"You're sure?"
"President Bush once spoke at a reception there, and I did the security advance. It was no problem."
The President winked a thanks and pressed the mute button on the phone again. "My Secret Service people tell me the Alamo is suitable," he said. "Tell them I said yes." The President mouthed the word "thanks" to Powers and continued his conversation. Eggleston gave Powers a little punch on the shoulder on his way out the door.
In the corridor, Powers whispered the President's question to Harrington so Harrington could relay it to Landry, Landry would pass it up the chain of command to Secret Service Director Fogarty. Fogarty, miffed at not being approached directly by the President with such a question, would in all probability try to contact the President to discuss the matter. But he would be rebuffed. Morgan considered him a dunce and preferred to deal with Deputy Director Peter Sullivan. The sound of static came from Powers's earpiece. Powers used his sleeve microphone.
"Powers, this is Landry."
Powers pressed the transmit button on his radio. Had there been a tone of urgency in Landry's voice? "Powers. Go."
"Meet me at ... the Special Projects Office."
****
THREE
Powers stepped off the elevator in the basement, and hurried down a long shiny corridor past the neatly labeled office doors. Landry was waiting in front of the steel security door of the Special Projects Office. His complexion was grayish, there was a mist of perspiration on his forehead . . . and were tears welling in his eyes?
"Do you feel all right?"
"Ray Stryker's dead," Landry whispered.
Powers felt his stomach tighten. "What?"
Landry looked around and then opened the door. Powers followed him inside.
Landry pointed.
Ray Stryker was lying on his back. His head was turned and his legs were askew. There was a revolver in his right hand, a service issue Smith and Wesson .357. His suit jacket was open and the cross draw holster on his belt was empty.
"Jesus Christ," Powers heard himself saying. He crept closer and knelt by the body. Stryker's mouth was open and his head was turned, as if twisted, to the left. There was a nearly bloodless entry wound at the right temple. The cranium at the left temple was open and distended ... blown outward. Directly above the body, at head level, dried blood and brain matter was splattered across the word CLASSIFIED on a black drape covering a wall map. Powers, restraining a brief gag reflex, felt dizzy. "He must have been standing when he did it. "
"He left a note," Landry said, his voice cracking.
A few inches from Stryker's left hand was a piece of unfolded government bond paper with typing on it. Powers moved close and knelt. The note read:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
I'm sorry about the way things turned out, but I have never believed in looking back. Those of you who judge me certainly have that right, but I don't think what I did was so wrong. It was never my intention to harm the country in any way, shape, or form, and I apologize to my fellow agents for whatever embarrassment my death may cause. I accept full responsibility for my actions.
To my Aunt Beatrice, my only living relative, and to everyone who wishes me well, I bid farewell. I guess I forfeited my life when I first violated my oath. I can only hope my years of loyal service and the fact that I always tried to be a good father to Kelli mean my life wasn't a complete waste. Goodbye, everyone. For me, it's wheels up for the last time.
The note was signed Raymond Stryker.
"Holy shit," Powers said.
"We'll have to handle this by the numbers," Landry said, his voice cracking with emotion.
"By the numbers" meant moving cautiously, getting the approval of the Secret Service chain of command. If the potential for embarrassment to the President was great enough, the White House Chief of Staff or perhaps even the President himself would be contacted before proceeding.
They stood there for a moment. Powers took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Landry moved into the adjoining room and picked up a White House secure phone. Powers noticed his hand was shaking.
"This is Ken Landry. I need to speak with the Deputy Director, now...Interrupt the meeting," he said. "Mr. Sullivan, Landry here. I'm going by the numbers in the Special Projects Office. We need you here code three." He set the phone down and turned to Powers. "I was doing a security check. The door was locked," Landry said.
"Ray worked till midnight. I remember seeing his name on the duty roster," Powers said. Feeling a lump in his throat, he realized they were both avoiding looking at the body.
Five minutes later there was a knock on the door. Powers turned the handle. Sullivan, a well built man of Powers's age, stepped inside. He had a powerful jaw and reddish cheeks. His black hair was parted neatly. Known for his expensive taste in clothes, he wore a starched white shirt, a Chanel necktie and a well tailored Brooks Brothers suit. Though at various times he'd sported a mustache, taking the time to trim it carefully as it grew in, at present he was clean shaven.
"What's up, gents?"
Powers stepped away so he could see. Sullivan blanched visibly, the edges of his lips turning white. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. "
Slowly, almost reverently, he moved forward and knelt by the body. Craning his neck to read the suicide note without touching it, he grimaced and got to his feet. He stood there for a moment staring, then followed Powers and Landry into the adjoining room. Sullivan took a deep breath and let it out. "Who else knows about this?" he said, running his hands through his hair.
"No one," Landry said.
Sullivan picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number. "Chief of Staff."
Before Chief of Staff David Morgan arrived, Powers, acting at Sullivan's direction, obtained Ray Stryker's personnel file from the Secret Service personnel division. The three of them reviewed the contents of the manila folder quickly. It revealed nothing Powers didn't already know: Stryker was a fourteen year Secret Service veteran, had been a longtime member of the Secret Service soccer team, and was divorced. He'd never been the subject of any disciplinary action and consistently received "satisfactory" on his yearly personal evaluations ... always with an eighty seven, the score secretly designated by the Director's staff as a code designating Stryker, and hundreds of other special agents who weren't counted among the Director's political allies, as someone who'd never be promoted to supervisory rank.
There was a knock on the door. Sullivan opened it. Morgan sauntered confidently into the room and Powers closed the door behind him. "I hope this is a true emergency " His eyes widened as he saw the body, and he backed away slowly. "What the hell?"
"It looks like a suicide, sir," Sullivan said.
"Who is it?"
"Special Agent Ray Stryker."
Morgan reached behind him for the door handle.
"You'd better read the note, sir," Sullivan said.
Morgan looked at Powers and Landry. He moved forward, bent down to read the note, and returned to the door. Sullivan motioned him into the adjoining room. "It's probably best if we remain here until we decide what to do," Sullivan said.
"Yes, of course."
Morgan shrugged off his suit jacket and sat down. He wore plaid suspenders, a gift he and other members of the White House staff had received from the Prime Minister of Great Britain during a recent presidential trip to London. "How many people know?"
"Only those of us in this room," Sullivan said.
"No one heard the gunshot?"
"All rooms on this corridor are soundproof," Landry said.
Morgan cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I have to make some very important decisions and I want you to help me. First, is there any chance this is a murder and not a suicide? I want your frank opinions."
Sullivan rubbed his chin. "It sure as hell looks like a suicide. The gun's next to his hand and there are powder burns on his temple, which means the gun was fired at close range not to mention the note."
"Do we have any reason to believe someone would want to kill him?" Morgan said. Adhering to protocol, he looked first at Sullivan.
"He had no enemies as far as I know."
"He was well liked, got along with everyone," Powers said.
"If I was going to kill a man a premeditated murder I sure as hell wouldn't do it in the White House," Morgan said.
"On the other hand, Ray Stryker's not the kind of man to kill himself." Landry wiped perspiration from his upper lip and looked at it.
"Who the hell knows what kind of man would commit suicide?" Morgan said.
"You asked for opinions; that's mine," Landry said in his nonthreatening way.
"I spoke to Ray a couple of days ago. He didn't seem depressed," Powers said. "Not in the least." Nothing was said for a while. Powers shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was fidgeting, like the others in the room. It was hot. He wondered if the air conditioning was on.
Morgan stood up. "That brings us to the next question," he said pensively. "If this is a simple suicide, as it appears to be, can we keep the lid on it?"
"If we handle this through normal channels the cat's out of the bag," Sullivan said. "The wire services will have the story within minutes."
Morgan loosened his necktie ... the first time Powers had ever seen him do so.
"By law we're required to notify the police," Landry said.
"And they notify the coroner," Powers added.
Morgan looked at Sullivan. "Am I safe in assuming the Secret Service has a contact on the DC police department who can be trusted to handle a hot potato?"
"Yes," Landry said. "But for special handling on something this sensitive he'll need the backing of the chief of police. "
Morgan nodded. "I need to make a phone call in private."
Powers, Sullivan, and Landry walked into the other room. Sullivan closed the door. Perhaps because they were all trying to hear what Morgan was saying in the next room, little was said for a few minutes. Sullivan, always the efficient planner, took out a small pad and pen and made notes.
Finally, Morgan called them back. "Gentlemen, I've just spoken with the President. He pointed out that we are nearing the end of a very close and difficult election campaign. The President wants to take the proper legal steps, but he asks that we do everything we can to keep the incident from the press. Are there any questions?"
Powers thought of a good one: Why are you such an imperious, insensitive prick? No one said anything. Morgan shrugged on his jacket and strode out of the room.
"Who do we have at Metro Homicide?" Sullivan asked Landry.
"Art Lyons."
"Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?"
"He's solid," Powers said. Lyons, with whom he'd worked on other sensitive matters, including the investigation of several presidential threat cases, was a man who could keep his word. In any law enforcement bureaucracy, where perfidy is frequently rewarded by promotion, such a man was hard to find.
"How do we get him assigned to the case?" Sullivan said.
"If we call the chief, he might assign someone we can't trust. The best way is to phone Lyons directly, bring him inside the tent, and then let him deal with his boss."
Landry phoned Art Lyons and asked him to come to the White House to discuss a "protective intelligence matter." Without asking questions, Lyons arrived at the White House fifteen minutes later.
As Powers and Landry sat in desk chairs watching, Lyons, a diminutive fortyish man with a heavily fined face and dark circles under his eyes, moved deliberately about the Special Projects Office, stopping now and then just to stare at things. Powers figured Lyons must have spent a full two minutes contemplating the bloodstain on the curtain. Once he shed his jacket, they saw that his trousers and short sleeved white shirt were baggy. His revolver, its butt wrapped neatly with black mechanics tape, hung in a sweat ringed leather shoulder holster. Powers had last spoken with Lyons at Lyons's watering hole, the English Grille in Georgetown. He remembered Lyons telling him he'd lost forty pounds in a month on a liquid protein weight loss diet ... stopping only when he'd been hospitalized with a mild heart attack.
Finally, Lyons stepped back from the body, lifted a package of Camels from his shirt pocket, and lit up. He coughed richly. "You said there was nothing in his behavior to indicate suicide?" he said, staring at the body.
"Nothing obvious," Powers said.
"Was he married?"
"Divorced."
Lyons nodded. "Heavy drinker?"
"He liked his suds. But there was never any drinking problem that I know of. At any rate, none that ever came to our attention," Landry said.
"Any ideas about what it means in the note about violating his oath?"
"Got me," Powers said.
"Sometimes something will set a man off ... something no one knows about. Maybe his girlfriend telling him to get fucked." Holding his cigarette loosely between his fingers, Lyons took a double drag, then blew a heavy stream of smoke at the body. "A secret of some kind coming to light. I take it you checked the serial number of the gun?"
"We checked it in the files," Landry said. "It's his gun, all right."
Lyons squatted down next to the body. "In most suicides the hand is gripping the gun . . . a cadaveric spasm ... the hand tightens involuntarily on the piece. But as you can see, the gun is just lying next to his hand."
"Does that mean...?"
"It doesn't mean anything. I've handled suicides where the damn gun was thrown all the way across the room... Hell, I had one where a guy shot himself twice. The first one was right into the nasal cavity. If he didn't have a good reason for killing himself before, he certainly did after taking a red hot bullet right up the ol' schnozz."
"Do you see anything at all out of the ordinary with this suicide?" Powers said.
Lyons came to his feet. "He was standing up... Most suicides like to lie down or at least sit down, make themselves comfortable before they pull the ol' plug. But some people do it standing up. Not often, but it happens. Hell, I had one where a guy killed himself while jerking off."
There was a knock on the door. It was Sullivan and Morgan. Landry introduced them to Lyons. They shook hands.
"How do you read this, Art?" Morgan said.
"It was his gun, there's a note matching the handwriting in his personnel file. It looks like suicide to me."
Landry, who seldom smoked, asked Lyons for a cigarette. Lyons tossed him the pack and a plastic throwaway lighter. Landry lit a cigarette, perhaps to mask the odor of death in the room, which seemed to be getting stronger.
"I have to make a telephone call," Morgan said, on his way to the adjoining room. About fifteen minutes later, he opened the door and asked them to come inside. As they entered, Morgan handed the telephone receiver to Lyons. "Your chief."
Lyons set his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Yes, sir," Lyons said, holding the phone to his ear. "Yes.... That's right, sir.... I'll handle it.... Roger." He set the receiver down. "The chief received a call from the President. I'm to handle this any way you want."
"What about the coroner's office?" Landry said.
"The chief's already touched base with him," Lyons said, grinding his cigarette butt into a large glass ashtray. "He gave permission to handle this outside normal procedures."
Morgan turned to Sullivan. "You have your marching orders," he said. He left the room.
The others watched as Lyons took photos of the body and the room with a Kodak Instamatic camera he'd brought with him, made a rough pencil sketch of the room on a tablet, and recovered the spent bullet from the wall behind the curtain. He placed the round and the revolver in clear plastic evidence bags and dropped them in his briefcase.
Lyons shrugged. "You need me for anything else?"
"Thanks for coming over, Art."
Lyons said to call him if there was anything else he could do. He put on his jacket and left.
Landry shook his head slowly. "Hell, I still can't see Ray taking his own life. No way."
"We need to find out what Stryker meant in the note. Violating his oath could mean anything," Sullivan said. "You'd better go search Stryker's place. I'll notify the next of kin."
"What about the body?" Powers said.
"We take it to a funeral home. There's no way we can hide the fact that he committed suicide, but we can keep the location a secret."
"There's no way to cover a body being taken out of the White House."
"We wait until after dark and use a tactical van. No one in the Press Room will think anything of that. In the meantime, we'll have briefed all three shifts not to discuss the matter. "
"What exactly are you going to tell the press?" Powers said.
"That he committed suicide . . . We'll just leave out where it happened. If they press for more, we tell 'em he was on extended sick leave for depression and killed himself at home. A suicide in the White House is a story. The newsies won't go with a sick man eating his gun at home. If one of 'em decides to try, the Press Secretary can have it quashed as an embarrassment to the Secret Service ... and Stryker's next of kin." Sullivan ran his hands across his face and took a deep breath. "And even if one of the papers insists on writing the story, it would be nothing more than a one inch column on the back page of the Post..." His voice trailed off. He made eye contact with Powers, then Landry, noting their reaction. "Look, I know Ray was a good man. I don't like this any more than you do. "
"We'll head for Stryker's place," Landry said.
"Keep me informed."
As Landry drove to Fairfax, Virginia, Powers kept reliving the sight of Ray's corpse. The effect of all that had happened seemed to sink in for the first time. He felt weary, and his vague foreboding reminded him of his first day in Vietnam.
Ray Stryker’s two bedroom condominium was wedged into a colorless six block tract of similar dwellings. The entire development was surrounded by a six foot concrete block wall, and young trees had been planted at acceptable intervals along the parkways. There were neatly trimmed squares of recently planted grass sod and wooden planter boxes with lines of drooping pansies in front of each residence. Powers had once considered purchasing a similar town house but preferred his uncomfortable Georgetown Arms apartment to paying on a huge mortgage and living in such a sterile, lusterless suburb.
Landry parked at the curb. They climbed out and walked along a curving walkway to the door of Stryker's place. Powers knocked. There was no answer. After trying a few keys on Stryker's key ring, Landry unlocked the door and pushed it open.
"Anyone home?" Landry said.
They walked in cautiously and checked the bedroom and bath. No one was there. After a few words about how they should proceed with the search, Landry took the kitchen and Powers the bedroom.
In the bedroom, Powers not only searched the dresser drawers but methodically removed them from the cabinet and checked each bottom. He found nothing but socks and underwear. In the closet, he lifted each hangered piece of clothing and fingered every pocket. Finding a Santa Claus hat on one hanger he paused for a moment, remembering Stryker in the hat when tending bar at the White House Detail Christmas party. In a box of papers on the closet shelf were Stryker's U.S. Army discharge papers, a few Series E savings bonds all agents had to buy under the Secret Service payroll savings program, a Jimmy Carter tie clip, a few Ronald Reagan ballpoint pens, and some coupons for the Fairfax car wash.
In Stryker's nightstand Powers found a photo album with clear plastic pages. There were only a few photographs: Stryker at Yosemite with some other Secret Service agents...Stryker as a lanky child...Stryker as an army paratrooper...Stryker at the Secret Service firing range...an eight-by ten of Stryker and some other agents and young women in Eastern European folk costumes. They were sitting around a long table in what Powers guessed was a beer tent. Powers remembered: the President's trip to Hungary. At the bottom of the box was a color shot of Stryker's ex wife, Dora, a flight attendant, and his gangly, blue eyed young daughter. The daughter, whose name he couldn't recall, looked to be about six years old and was wearing a dance leotard. Perhaps, thought Powers, the photo had been taken at a dance recital. He was suddenly thankful Sullivan hadn't assigned him to make the death notification to Stryker's family.
Under the bed was an Easy Glider fold up walking exercise devise, three pairs of soccer shoes, a Scrabble game, and a box of photos in cheap frames: some autographed black and-whites of Presidents and foreign heads of state like those all Secret Service agents owned. Powers imagined Stryker probably had had the photos hanging in a den or recreation room before his divorce. Though unaccustomed to introspection, it also occurred to Powers that Stryker had been much like himself. A man whose persona was formed almost solely by his job.
In the other drawer in the nightstand, among some paperback Charles Willeford and James Jones novels, was a black patent leather pocketbook. Powers picked it up and opened the clasp. As well as a lipstick, a compact, and a few hairpins, there was an outdated White House parking pass. The name on the pass was Marilyn Kasindorf.
"Ken," Powers said.
Landry entered the bedroom.
"Ever heard of a woman named Marilyn Kasindorf?" Powers handed him the pass.
Landry studied it and shook his head. "A Y pass," Landry said. "A civilian. Y usually means CIA."
Powers picked up the telephone on the nightstand and dialed Sullivan's direct number. "This is Jack Powers. We're inside. We found a White House pass."
Sullivan asked for the name.
"Marilyn Kasindorf."
"Hold the line. I'll check with pass section." A couple of minutes later the phone clicked. "It's a Y pass . . . current and in good standing. She works in the Special Projects Office. There's no supervisor listed, so she's probably CIA."
"Thanks," Powers said.
"Keep me informed," Sullivan said.
Powers set the receiver down. "She works in the basement ... Special Projects."
"Spooks. I wonder what he's doing with her parking pass?"
"Maybe they were dating."
"Could be."
"Maybe they had an argument and she killed him in her office, then put the gun in his hand to make it look like a suicide," Landry said.
Powers shrugged. The condo was giving him the creeps. He felt he was violating Ray Stryker's privacy. Even the dead should have privacy.
"There's nothing in the other rooms of any interest. Let's get out of here," Landry said.
****
FOUR
When Powers and Landry returned to the White House, a copy of a Secret Service log entry recording Ray Stryker's death had already been posted on the bulletin board in W 16. Realizing there was no discreet way to move Stryker's body from the White House to a funeral home until after midnight, when the members of the White House press corps had gone home, Powers and Landry remained in W 16 filling out reports and enduring the expected questions about the death from shift agents coming on duty. Though naturally concerned and interested in further details, nearly everyone already knew of the suicide. With a telephone at every Secret Service post in the White House, news traveled fast. Powers assumed that within minutes of Sullivan's notification of Stryker's death, every Secret Service office in the world and every special agent, whether on or off duty, had been told of the suicide ... or at least had a message concerning the incident left on his answering machine. Agents on every detail, from those assigned to the Vice President or one of a number of foreign dignitaries visiting the United States, or to ex Presidents, would have something to hash over during off hours or between pushes. There would be theories and pronouncements of all kinds. With great relish, the usual Secret Service bullshitters would claim to have been Stryker's pals and the Federal Law Enforcement Officers Union representatives would jump on a chance to claim that job stress drove Stryker to take his own life. In the incestuous world of the Secret Service, the carrion of death as well as disciplinary proceedings, divorce, and other general gossip was talked over, dissected, used, and consumed until nothing was left.
At three the next morning, having been notified by the agent posted nearest the White House newsroom that it was vacant, Powers pulled a large Secret Service tactical van up to the loading area at the rear of the Executive Office Building. He and Landry carried Stryker's body from the Special Projects Office down the hallway, through a passage leading past the White House bomb shelter, and out a maintenance door and loaded it into the cargo compartment of the van.