by Doug Walker
“What, Sir?”
“Nothing, just get me anything to do with that club.” He was still fuming when she brought him the material. After scanning the file, he shouted at his secretary, “We made these payments with credit cards!”
“Yes, Sir. It’s a health club, just a few blocks away. They billed us. It is legitimate, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no,” he replied, taking a long look at his secretary, an attractive woman in her early thirties. She was pretty, but he had never hit on her. The old saying stuck in his mind: Never dip your pen in company ink. Should he confide in her? Probably not. “I’ll check this out myself.” He was aware that she was aware that his firm regularly dined, wined and paid for junkets for members of Congress, but this health club thing was a trifle unsavory. Brooking had somehow obtained information that was supposed to be confidential. But how?
A telephone call to the proprietor of the club left him even more mystified. She claimed no one had access to those records except herself and a trusted bookkeeper. She also reminded Park that she did run a health club with a variety of exercise equipment, fully operational, in a large reception room.
“Gathering dust, I suppose,” Park said sarcastically.
“Not at all,” the proprietor insisted. “The girls use it. They stay in top shape.”
“Well, either the President has seen your records or someone has informed him about them. I spoke with him and he seemed to know about them.”
“Well,” the proprietor said thoughtfully, “he is single, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think he’s a candidate for your services. But I’d still like to know how this happened.”
“We’re pros, Derek. No leaks. I suspect it came from your office. But I do have a solution. Pay with cash in the future. Filthy lucre.”
“If we use your services in the future.”
“Come on, Derek. We can weasel and wheedle men’s darkest secrets. You need us and we are discreet. The leak is very likely your problem.”
“It could be our problem, depending on who this information goes to. There could be a committee hearing.”
“You should be able to nip that in the bud, Derek. Anyway, forewarned is forewarned. The President did you a service. You destroy your records, I’ll destroy mine. I’m on my way to the shredder now.”
* * *
Meanwhile, Brooking asked his chief of staff to have a bill prepared to end federal subsidies to oil companies.
Curtis German chuckled. “You’re trying to stir up the animals?”
“No, I think it’s time to end the subsidies. With their profits the oil companies don’t need them. So have a bill prepared that does one thing and one thing only: end the exploration subsidies. Take copies to the Senate leadership and suggest it pass with no amendments.”
“Should we let it be known it comes from the White House?”
“Certainly. It’s a small effort in the right direction. Any right thinking person will agree with it. How could it fail?”
German was incredulous. “There is a Senate rule that permits filibusters.”
“Who would filibuster such a simple measure that curbs wasteful spending on an industry already glutted with profits?”
German shook his head in disbelief and set out to have the bill drafted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brooking was feeling pretty good about himself and his presidency. Things were not so bad and his reelection prospects seemed favorable. Then a tragedy struck that would mar his life forever. There would never be another day when it didn’t shadow his life.
His secretary, Penny Aycock, came slowly into his office with her head bowed in sorrow, stood for a moment with tears welling her eyes, then announced slowly: “Tina Geer has been killed in a traffic accident.”
The President was unable to instantly process the information. Seconds later it filled his mind with horror and he had the notion to simply reject the entire statement and order Penny back to her desk.
Finally, he spoke. “Tell me the details, Penny.”
“Somewhere between her residence and the Kennedy Center she was struck and killed by a car. That’s all the information I have so far.”
Again, Brooking paused and blinked a few times. Could this be real? “Ask Curtis to get the details and fill me in. I’ll be right here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He told himself to be calm, but a thousand thoughts crowded his head, flashing by quickly without pause. Tina, his college chum and now his vice president and sexual partner. What an odd combination, yet it seemed natural. She divorced, he lost his wife. A political pair. Now this macabre twist. He turned and stared out the window, losing himself, almost semi-comatose. Then Curtis German was behind him, clearing his throat for attention.
Striving for normality, he said, “Yes, Curtis.”
“Vice President Geer was struck and killed as she got out of her car at the Kennedy Center. The District police are treating it as a serious accident, a hit and run.”
Brooking did not fully understand what German was saying, except to note that Tina was definitely dead. “Was she driving a car?” he asked.
“No. She emerged on the passenger side. The hit and run car had to come up on the sidewalk to hit her.”
“An assassination?”
“It would seem so.”
“Normally,” the President said, still trying to keep calm, “there would be Secret Service.”
“Yes, Sir. There were three.”
“And they too were killed?”
“No, Sir, it seems they were able to dodge the reckless vehicle.”
“I see. Where is the body?”
“At the morgue.”
“I see.” Brooking was within a hair of breaking down, so he dismissed his chief of staff, suggesting that he give the press a full briefing. He then buzzed Penny and told her he would be in his residence if anything came up.
For a long time he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Then he fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until nightfall.
When he woke his mind was clear. He called German from his residence and asked him to see how the questioning of the three Secret Service agents was coming along. He also asked him to call Penny and have her return to the office, adding that he expected German to be there within minutes.
Once in his office he called the head of the CIA and requested that he immediately come to the White House. When Penny arrived he told her to get in touch with the chef and have coffee and pastries brought to the Oval office.
“He should make pastries?” Penny inquired.
“The vice president has apparently been assassinated. We don’t need poison pastries. Something odd is going on.”
German called as soon as Penny signed off. “The FBI has asked the three agents to come in fairly early tomorrow, maybe eight or nine o’clock.”
Brooking struggled to hold his temper. “Inform the director to send adequate men to each of their homes and bring them in immediately, to place them in separate interrogation rooms and begin the interrogation within the hour. Also ask the director how many men he has investigating this murder and tell him I want him in my office in one hour.” He slammed the phone down, cracking the frail instrument. He then picked it up and hurled it across the room with all his strength.
He walked quickly to Penny’s office and demanded she find him another telephone, then asked her to get the director of the Secret Service in his office immediately.
She delivered the phone as silent as a mouse and crept out of the room. She was frankly terrified. She was aware of the tight bond between Tina and the President.
He used the new instrument to call Tarot Jones, rousing him from sleep and asking if he knew about Tina’s death.
“Of course, Sir. Hard to miss. Accept my condolences. She was a fine person.”
“And foully assassinated,” he added. “The powers that be in Washington move like molasses in January. I’m trying to jack up the troops
at the moment and get a total investigation in full swing. But somehow, I wonder. If you could spend full time on running the culprit down, I’ll give you all the information I get, and I plan to stay on top of this on a daily, maybe hourly, basis.”
“Of course I will, Mr. President. I’ll have to give up my other duties.”
“Do you have an assistant?”
“I have an intern.”
Brooking hoped it wasn’t a young lady, but found it was a young man who hoped someday to be a cheerleader coach. That seemed a bit odd, but so many men had fallen prey to female interns he was relieved. But then, who preyed on whom?
“I have total faith in you, Tarot. Let me know when you have something.”
Curtis German was the first to arrive, followed shortly by the Secret Service chief, and then came the head of the FBI. The head of the CIA was the last to enter the office. Brooking had neglected to call in the head of Homeland Security, simply an oversight. The chef had come in with an urn of coffee and explained that pastries were in the oven.
“Plenty of butter and jam,” Brooking said.
“Yes, Sir. Will do.”
The President poured himself a cup of coffee, added a small spurt of half and half, suggested others join him, then took a seat behind his desk. No one spoke as they settled in. They watched and waited.
He asked the FBI chief if the interrogation of the Secret Service agents had begun.
“I don’t think they’ve had a chance to get to our building, Mr. President.”
The Secret Service chief spoke up and said he should be handling the interrogation.
“You were handling it, were you?”
“Not tonight. I thought it best to let them get a good night’s sleep and try to remember exactly what happened.”
Brooking turned back to the FBI and said, “Call your office. See what’s happening. No one sleeps tonight.” Then to Secret Service he said, “All three will likely be fired unless they can come up with excellent excuses for failing to protect the Vice President.”
“Things happened so quickly,” Mr. President.
“They like to respond to such incidents at their leisure?” He was angry and everyone in the room knew it. “Get their stories together?”
“Of course not.”
“But they did save their collective asses. Right?”
“Yes, Sir. They managed to dodge the speeding car.”
“And how many shots did they get off at the car?”
“None, as far as I know.”
“And why was that?”
“It was so quick, Mr. President.”
Brooking turned to the FBI man, who was just off the phone, and said, “Well?”
“Two of the agents are in the building in separate interrogation rooms and the teams to question them are being assembled.”
“Good start,” Brooking said. He buzzed Penny and asked for a whiteboard and markers. The chef brought a platter of hot pastries into the room, looked around and the President motioned for him to put it on his desk. Penny came in and set up a whiteboard.
Brooking turned to the FBI man and asked him to use the whiteboard to sketch exactly what happened at the Kennedy Center.
“I’m not certain I know, Sir.”
“Then who does know?”
“The District police are handling the initial investigation.”
“Meanwhile the principle in an assassination of the Vice President goes free in a federal district while the FBI, CIA and Secret Service wait until sunup. Are you trying to give the person, or persons, behind this plot a head start?”
Everyone nodded and mumbled no.
“It could be that the Secret Service is culpable.”
“We do our job,” the Secret Service chief responded.
“Do you, now. An innocent woman is dead, obviously targeted.” He turned to the CIA chief. “Would you dispute that?”
“No, Mr. President, not from what I know of the story.”
“Do you think the assassination might be of foreign origin?”
“It could very well be,” the CIA responded.
“Then, how many men do you have working on the case?”
“None, Sir. We’re waiting for directions.”
“From whom?”
“Homeland Security. We all work for Homeland Security.”
“Well, that’s a clever out. Sounds like the good German excuse. Just following orders. You may go into Penny’s office, roust a few of your agents out and get them working on the case.”
“Now, Mr. President?”
“Of course. Why not now? The enemy never sleeps. You have your orders directly from me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Then to the FBI man. “See if you can learn if they’ve found the third agent. You might have to comb all the high-end bars on 14th Street.” He poured himself more coffee and grabbed a pastry. He was famished. “For the night, gentlemen, this is the command post. By the time the city gets humming again, shortly after dawn, we will agree on how the joint operation will work.”
Curtis German spoke up and said, “Mr. President, you might want to think of Tina Geer’s successor.”
“That’s no trick, Curtis. It’s all cut and dried. Next in line, the speaker of the house, then the president pro tempore of the Senate, then the secretary of state, then treasury secretary, followed by defense and the attorney general. Need I go on?”
“No, Sir. But will you bring the speaker on board?”
“I don’t know, Curtis. I simply haven’t had time to think. If I’m next in line for assassination, you can brief the speaker and so on through the list. All of these people in file are competent. And you and cabinet members can bring them up to speed. Why don’t you call Tutor Conlon and get him in here. I think we should tell the press the gravity of the situation and that our various agencies are all pulling together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Days drifted by and the investigation continued, constantly goaded by Brooking. Homeland Security, a little miffed for being left out initially, had become the focal point, gathering and consolidating what information there was.
Matters of state did not go away because of the death. The measure to end oil subsidies was sent to the House and seemed destined for easy approval. Derek Park called Brooking to suggest the measure would never pass the Senate, so he might let it simply remain in committee.
“Why would I do that?” the President asked.
“It would save you embarrassment, save me and my colleagues the trouble of working against it. The oil industry enjoys its subsidies.”
“Yes, but Derek, the bill is breezing through the House, no reason it shouldn’t pass the Senate. The oil industry, what some call Big Oil, doesn’t really need subsidies with all those profits. It’s a simple measure that seeks to do only one thing, kill the subsidies. We could have closed a few tax loopholes and attempted to rein in excessive profits, but we didn’t. I think in the spirit of cooperation you will give us this one. If not, there could be trouble ahead.”
“I hope you don’t mean that health club thing you mentioned, that place on 14th Street.” Park’s voice carried an ominous note.
“Why, no. What could I do about that?”
“Probably nothing. I checked for records and there don’t seem to be any records.”
“That is odd, Derek. I have a copy of the records right here in my desk drawer. If you’d like I could fax you over a copy.”
A long pause on the other end. Finally, Park said, “Don’t bother. But this bill, I’m sorry, Mr. President, my job is to see it doesn’t pass. That’s what I’m paid for.”
“Most generously, I’m certain. What if it does pass? Where does that place you?”
Park laughed. “Somewhere out in left field. I’m not the only one working for the oil industry. If it were just me, Mr. President, maybe we could talk.”
“But you can talk to the industry. And if you do, please tell whoever that might be that this bill
is something the public favors. There is no one out there who thinks the industry needs subsidies. This is the easy one. If you cooperate with us, you’re a hero. If you even attempt to block it, you become something of a putz, to Congress, the Administration and Big Oil.”
Brooking could tell Park was smiling when he said, “I prefer the title of hero and a regular stipend for my good work. I warned you, Mr. President. You don’t have to fail if you simply let the legislation die in committee. You have that power.”
“You are a worthy opponent, Derek. Enjoy your health club.”
Park was uneasy about the health club matter. He thought Brooking had tipped his hand by mentioning records. Now he believed the President had copies of the records. But he didn’t seem inclined to do anything with them. Very likely it would cause problems in many quarters. When one takes a stick and stirs up a pile of shit it’s bound to smell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As time went on, Brooking began to believe that the killer of Tina Geer might never be found. Then one day his ninja called and asked for a meeting, preferably fairly late at night, in the exercise room.
Tarot Jones was waiting for Brooking with a large bottle of sake and some small glasses, but not too small. The two men shook hands, and Tarot poured drinks, raised his and said kampai. They drained their glasses and Tarot refilled them.
“It was an al Qaeda sleeper cell, Mr. President. You were the target, but something went wrong. If it had gone right, al Qaeda would have heralded the news and taken full credit. The cell members would have probably dropped out of sight.”
“My God,” Brooking said, “al Qaeda, right here in the District. Unbelievable.”
“Deep sleepers. Six members in all with very visible jobs. One was on that Secret Service detail. Probably the one who screwed things up. It would appear they thought they were picking you up rather than the Vice President.”
The President took a small notebook from his shirt pocket along with a pen. “Give me a name.”
“Jackson Kammer. And get this, there’s a female member, a Marta Williams. She’s a secretary at the J. Edgar Hoover building, married to an FBI agent. Speaks four languages, born in Iraq.”
Brooking simply shook his head in wonder and jotted notes in his book. “How did you track your man down?”
