The President's Assassin (8 page)

He looked around for a moment to be sure we all understood this significant point. “We’re dealing here with a highly trained team. Maybe two people...maybe a dozen. We can and will vary the President’s movement patterns and protection profiles...But if he’s out in the open, if he’s pressing flesh and smooching babies—”

“If it’s a manpower issue,” Meany interrupted, “we’ll supplement your people with our agents.”

“It is a manpower issue. But our agents operate as teams. Throw untrained people in the mix and it would cause problems.” He looked at George and emphasized, “The best thing you can do is find and eliminate the threat before it gets to that point.”

Mr. Wardell was nobody’s fool—the ball had just been shoved into Meany’s court.

But to further amplify that point, Wardell added, “We’ll handle the defense, you handle the offense. But let’s be perfectly clear—this game won’t be won on defense.”

Mr. Wardell had now covered his beloved Service’s ass up, down, and sideways, and three Sundays from Monday.

I waited for Meany to boot the ball into someone else’s court, but he stared at the wall, perhaps contemplating the effervescent career that once was his. Phyllis broke the somewhat strained silence and asked, “Back to Drummond’s query, Mrs. Hooper. How
would
you like this handled publicity-wise?”

Instead of responding, Mrs. Hooper turned to Mr. Meany and asked, “How sure are you that this is about the bounty?”

“We’re not sure of anything. The motive is unknown at this time. Even the note could be a ruse.”

“For
what
?”

“Belknap’s murder could have been about Belknap, period. He was the highly public CEO of a major Wall Street firm before he joined the administration, and he made enemies by the bushel. The Secret Service has a thick file of death threats against him. Right, Chuck?”

“It’s true,” Wardell replied. “The Hawk was not a popular man.”

George hypothesized, “The note could have been left to throw us off track.” He studied the tabletop a moment before he added, “We have to keep an open mind.”

Mrs. Hooper thought she saw a straw here and immediately reached for it. “All right. Tell me about the other possibilities.”

It suddenly struck me that George had been fishing for just this opportunity. He smiled at her and replied, “I’ll tell you what I think. If they were serious about killing the President, there wouldn’t be a warning.”

This glimmer of hope brought Mr. Wardell forward in his seat. “Go on.”

George said, “They’d be stupid to alert us. Their job becomes more difficult...more risky.”

Mrs. Hooper asked, “Then what’s the point?”

“The point?” Clearly George was enjoying his moment, showing his brilliance, dispersing profundities to the washed and unwashed. He looked at all our faces, then back at Mrs. Hooper. He said, “Footballers call it the trap play. We distract ourselves trying to protect the President, and they use the diversion to escape.”

I had already considered George’s theory, and already discarded it. Threatening the President’s life was anything but a distraction; it was a magnet for the largest dragnet in history. But if George wanted to sound stupid, I wasn’t going to contradict him.

Still, this was getting a little too open-ended for everybody’s comfort level, so Jennie chose this moment to explain, “My boss may be right. Or he may be wrong. Here’s what we
do
know—or at least can
reasonably
postulate at this stage. They’re American. At least, from the idiomatic expressions, whoever wrote the note is American. And they have professional-level abilities and equipment.”

“Great,” said Mrs. Hooper. “I put out to the American people that some unknown group of professional assassins is hunting our President. Just great. Do any of you see where I have a problem with that? What do you think the public reaction’s going to be?”

Indeed, we all saw her problem, and we all worked up appropriately pained expressions that were, of course, completely phony. That was her problem, and like all professional bureaucrats, we intended to keep our noses out of her in-box, and were sorely wishing she’d keep her nose out of ours.

Our problem was getting a handle on this thing when clearly the bad guys had a head start, momentum, and presumably a plan. I had the feeling Jennie was right; the killers knew exactly
what
they were going to do and
how
. The scheme would unfold at their pace and tempo. Unless they made a stupid mistake or miscalculation, if the President stayed out in the public, there was a good chance we’d still be playing catch-up when the big caisson rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Anyway, the meeting dragged on, partly because clueless people tend to be talkative, and partly because George was enjoying the sound of his own voice. The decision was made to issue a public statement saying the White House Chief of Staff and his wife had been murdered and the circumstances and cause were under investigation, which at first blush appeared to be an attempted burglary gone askew. I must’ve missed something in this discussion, because it struck me that the only people who wouldn’t be misled by this silliness were the killers.

Further, it was decided the task force would operate out of Ferguson Home Security Electronics, because it was centrally located and a secure facility; because it contained all the necessary communications and intelligence systems; and because nobody suggested a better place. Actually, Mr. Halderman helpfully volunteered the use of the newly constructed Homeland Security Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection Office, and that drew a few chuckles. Nobody could even remember all the adjectives. It sucks being the new guy.

But finally Meany appeared to recognize that we were wasting precious time, while the opposition was not. He informed us, “Agent Margold’s preliminary observations suggest a two-pronged approach. This was an inside job, so we will turn over every stone to find that leak. And we will look on the outside to find our perpetrators.”

Right. This was sound and logical reasoning. Everybody nodded to acknowledge George’s wisdom.

He continued, “I suggest three major efforts.” He nodded in the direction of Charles and said, “Agent Wardell will be responsible for the cocoon of security around the administration.” He pointed at Jennie and announced, “Agent Margold will direct the team investigating the murders.” He smiled at me and said, “Drummond will head the team looking for any international connections...specifically, who put the bounty on our President’s head, and whether there are international ties.”

I said, “I have a question.”

He studied my face, suspecting I was going to say something nasty.

Rather than disappoint George, I asked, “What are
you
going to do?”

“Glad you asked, Drummond. I’ll oversee the overall operation. It’s my philosophy to power down—to put direct responsibility on my subordinates. It encourages initiative...and accountability.”

This sounded like an excerpt from some New Age management text. But nobody missed the subtext here. In Washington jargon and practice, accountability means shit flows downhill. George was going to be sure everybody had a little skin in the game, and if the ship hit an iceberg, the captain of this good ship wasn’t going to be waving bon voyage from the forebridge to the crew in the life rafts. There would be no life rafts. If George had his way, there would be no survivors.

I glanced at Jennie. She rolled her eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE SIGN ON THE FRONT DOOR OF
F
ERGUSON
H
OME
S
ECURITY
ELECtronics declared, “Closed for inventory and product liquidation.”

Yet the parking lot was already filled with official-looking cars and unmarked vans, and guys and gals wearing fretful expressions and blue and gray suits were parading in and out of the entrance.

It struck me that the locals might find all this activity a little distracting, uncharacteristic perhaps, even mysterious. To belabor my aforementioned point, had they pursued my quirky yet ingenious suggestion to make this a VD clinic, the sign could read, “Incurable airborne gonorrhea discovered—enter at invitation only.” For sure this would explain the odd visitors with stricken faces, and nobody was going to be sniffing through the garbage or absently wandering into the building.

I was happy to see Lila, our receptionist, seated at her desk, disguised as usual as a sexy front-desk clerk. She looked up as I entered, but I detected no hint of recognition on her face. To my surprise, she said, “All right, pal...stop right there.”

“What?”

“Hands where I can see them. Remove your ID slowly. I have a gun under this desk—it’s pointed at your balls.”

“But, miss, I’m a CIA bureaucrat. I have no balls.”

She laughed.

I leaned across her desk and in all seriousness said, “If you haven’t received the warning, there
is
a guy running around town impersonating an FBI agent. He’s got real-looking creds, he’s armed, and he’s dangerous.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“He’s using the alias George Meany, and if he shows up here and flashes his creds, you
should
blow his balls off.”

She laughed again and informed me, “Special Agent Meany arrived nearly an hour ago.”

“And did you at least kneecap him?”

“Please. He was very nice and charming. Also cute. Is he married?”

“No. But you’re married.”

“Oh...”

She laughed again. Women are such bad judges of men.

But appearances aside, Lila was a smart and perceptive lady. Which was a prerequisite for her job, since she belonged to the Agency’s security service, and probably knew ten ways to kill me with her eyelashes. She signed me in, commenting, “I hear you had a fun morning.”

“I had an
interesting
morning.”

“It’s sure getting weird around here.”

“It was weird here before this morning.”

She shrugged and said, “Phyllis is in her office with Mort. She wants you to join her right away.”

So I left Lila, and by the door that led into the converted rear warehouse I noted that some tidy and efficient soul had already installed a bulletin board showing the temporary residents where to set up, and where to sit, who’d be on whose team, who’d have what phone numbers, and, more helpfully, the phone numbers for some nearby pizza and Chinese delivery joints. I hate to sound incorrigibly sexist, but when women have the reins, the little things do get taken care of.

Also I observed a bunch of temporary partitions that appeared to have been hastily erected to divide the equally temporary occupants into roughly three groups: Agency employees, Feds, and Homeland Security bureaucrats.

I should mention that in the federal culture, walls are the foundations upon which you build trust, teamwork, and fluid communications. Just kidding.

I walked through the maze of cubicles and walls without seeing anybody I knew, found Phyllis’s crib at the rear of the building, and entered. She nodded at the heavyset man seated comfortably in a chair in front of her desk, whose face I only vaguely recognized. She said, “I believe you two know each other.”

Not really, though I did recall being briefly introduced to Mort Silverman around my second day on the job. He was short, bald, and broad of girth—fat, actually, a gent of Jewish descent with an elegant Bronx patois who handled Middle Eastern affairs for the team. I was not really sure what this meant, and the Office of Special Projects does not really encourage its employees to give a shit. Unlike me, Mort was a regular CIA employee, and his official title was project officer, as was mine, so we were roughly equal in rank.

Anyway, the three steaming cups of coffee on the desk suggested that Phyllis had already been notified by Lila that I was in the building, and further indicated that Phyllis was laying it on thick.

She apparently read my mind, because she offered me a seat with an ingratiating smile and then ordered Mort, “Tell him what we know.”

Mort handed me a slim folder stamped “TOP SECRET—Sensitive Sources,” followed by the usual string of initials indicating sources and collection methods and the compartments you’d better belong to if you open the file. I wasn’t in any of the right clubs, but with the White House Chief of Staff decomposing on a morgue slab, protocols were falling by the wayside, fast. Mort asked me, “You heard about the bucks on the President, right?”

“Where do I sign up?”

“Hey, pal, if I knew, why would I be sittin’ here?”

Ha-ha. Phyllis stared at us, I’m sure thinking that men have a really neat sense of humor.

Mort informed me, “Inside the folder’s what we know. Read it when you get time. It’s like a mystery novel with the back half missing. Thing is, we learned about it only a few weeks ago.”

Agency people are great folder builders, and I flipped it open and scanned the cover page, an abbreviated guide to all that followed. Essentially, we had first learned of the bounty not through any of the sophisticated collection means listed on the cover, but an announcement on Al Jazeera, the Arabic-language news channel. Details to follow.

I looked at Mort. “This is for real?”

“Real as it gets.”

Phyllis chose this moment to say, “It does look implausible, doesn’t it? It was aired three or four times before the night shift at the counterterrorism cell noticed. Of course, we got them to remove it from the broadcast.”

Mort said, “Yeah, but it was prime time over there and Al Jazeera’s on satellite—Middle Easterners, Americans of Arab descent, Indonesians, Pakistanis...its audience is huge. Plus Arabs are big-time bullshitters, and these days they all got a cell phone, so word spreads fast around the souks and tea rooms.”

Naturally, I asked, “And how did Al Jazeera learn about it?”

“Back it up a bit,” Mort replied. “There was a Web site posting the offer and reward.”

“A Web site?”

“Yeah. Called
www.killtheprez.com
.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“That’s what we thought. At first. After this morning, I might think differently.” He handed me a color page. “What do you think of this?”