The Sentinel (18 page)

"Wintergreen was looking for you a few minutes ago."

Garrison headed down the hall.

****

CHAPTER 13

BRECKINRIDGE PULLED UP to a guard booth near the front entrance of Fort McNair in southwest Washington. Rolling down the window, she held out her badge to a military police officer.

"Can you direct me to Building 46?"

"The Military Intelligence Corps building is to the right after you pass the Post Exchange, ma'am," the MP said before saluting.

She drove inside. The rain had subsided a few minutes earlier and she'd turned off the windshield wipers. But there was still electricity in the air, indicating to her that a heavier rain might start at any minute.

Kallenstien was eating sunflower seeds from a cellophane package.

"Mr. MP has a Class A butt."

"Go back and tell him."

"No way. But sometimes I wish I was a major slut." Following the MP's directions, Breckinridge drove past the general officers quarters - brick Colonial homes nestled among drooping elms - and a wide lawn extending to the edge of the water. There is a well-kept, olive-drab uniformity to military installations, no matter where they are in the world.

She parked in one of the marked spaces in front of Building 46, a prefabricated structure with a large air-conditioning unit on its metal roof. A sign read: 5 11 TTI MIC - RESEARCH. She and Flanagan got out of the car and walked to the door. A peephole opened. They held up badges. Lieutenant Mary Nicklanovich opened the door and led them inside. Breckinridge had called her earlier and asked for a briefing on the polygraph tests.

"So far we've completed polygraph examinations on about ninety percent of the agents assigned to the White House Detail," Nicklanovich said opening a notebook. "I've had six operators going hucklety-buck night and day to get through the list. The long and short of it is none of the agents showed deception to the questions relating to terrorism or espionage. On the questions relating to protection work, the only deception to any question was shown by Agent Garrison." Nicklanovich turned a page. "He had a problem with two questions: 'Have you violated Secret Service protection protocol
during the last thirty days?'
and
'Have you done anything that could harm Presidential security?'"

Breckinridge was secretly stunned. "How experienced are your operators?"

Nicklanovich took off her eyeglasses. "All are warrant officers with at least ten years' experience on the polygraph machine. Three have actually taught polygraph at Military Police School."

"Is there any possibility that it could have been something in the machine?" Kallenstien asked.

"I'll be happy to show you the charts."

"That's not necessary," Breckinridge said. "What was Garrison's reaction?"

"He had no explanation for the deception - nothing he wanted to clear up anyway," Nicklanovich said. "I got the impression that he had something to hide. Whether it's about what you are investigating remains to be seen. But one thing is for sure. He wasn't comfortable with the questions."

"Sounds like your pal Garrison does have something to hide." Kallenstien said when they returned to the car.

"He isn't involved in any assassination plot."

"Stranger things have happened."

"He once was recommended for the Medal of Valor. Pete Garrison isn't an assassin and he's not involved with the Aryan Disciples."

"I hope you're right."

Breckinridge told herself to ignore the test as she mulled over the facts of the case. Surely Garrison had some explanation for the deception. Hell, everyone in security work had seen false results from the polygraph at one time or another. The test itself was nothing more than modern witchcraft based on the assumption that telling the truth had something to do with one's fingertips perspiring. But why did Garrison fail the test?

****

CHAPTER 14

GARRISON SAT IN wintergreen's office, facing him across a shiny desk and wondering why Wintergreen called him in.

"I understand you had a one-on-one with the Man."

"Not exactly. He asked me to join him and the First Lady for dinner."

"What did he have to say?"

"Nothing more than small talk."

Wintergreen tapped a pencil on the desk. "He didn't have to invite you to dinner to do that."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He just asked me to join them."

Garrison figured Wintergreen was being mindful of the power of a bureaucratic end run. He wanted to make sure he wasn't being left out of anything - that Garrison wasn't plotting to take his job. Wintergreen required agents to write a memorandum to him delineating any non-official contact with a protectee. The policy was ostensibly to discourage problems that came with fraternizing with protectees, but Garrison knew the real reason. Wintergreen wanted to monitor agents who might be trying to ingratiate themselves with a protectee to help them get a promotion in the same way Wintergreen had maneuvered himself into the Directorship by getting next to President Jordan. Wintergreen swiveled his chair to the right, stared out the window for a moment, and then swiveled back.

"It's unusual for the Man to want to break bread with an agent like that, wouldn't you say?"

"I didn't feel I could decline his invitation without being rude."

"Sometimes, when an agent gets assigned to a Family detail, when he comes in close contact with the First Family, he forgets his role is nothing more than bodyguard. When that happens is when problems start. I call it the
disease
of
distorted self-image."

"As far as the job goes, my self-image is that of a barking seal."

Wintergreen stopped glaring at him, and the edges of his mouth rose in mirth.

"Barking seal. I like that." Then Wintergreen abruptly stopped laughing. "The Jordans, just like the Bushes and the Clintons and before them, are nothing more than politicians who convinced the right fat cats to bankroll their campaign. A few months from now, they'll be on a golf course and two other sets of capped teeth will arrive to take their place. In the meantime, you and I will still be here. We outlast these people, Pete. Keep that in mind."

"I read you loud and clear, Mr. Director."

"Thanks for stopping by, Pete."

Garrison walked out the door and moved past desk partitions labeled with government-issue brass nameplates designating members of Wintergreen's staff: Assistant Directors Houlihan, Kennedy, O'Keefe, and Shanahan.

After stopping at Blackie's Lounge for a martini and a hamburger, Garrison walked to his apartment and went to bed. The booze and food had been exactly the right mix. He closed his eyes and immediately dropped into sleep.

****

CHAPTER 15

IT WAS TWO A.M., and the woods surrounding Camp David loomed as a vast blackness, lit only by an occasional security light.

"Circuit breakers."

"Checked," said Marine Captain Thad Delgarian responding to his copilot, Lieutenant Fernando Gomez, as they went through the preflight checklist in the cockpit of Marine One, the President's personal helicopter.

"Controls."

Delgarian moved the stick. "Cleared."

"I don't know about you, but I'm tired of sitting around here all damn day and night."

"Just one more day toward twenty, Fernando."

Having received word that the President had decided to motorcade back to the White House with the Russian President rather than fly, Delgarian had charted a flight to Andrews Air Force Base. Delgarian was glad to be wrapping up the mission after shuttling passengers back and forth from the White House all day and being on standby since eight P.M. the night before waiting to fly the President back to D.C. Delgarian's chopper was the last craft at Camp David and he would have left earlier, but the overly cautious Secret Service had ordered that a chopper remain on standby in case the Presidential motorcade broke down. Now, Delgarian had finally been released from duty.

"Fuel."

"Check."

Finally, the checklist was completed.

"Start the auxiliary, Fernando. We're outta here."

The engine started. After going through another checklist, Delgarian maneuvered the controls to develop airspeed. After liftoff, he waited a few moments before pushing the stick forward. Marine One swept in an upward arc over the tree line, heading nose-down south into blackness. Delgarian glanced back at Camp David, its perimeter security lights giving off an eerie, greenish glow. He was proud to be a Marine and proud to have been chosen as one of the pilots of Marine One, also known as Angel One, the President's helicopter. He'd been flying the President for seven years, and had chosen his pal Gomez to be his copilot. As far as Delgarian was concerned, he had the best job in the Marine Corps. He was part of the elite of the elite. The benefits definitely outweighed the inconveniences of submitting to a complete Secret Service physical examination every four weeks and undergoing a background investigation every year. He was on his own, and didn't have to put up with the inspections and other routine bullshit he'd experienced during his last assignment, running back-to-back training missions at Parris Island.

"I'll bet that bride of yours will be happy to see you home, Fernando."

"That is, if she hasn't filed for divorce."

Because of a recent crisis in Albania, Fernando had had to cut short his honeymoon to fill in on the White House helicopter squadron. They'd been on flight duty, away from home for two weeks.

Delgarian laughed. "You'd better buy you some posies and a box of Almond Roca."

Delgarian had been married for more than twenty years and his wife, Harriet, was used to him being gone for long periods of time. But Fernando and his spouse had a lot to learn about the military life.

"I'll tell you one thing. The
second
time I'm going to make love to her is
after
I put down my suitcase."

"I roger that."

Delgarian looked below into a blue and black forest and could see stretches of Interstate 270, a fuzzy glowworm cutting through inky black. On either side were the lights of farmhouses. There was nothing better than being a chopper pilot - except, of course, being a Marine. He was tired and he would be glad to get back to Andrews Air Force Base and catch up on his sleep. Nothing was more tiring than long days at Camp David killing time on standby flight duty. And he hadn't even gotten to fly the Man back to the White House.

Suddenly, there was an explosion. The craft rocked violently to the right.

Delgarian fought the stick as the helicopter spun out of control.

"Fernando!"

Delgarian struggled to manipulate the controls. Fernando was bleeding and unconscious, slumped forward in his safety harness. And there was smoke in the cabin and a spray of red on the windscreen. The radio ...

"Marine One to Control! Declaring an emergency five minutes southwest of Camp David. Explosion on board."

"Roger your emergency, Angel One," someone
said.

Blood gushed from Delgarian's left leg. There was a hole in the fuselage and cold air blew into the cabin. The craft spun wildly, pulling him back and forth. He was going down.

Delgarian flashed back to the Gulf War - trying to land with shrapnel damage to his craft. The throttle hadn't worked for a while then; finally, he'd regained control and managed to land safely. He'd been spared. But nothing was working now. This was it. He'd used up his luck.