The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  What I would’ve paid to overhear that discussion.

  Mrs. Hooper of the White House was trapped in the other corner, having her ear bent by frisky little Gene Halderman, who was still struggling to find a purpose, useful or otherwise. The loose end they seemed to be wrestling with was how to break this shower of bad news on the unsuspecting public. I couldn’t wait for the morning news shows to see the spin they put on this one. I pictured the anchor saying, “The White House this morning announced that in collaboration with the D.C. mayor’s office all government officials are strongly encouraged to participate in a traffic management experiment and to vary their routes to and from work.” Pause. “In other local news, local stores have reported an unexplained rush on bulletproof vests and armored cars.”

  Mr. Wardell had not budged from his seat, and nobody was dropping by to tie knots, trade hints, or even offer bromides. I think it was dawning on him for perhaps the first time that his beloved Service had two feet really sunk in the doo-doo. He was thumbing through the folder on Jason Barnes, rubbing his forehead, and I’ve seen shell-shocked soldiers who looked more with-it. In fact, he was probably wondering how much worse this could get. Worse, Chuck. Given how much Barnes knows about the security force and procedures protecting the President, your worst nightmare.

  I also stuck around for a few minutes to get my marching orders from Phyllis, which did not start off convivially. I mean, did she say, “Well, Sean, what a very impressive display of detective work, both at the Hawk’s house and on the beltway, and I apologize for my earlier nastiness, because you’re really some guy”? No, she withdrew a cell phone from her purse, showed me how the on button functioned, and called to my attention the career benefits of checking in often. The lady was pissed, I could tell. She even threatened to make me produce written reports. I’ll take the poisoned cigar, thank you.

  As I mentioned, I’m not an easy man to have working for you. I actually felt a genuine spike of regret for the difficulties and anxieties I had caused Phyllis, and I silently vowed to do better.

  In fact, I assured her, “Will do,” hoping she didn’t see my crossed fingers.

  She nodded knowingly and patted my shoulder. “Better do.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Only this. Mort has been combing through the reports pouring in from our station chiefs. It seems word about the bounty was known more universally than we thought.”

  I nodded.

  “But,” she continued, “nearly every international intelligence institution discounted or dismissed it—just as we did. They concluded it was a joke or an elaborate hoax.”

  “And their thinking now?”

  “They think we have a very big problem.”

  “And they’re glad it’s not their problem.”

  “Actually...they’re worried it might be their problem.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “They’re desperately hoping none of their people put up the money, and none of their native criminal enterprises or terrorists are trying to collect it.”

  Right. America had changed since 9/11, and the rest of the world was experiencing a jolt of dislocation, not to mention anxiety adjusting to the new reality. It’s like waking up one morning and discovering your generous, happy-go-lucky next-door neighbor with that frisky Lab just moved out, a grumpy gun collector moved in, and his three Dobermans are pissing all over your wife’s prize rhododendrons. It’s a little scary. You really don’t need your kids tossing eggs at his front door. The Pentagon was probably lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Phyllis droned on a bit longer about the activities of our friendly counterterrorist people, who, she assured me, were working around the clock to figure out where all the known and suspected terrorists in America were at that moment, what they were up to, even scrubbing the immigration files to see if anybody dark and moody had sneaked across the border in the past few months.

  Some interesting leads and developments were being considered, and they were still beating the bricks, hustling their sources, and squeezing their stoolies. But nothing had popped, so far.

  I wasn’t optimistic. In truth, the intelligence agencies are so fragmented and compartmentalized, one hand never knows what the other’s doing. Often, one hand doesn’t know what it’s doing.

  Another annoying reality was that my Top Secret clearance was so pathetically limited I could barely peek into my own desk drawer. This sucked. Intelligence agencies are so risk-averse that information is never released until it’s been checked six ways from Sunday, massaged, dry-cleaned of conjectures and assumptions, and stuffed with so many maybes, possiblys, and on the other hands that you aren’t even sure about the date at the top of the memo. So you find out on Friday about the terrorist attack coming on Saturday, only it was last Saturday. The point is, you have to see what’s working when it’s still called soft intelligence, because usually by the time it hardens, it’s irrelevant.

  Phyllis, on the other hand, had so many initials and suffixes attached to her clearance, she could sniff the Director’s undershorts.

  Also it went without saying that the counterterrorist folks were targeting most of this gumshoe effort at Arabs, or, more broadly, those who practice the Muslim faith. This had become the venerable convention, and while it is politically incorrect in our tolerant nation to even allude to terrorism as a religious cause or crusade, try walking onto an airplane these days thumbing through the Koran. Right.

  Yet it struck me that the people doing these killings probably weren’t Arabs, jihadists, anybody who gave a rat’s ass about Allah, or even anybody who glanced toward Mecca, except to watch a cool sunrise. This felt too secular and, in a way, either too personal or not personal enough.

  But I didn’t confide this thought to Phyllis. When you tell smart people obvious things they conclude you’re not smart.

  Anyway, we finished up, and I decided I should exercise my discretion and pass these latest updates on to Jennie. So I walked out the door, and to my surprise, George grabbed my arm and muttered, “You and I need to have a word—in private.”

  I stared down at his hand.

  Two seconds of awkward silence passed before he released his grip and stepped back. He drew a few breaths, smiled, and suggested, in a more suspiciously polite tone, “I just think we need to have a confidential discussion.”

  “Fine.”

  George led me down the hallway and around a corner where we were out of everybody’s earshot and, more curiously, everybody’s eyesight. He spun around and we ended up face-to-face, about a foot apart. He looked coiled and pissed off, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to throw a punch or kiss me. For the record, I preferred the punch.

  But George did neither. He gave me a hard stare and said, “Do I have to tell you how much I dislike being set up in front of Townsend?”

  “As much as I dislike having my observations plagiarized?”

  George was neither faintly embarrassed nor even interested in this accusation of rotten behavior. He said, “Look, I know it was her.”

  I yawned. “Busy day, George...bodies piling up. We through?”

  George was obviously acting on an angry impulse, and it took a moment for his wits to catch up with his mouth. He offered me a chummy smile. “Look, Sean, I know you and I have a...a complicated relationship.”

  “What’s complicated, George? We don’t like each other.”

  “I like you.”

  I stared at him.

  Even he laughed. “All right. But I admire you. I actually envy your sixth sense, and your understanding of the criminal mind.”

  “Should I say thank you?”

  “You should consider it. You owe me a big one. I requested your assignment to this task force.”

  “How very generous of you.”

  My sarcasm hit the mark, because he replied, “It was, believe it or not. You’ll get good exposure if you do well.”

  “I’ll bet. Last time, I got you promoted, as I recall.”
/>   “There’ll be plenty of credit to go around this time. Don’t worry about it.”

  In fact, I wasn’t worried about it. I thought of June Lacy, missing her wedding and her life; about the bodies on the beltway; about the newly deceased Supreme Court justice; and it struck me that the point where anybody should get credit was long past, regardless of how this turned out.

  George, however, thought differently and informed me, “She wants my job. She’s scheming...she’s deliberately undermining me.”

  “Why would I give a shit?”

  “Well, that’s the spirit. You shouldn’t. In fact, that’s what I’m warning you. Back me up, and I’ll back you up. You’re a smart guy, right? Smart guys don’t end up on the losing team.”

  “Warning me?”

  He sort of smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to get confused or to misconstrue my meaning.”

  “Or what?”

  The smile evaporated. “Get your head out of your ass, Drummond. I’m offering you good advice, and a good deal. Help me out, and I’ll help you out. I’d just like an early heads-up on what she’s up to—any discoveries. I don’t need surprises.”

  I don’t really like threats. And I definitely didn’t like George. Also I doubt it escaped him—it certainly didn’t escape me—that this was the second time a woman had come between us, so to speak.

  Maybe if I watched more soap operas I’d have a better idea how to handle these things. Maybe not.

  I said to George, “Thanks for the lecture...advice...whatever.” In other words, fuck you.

  He started to say something, but apparently thought better of it, spun around, and left.

  I walked back to the conference room, where I saw Jennie speaking quietly into her cell phone. She saw me and punched off, but I must’ve looked guilty or something, because she asked, “Was that about me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re a lousy liar.”

  “That really hurts, Jennie. I’m a lawyer.”

  She laughed. “Cut it out.”

  “All right, truth—George wanted to know if I thought you liked him. I think he’s...you know...a little infatuated with you.”

  She poked my shoulder. “He told you I’m a scheming bitch. He warned you to watch your ass around me. Right?”

  I suppose I looked a little surprised.

  She laughed. “I told you—I’m smart.”

  “But I—”

  “Look, it’s not the first time. Meany began playing this twisted game the day I started working for him.”

  “Why?”

  She considered my question. She said, “How well do you know George?”

  “I never drop the soap when we shower together.”

  She laughed.

  She took my arm, an intimate gesture that surprised me, and began leading me down the hall. For some reason, my thoughts drifted to Janet up in Boston, and I felt a twinge of guilt I clearly did not deserve. I mean, this was perfectly innocent—just two professional colleagues who coincidentally had a few different glands, having an innocuous conversation in the hallway of a government building. Her attractiveness aside, our relationship was entirely professional, we both had enough on our agendas, and any thought of sex was trouble.

  Agent Margold, incidentally, smelled great, no longer lemony, more lavenderish, which is actually a big turn-on. I mean, there’s something about flowers and sex, like chocolate syrup and ice cream. Why else do guys bring flowers to dates? Right. Jennie remarked, “George has a reputation in the Bureau. He’s a great agent, resourceful, diligent, and clever. He’s broken some big cases, and it’s been noticed by the powers that be.”

  I sensed that she didn’t expect me to comment, and I didn’t. She continued, “It’s gone to George’s head. He’s become...obsessed with his own success. Driven.”

  “Go on.”

  She said, “When the SAC job opened a few months ago, it was between me and a more senior agent. The other agent was already assigned to the D.C. office, was popular with the rank and file, and he knew the local ropes. Through the grapevine I heard he badly wanted the job.” After a moment she added, “I let it be known I wasn’t interested.”

  “Why?”

  “The other man was a great agent, I thought he deserved it, and I thought he’d do a great job. Of course, George was the real reason.”

  “Again, why?”

  “Wrong chemistry...it wouldn’t work.”

  “Again—why?”

  “Let me finish. John Fisk got the job. About a month later he died.”

  “Natural causes or line of duty?”

  “What’s natural for our business? He walked into a sniper’s crosshairs.”

  “I don’t recall hearing about it.”

  “You wouldn’t. He was at a conference in San Francisco. Big news out there, page four in the Post here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here’s the irony—the conference topic concerned policing techniques to handle the recent spate of sniper killings. He walked out of his hotel for breakfast, and somebody with a long-range rifle put two shots through his forehead.”

  “I’ll bet that livened up the conference.”

  “Not really. John was supposed to give the keynote that morning.”

  “Big hole in the agenda.”

  “And in John.”

  “Right, and in John. But to whack a cop at a cop convention...that’s— Did they get the guy?”

  “Still at large.” She added, “But we have a strong suspicion who was behind it.”

  “I have an alibi for that weekend.”

  She punched my shoulder again. “Prior to John’s assignment to D.C., he led a Long Island unit that specialized in mob cases. He broke some big ones that really hurt them.”

  “I thought offing feds and cops was sort of taboo with the goombahs. Isn’t it supposed to be bad for business or something?”

  She nodded. “Yes, we make it very bad for their business. But they make exceptions. What we think was something John did, somebody perceived as personal.” She shrugged. “Anyway, we’ll find them—and we’ll get them. Murdering one of us is something we take personally.”

  It struck me that the mob and FBI are in some ways similar, like yin and yang, both being sort of fraternal organizations with distinct cultures, and a taste for what the mob calls revenge and the Bureau calls justice. It’s interesting. Back to the subject, I said, “So you ended up with the job after all?”

  “And with George.” She smiled faintly. “You don’t say no to Director Townsend if you want a future in the Bureau.”

  “I’ll bet. What happened?”

  “What happened?” She paused as though this was awkward. “Coming from the Behavioral Science Unit, I’m regarded as an outsider. I’m out of the mold. They’re mostly lawyers, former cops, and accountants. I’m neither fish nor fowl, and there’ve been some transference issues.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well...I got this job because John Fisk was murdered.”

  “They can’t hold that against you.”

  “Consciously, they don’t. But subconsciously, it’s a factor and a fact.” She added, “I don’t blame them.”

  “Sure you do. They’re assholes.”

  She laughed. “I’m a shrink, Sean. I’ve been trained to view people and situations with clinical detachment. It’s a perfectly natural response, really—a common form of grief, actually.” After a moment she added, “And yes, they’re all assholes.”

  But in retrospect, a few disconnected pieces and loose threads fell into place. Like the pair of agents at Belknap’s house that morning twiddling their thumbs. Or the peculiar reticence of the agent who refused to give Jennie a full and comprehensive explanation about Fineberg’s murder. It was reassuring to learn they weren’t just idiots and incompetents. It was disturbing to learn they were sandbagging Jennie Margold, my putative partner. This was a little scary. I asked her, “What’s Meany’s role
in this?”

  “He perceives me as a competitor.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” she asked. “I’m now one of the five highest-ranking women in the Bureau. At thirty-five, I’m the youngest. There are only three female SACs, the Bureau has an awful reputation with feminists, a clique of females on the Hill are pressuring for reform...and, by the way, two high-level assistant directorships are scheduled to open next year.”

  I said, “And George is undermining you?”

  “Destroying me.”

  “Like...how?”

  “Every trick in the book—isolation, cutting off my information flow, spreading rumors, stealing credit for my work. He’s very clever.” After a moment she confided, “He’s making my life hell.”

  In fact, George had made my life very difficult for a few weeks and I hadn’t even been working under him. But basically, set aside his vanity, ambition, and penchant for treachery, and George wasn’t such a bad guy.

  We had passed through the exit and were now outside in the parking lot, standing beside Jennie’s shiny black government sedan. Somewhere nearby, a helicopter was waiting to whisk us off to Richmond and Mrs. Calhoun Barnes. It was an ideal night for flying—a beautiful evening, not a cloud in the sky, lots of glittery stars, the air still and humid. Also nearby, somebody, perhaps named Jason Barnes, was plotting another murder.

  We stopped walking, and she continued to hold my arm, and it became, well...a little distracting. Between this case and her diabolical boss, Jennifer Margold was under crushing pressure. She looked nonplussed, but I wondered if it was getting under her skin. The sexes tend to handle these things differently. Men get grouchy, and/or they drink a lot, or they climb up on a watchtower with a sniper rifle. Women feel compelled to be nurtured, they need physical contact, reassurance. It all goes back to the womb, I think. I’m not really good at reading women. I said, “You’re smarter than him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Outthink him.”

  “In this game, the fox sometimes beats the owl.”

  She pulled my arm and turned my body, and we ended up facing each other, about a foot apart, maybe less. Her breath smelled cinnamony, and a cool breeze blew the hair off her forehead. She smelled and looked yummy. The woman was in distress and was vulnerable, which surely accounted for the spasm of protective machoism I was feeling. We looked into each other’s eyes and I realized I was attracted, a little infatuated, and curious to see where this was going. But I was already involved, and of course, mixing office politics and sex is a recipe for getting doubly screwed.