The Sentinel (25 page)

She nervously fingered her scarf.

"Pete, this is a plot to take over the government, isn't it? A coup d'état?"

"I don't know."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but ... do you ... do you have anything that would tend to prove your innocence?"

"No. And I know the President may not take my word. I know the evidence is stacked up against me. But you have to try or we are all done for. Look, you'd better go back to your guests before people start to worry."

"I'm afraid, Pete. I'm afraid for my husband and I'm afraid for you."

"You have to calm down. We have to keep our wits about us."

"I know."

"I once had a premonition that when Russell was elected to a second term, I wouldn't survive it."

"Don't worry. I'm going to get to the bottom of all this."

"How?"

"There are some things I have to investigate."

"They're after you, Pete."

"I know. But I'll be all right."

"Where will you stay?"

"I'll find somewhere."

She thought for a moment, and then said, "I can arrange for a room at the Watergate for you. I'll call the management office and tell them my cousin Jonathan Hollingsworth will be staying there. The name will be familiar to them. He was scheduled to use the place a couple of months ago, but couldn't make it and had to cancel. They will give you a key. Do you need money?"

"I'm sure that by now they have placed stops on my checking account and credit cards."

She opened her purse, took out her wallet, and handed him all the money in it, at least twenty hundred-dollar bills.

"Take this."

"I don't need this much-"

"Take it," she insisted. "I want you to call me the moment you learn something."

"From here on, the phone is too dangerous. So are pagers. Everything can be traced. You'll have to be very careful with the White House phone. If you need to speak with me, call the apartment and ask for Jonathan. If I say he is at work, that means it's okay to come over. If I say anything else, just hang up. If I need to speak with you, I'll leave a red chalk mark on the curb directly across the street at Lafayette Park: three circles. You'll be able to see them from Bedroom Three. If you see my signal, tell the agents that you are going over to your cousin's place. When you get there, insist that the agents remain at the first-floor elevator bank. Tell them that your cousin doesn't like seeing agents around. They won't like it, but they'll go along because it's an unannounced visit and they will believe you are safe." Garrison knew that agents were aware of the difference between a risky, public First Family visit and one that was unexpected. The unannounced visit neutralized the greatest danger to a protectee ... the assassin lying in wait.

"I understand. Be careful."

"Sure."

He watched anxiously as she hurried upstairs. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps and conversation at the top of the stairs as Eleanor and her guests exited the private dining room and walked to the front door. He waited until he was sure she had departed, then walked up the stairs and peeked into the main dining area. He crossed the room to the kitchen and moved toward a side door.

"Sir?"

Garrison stopped and turned. A waiter was standing behind him with a brown paper bag.

"Did you get a sandwich? The chef made some up."

"Thanks, but I've already eaten."

Outside, Garrison looked both ways, then crossed between buildings and began walking up the street praying no one would spot him. His mind was short-circuiting and he wouldn't allow himself to feel what was going on. He was in the middle of a whirlpool with no time to mull over options and he was reacting from an inner place in the back of his brain. He neared the middle of the block as a Mercury sedan pulled around the corner and parked at the curb, facing in his direction. The driver turned off the headlights. Because of the darkness, Garrison couldn't make out the faces of the two people in the front seat. He glanced behind him.

At the other end of the block, another Mercury sedan pulled to the curb. Its headlights went out.

Garrison felt a chill. Could the Chez Doucette chef have recognized him and mentioned his name to one of the other agents? Or maybe Flanagan had ordered PRD teams to keep an eye out for him at every location on the President and the First Lady's itineraries. Could Eleanor have betrayed him? Garrison quickly surveyed the situation. He knew the alley to his left was a dead end.

He ran across the street and darted down another darkened alley. Frantically, he tried a door on his left. It was locked. He continued running. At the end of the alley was a large industrial trash container. He jumped atop it and struggled to crawl over an adjacent fence.

Shots rang out from the mouth of the alley and red tracer fire, the standard Secret Service-issue ammunition, ricocheted off the trash container. Garrison stopped, pulled his gun, and fired twice in the air, hoping his pursuers would believe they were under fire and would deploy rather than run headlong into the passageway, giving him time to get away. God knows he didn't want to kill an agent who was simply carrying out orders. But they were trying to kill him and he wasn't going to allow anyone to shoot him down in the street. He reholstered the gun, dove over the fence, ran to his left, then turned right, running along a narrow passageway between buildings. He sprinted across the street and a sedan barely avoided hitting him, its brakes squealing. Reaching the sidewalk, he ran right, then left at the corner.

At a Metro stop, he glanced behind him, and then ran down the steps. A large crowd was waiting on the platform. He walked into the middle of the group, keeping his eyes on the stairs leading from the street as he waited for a train to arrive. He was breathing so hard that people were looking at him. Finally, he heard a train approaching. He turned. Two agents were standing at the top of the escalator. Garrison remained in the middle of the crowd until a train pulled into the station. Then he hurried inside a car, looking back only after the doors closed. The train pulled away from the station. He felt confused and angry. His mind flashed back to years earlier in Munich, Germany, when, half-asleep after working all night, he'd boarded the wrong train. Realizing his mistake only as the train pulled out of the station, he hadn't known where he was going and had no idea how to get back.

Garrison entered through the glass doors of the administrative office at the Watergate apartment complex. A young female desk clerk standing behind the counter looked up at him.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I'm Jonathan Hollingsworth. The First Lady's, uh, staff person told me there would be a key here for me."

She smiled.

"We just received a call from the First Lady's office, Mr. Hollingsworth." She reached into a drawer and handed him a key. "If you have any questions, just call."

"I'll do that."

He crossed a lobby flanked on either side by an atrium. He pressed the elevator button and looked back at the woman behind the counter, now busy at a computer.

In the sixth-floor condominium, Garrison walked through the four rooms, admiring the expensive furniture and wall hangings. The living room walls were painted a deep mocha that accented the rattan furniture and marigold patterns on the sofa and pull-up chairs. There were mirrors in bamboo frames and bamboo legs on a round, glass-topped dining table. Everything in the room indicated comfort and relaxation. The kitchen was a showcase of butcher-block and stainless steel - a gourmet's workplace with an exit leading to a service elevator. In the bedroom, he walked to the window.

Across the street was the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, the hub of D.C. culture where the city's upper crust went to be seen by other members of the upper crust as they sat through music recitals. Garrison knew the interior of the imposing structure inch by inch, having been assigned as Presidential advance agent there three different times in the last two years. He preferred a boxing match or a basketball game. For a moment, he had the feeling that he was in the middle of a dream. He was hiding out in an apartment owned by the First Lady and he had few options. It was only a matter of time before agents found him - before the conspirators moved again to assassinate the President.

At the living room table, Garrison opened Flanagan's briefcase and went over the paperwork on Alexander again. He took out a pen and began making notes, random notations about what he knew, hoping that the simple act of writing itself might guide him. Such doodling had helped him in other investigations. After a few minutes, he was staring at a name he had written: SPIKE VINCENT. In the file, Vincent was the only listed associate of Garth Alexander, the Aryan Disciples mercenary to whom Frank Hightower had directed him.

With Alexander dead, Garrison had little else to go on. He had to trace Alexander and determine who had hired him.

****

CHAPTER 21

IN THE WHITE House Situation Room, Wintergreen anxiously described the evidence against Garrison to the National Security Council: the President, National Security Advisor Helen Pierpont, Cabinet members, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Wintergreen was standing at the far end of a long mahogany conference table. He could tell by the eye contact he was getting that he had everyone's undivided attention.

"You're saying Garrison did this because the Aryan Disciples gave him money?" the President asked.

"That's what his motive appears to be at this point, Mr. President."

Finally, Wintergreen finished his talk and turned deferentially to the President, who was tapping a pencil on the table, an irritating habit that had been getting on Wintergreen's nerves. The President glanced toward Pierpont, to whom he often looked for advice in such matters. Wintergreen had known all along that it was Pierpont he had to convince. Few Presidents went against the advice of their National Security Advisor. And with Jordan, Pierpont had special influence.

"What in the name of God made this agent think he could get away with something like this?" the Secretary of the Treasury asked.

"Targeting the executive is a psychological syndrome - a psychopathology," Wintergreen said.

"It's psycho, all right," Pierpont said.

"To hell with all the gobbledygook," the President said, and a hush spread across the room.

"I have a question, Mr. Director," Pierpont said, doodling on a yellow pad. Then, with upturned palms and her thin lips formed into an O, she continued. "As we sit here, is the President of the United States safe?"

Wintergreen had anticipated Pierpont digging into the Garrison issue. Making others look bad was her way.

"Garrison is not going to be able to make it through our security if that's what you mean. No way."

Pierpont stood and walked to a formidable array of the latest in military communications equipment.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I certainly don't mean to imply that we're taking this lightly."

"Nor did I mean to imply that."

"I've ordered every working shift beefed up. We've launched a full-scale, nationwide manhunt."

"What I mean is: Wouldn't a veteran Secret Service agent assigned to the White House Detail - an agent with Garrison's experience - be able to defeat all your security plans if he so chose?"

"He knows we are looking for him," Wintergreen said.

He'd anticipated the question, and had already decided to lead her on with the incomplete answer.

Pierpont pensively rubbed an index finger along her upper lip.