The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  Had this question come from anybody but Townsend, I would have replied it was none of his business and to go pound sand. But she was a vassal in his kingdom, so she was his business, and though I wasn’t one of his vassals, I didn’t want him to make me his business. While not often enough, there are occasions when I obey my survival instincts.

  I therefore answered honestly, but selectively. “I find her highly competent, professional, and effective. Margaret Barnes was a hostile witness, a practiced liar, and totally confused. A few hours ago, I watched Agent Margold cut through thirty years of lies, evasions, and camouflage so dense the witness was lost in it. It was an impressive sight.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And do you have any views regarding her overall management of this case?”

  “I thought George Meany was managing this case.”

  “Meany is in charge of this case. But Agent Margold seems to have uncanny instincts for where to be, and when. De facto, she appears to be managing this case.”

  He looked me in the eye and said, “I ask, because I’m getting conflicting reports about her. Some sources are telling me she is not competent, nor is she a team player. This Bureau operates effectively only when it functions collectively, and unfortunately, my D.C. Field Office appears to be experiencing teamwork issues. Do you understand? At this moment, on this case, I cannot afford this problem. But the source of this problem is eluding me.”

  It wasn’t hard to guess the source of the conflicting reports. George Meany has a lot of bad habits, an aversion to frontal assaults among them.

  But generally speaking, I make it a practice not to rat out my peers, or even my bosses, to the bigger bosses. They get paid the big bucks because they’re supposed to possess the intuition and insight to sort the sycophantic idiots from the nondescriptly competent. That’s the theory. Of course, there is another theory, called the Peter Principle.

  I did not think this applied here, however, and said, “Sir, I don’t believe you got where you are by listening to subordinates tell you how to think. You should rely on your own instincts and judgment.”

  He changed the subject, sort of, and suggested, “Also, I think you and Agent Margold are becoming attached to one another. So perhaps I shouldn’t be asking you. Perhaps you’ve developed an emotional bias in this matter.”

  I must have blushed, because he immediately commented, “Nothing wrong with it, Drummond. I met my own wife on a case. She was a forensics specialist, and I was the case agent. A murder and castration case, and the wife was our chief suspect.” He ended this tale, saying, not for the first time, I’m sure, “You could say we fell in love over a pair of detached testicles.”

  “I thought that came after you said, ‘I do.’”

  He laughed. “Twenty-seven years...not once have I even considered cheating on my Joan.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He glanced at his watch, and this brief moment of bonding was over. He began walking to the door, then he stopped and faced me again. He asked, “Did you know George Meany prior to this case?”

  “We worked a case together once.”

  He nodded, but did not amplify that thought. But it was apparent that George’s whispered insights had not been limited to Agent Margold. Wouldn’t it be interesting to know what George had to say about yours truly? Or maybe not.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AT 5:00 A.M., JENNIE WAS ALREADY SEATED AT THE TABLE, THUMBING through a clutch of papers, when I followed Townsend into the conference room. The only regulars missing from this gathering of greats were Director Peterson, still enjoying his prerogative to stay miles away from this thing, and Mr. Gene Halderman, who was enjoying a night’s sleep, proving he wasn’t a total idiot.

  George, looking the worse for wear, opened the meeting. “Let’s begin with a wrap-up of the progress we’ve made over the past six hours. Keep it brief.” He pointed at his watch and added, as if we needed a reminder, “The morning witching hour is almost here.”

  He directed a finger at Jennie, who led off with an interesting, albeit slightly technical assessment of both Margaret and Jason Barnes’s mental states, a concise summary of the Barnes family history, and a wrap-up of the connections that bound Calhoun Barnes to Phillip Fineberg and indirectly, to Jason Barnes.

  At this point Phyllis raised her hand and asked a reasonable question. She said, “Why would he lift a finger to avenge a death I would have thought he celebrated?”

  From the expressions around the table, everybody shared this same frame of inquiry. So Jennie offered an abbreviated version of the explanation she had earlier provided me. She let this sink in a moment, then advised us, “Love and hatred are the most intense and direct human emotions. When they become confused, the individual becomes a psychosexual mess.”

  I suggested, “So he’s nuts?”

  “I prefer the clinical expression,” she replied. “Completely bonkers.” Which got a few chuckles. She then cautioned all of us, “The point is, whatever wobbly equilibrium existed inside Jason’s head is totally gone. In Jason’s mind his father was a towering, monumental figure. He believes we drove and hounded him to death, and he now intends to punish us.”

  I’d heard enough about Jason Barnes’s loopiness and, thankfully, nobody asked another question.

  So Jennie brought us back to the present, saying, “But at this point, Sean and I were confronted with a number of holes. We were forced to make some educated guesses about what happened here—in Washington.” She looked at Townsend. “Sir, it’s very important to confirm some of those deductions.”

  He nodded.

  Jennie asked, “Was it Phillip Fineberg who provided the canceled checks?”

  “It was.”

  “Could you explain what circumstances led to that?”

  “Yes...well, Fineberg had been feeding me charges for weeks. Usually over the phone, and he requested anonymity, which is fairly common in background checks. He had many disparaging things to say about Calhoun Barnes, some of which might be factual, and some of which sounded frivolous, even questionable. Eventually I told him we needed evidence to corroborate his charges.”

  “And how did he respond?”

  “He promised to get back to me.”

  “And he did.”

  “At a cocktail party in Georgetown about a week later, he pulled me aside and gave me the canceled checks. I handed them over to your office.”

  “That was before my time. Who in my office, and how did my office respond?”

  Townsend thought about it a moment. “John Fisk, your predecessor. First, John assigned some agents to verify the authenticity of the checks.”

  “And the checks were verified?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the checks were drawn from Calhoun’s family account?”

  “Also correct. And with that to go on, a second team was assigned to run down the three judges whose names were on the checks. Two were dead, from natural causes. The third was found in a retirement community in Florida. Advanced Alzheimer’s. Completely senile.”

  “Then you carried the packet to the White House?”

  “No. I carried the evidence to the Attorney General. Meade Everhill from his office was present. We reviewed what we’d gathered, and it was Everhill’s legal judgment that we had enough to at least proceed with a criminal probe.”

  “Then the White House?”

  “Only then.”

  “In addition to the President, the President’s legal adviser, the White House Chief of Staff, the Attorney General, Meade Everhill, and presumably the White House spokesman, who else was involved?”

  Townsend pointed at Mrs. Hooper. “Her.”

  Mrs. Hooper squirmed in her seat. She insisted, “But my presence would be known only to the other people in that meeting. I...Jason Barnes would have no reason to target me.”

  To which Townsend replied, “Don’t presume that.” Turning to Mr. Wardell, he a
sked, “Your people know who accesses the Oval Office. Correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is a written log kept?”

  “Always, for scheduled meetings. Of course, during the day certain favored staffers, like Mrs. Hooper, pop in and out spontaneously.”

  “There, you see—” Mrs. Hooper was saying.

  “However,” Wardell spoke over her, “in those instances, the agent at the President’s door notifies the operations center. Those names are also entered into the log.”

  “I thought they might be,” Townsend commented. “Could Jason Barnes have accessed that log?”

  “I can’t rule it out. He had an ops center pass and plenty of friends who work there. He could have seen the log himself, or a friend could have checked it for him.”

  I had the impression Director Townsend and Chuck Wardell did not particularly care for Mrs. Hooper, and this exchange was curious. When the big bosses clash, it’s never a good idea to step in the middle. But Townsend did not strike me as small-minded or vindictive, and something seemed to be going on here. Jennie looked at me, and I raised my eyebrows. Jennie asked Townsend, “Could you explain how the decision was made, for our benefit?”

  Townsend said, “All right. In my view, the evidence against Calhoun Barnes was problematic and the case was flimsy. There were no living—at least no sensible—witnesses. There was no other physical evidence except the three canceled checks, and the personal word of Phillip Fineberg, who insisted he didn’t witness the exchanges and only learned of them recently.”

  Asserting my lawyerliness I said, “To admit otherwise would make him a party to the crime.” I then suggested, “I have the impression, sir, that you didn’t trust Justice Fineberg.”

  “I did not. It was obvious he was carrying a bitter hatred toward Barnes. So I was...disturbed by his allegations.”

  “And about his motives?”

  “In fact, yes. His initial claims were all over the map. Affairs with paralegals in their old firm, overbilling clients, and so on. It has been my experience with background checks, particularly for high-level positions, that some people use them as an opportunity to pursue private vendettas.”

  “So you thought Fineberg was trying to assassinate Barnes?”

  “Well, only later did he assert that Barnes had bribed these three judges. I found that suspicious.” He looked at our faces and added, “It makes sense now, but not then. Nor would he tell me how he came into possession of the checks, which created certain problems from a legal standpoint. There was the obvious chain of custody issues...but I suppose it was his motive that I questioned. So this was what I reported to the President.”

  Mrs. Hooper insisted, “There was enough there...Look, people, this is Washington. Reality check. Barnes was a big boy. He was warned he’d better be whistle-clean. Well...he wasn’t.”

  We all guessed there had been an argument in front of the President, and Mrs. Hooper had argued for the safer course, to immediately throw Barnes to the sharks. But at this stage it didn’t matter whether Calhoun Barnes oozed with corruption or had the soul of a saint, though we now knew the latter was out of the question. What mattered—all that mattered—as Jennie knew, was who else had been involved in the decision, who else might be on Jason’s list, and who might need a heavy dose of special protection.

  Townsend of course appreciated this point and said to Jennie, “So I think for your short list, you should include me, Mrs. Hooper, the Attorney General, the White House legal adviser, and Meade Everhill. Also, check your office records and see which agents were involved in the investigation.”

  Jennie nodded.

  Thinking two steps ahead, Phyllis said to Townsend, “Mark, should we still be concerned about the bounty issue?”

  Interestingly, he turned to Jennie, who said, “We can’t rule it out. We’ve confirmed that Barnes was informed of the bounty the morning after we discovered it. He had at least forty-eight hours to apply before the Internet site was shut down.”

  I said, “But he’s acting out of rage, not greed. Right?”

  “That’s true. But why not kill two birds with one stone?” She added, “Also, consider the possibility that he recruited his co-conspirators using the bounty. They’re probably mercenaries, and this would certainly explain where he got at least the promise of money.” She smiled at Phyllis and added, “I’m sorry. The Agency’s not out of this thing yet.”

  Charles Wardell of the Secret Service announced, “I have to make some calls. The President and Attorney General are already apprised. But I didn’t know about Clyde Burns—the legal adviser—or Everhill. Somebody better...check on them.”

  It was now 5:30 A.M. and we all wondered if the grim reaper had not already checked on Everhill and Burns. We’d been completely behind the curve, and it was a relief to play a little catch-up. In fact, the mood in the room had begun to shift, and everybody thought we might even be getting a step ahead of Jason: We knew why and we knew who. What could go wrong?

  Again, I had this ominous foreboding that I—that all of us—were overlooking something important.

  Wardell stepped out of the room to make his calls. Moving to the next order of business, Townsend turned to George and asked, “Where are we regarding the military munitions?”

  George replied, “The lab reported back. Traces of Composition A5 were found on Fineberg’s corpse. That’s the same propellant used in the Bouncing Betty mine, and apparently, it’s a distinctive trace. We’re still waiting for confirmation about the antitank weapon.” He paused a moment, then said, “We’re assuming the weapons were stolen. Procedurally, the military has to report all domestic weapons and munitions thefts and losses to us. So we’ve accessed those files going back six months.”

  George paused again to look at the faces around the table. Like many self-important types, he had a lot of irritating habits, but we had to endure this moment of I-know-something-you-don’t before he informed us, “There have been a total of sixty-eight reported cases of theft and loss over this six-month period. So I ordered our people to screen all unclosed cases that included the theft or loss of both Light Antitank Weapons and Bouncing Betty mines.”

  He then proceeded in laborious detail to describe this cross-examination, which was a curious waste of everybody’s time, especially as it was George who had reminded the rest of us that we were running against the clock here. I began to wonder if he was running scared. Clearly, Jennie was the star of this show, and George was becoming like the supporting actor who speaks his lines a little too loud and overacts his limited scenes. Eventually, he wrapped it up, saying, “In the end, we found three possibilities. But unfortunately, our friends in the military don’t work the same hours we do, so I haven’t yet been able to question the Army’s CID, that is, the Criminal Investigation Division.”

  Townsend looked a little exasperated. After a moment he asked George, “Did you make an official request to CID?”

  “I...yes. I spoke with a night duty officer over in the Pentagon. A major named—”

  “When? What time?”

  “Uh...about two hours ago.”

  It suddenly became real quiet.

  Phyllis looked at me and asked, “Sean, is there a better way to handle this?”

  I avoided George’s eyes and replied, truthfully, “CID does maintain a duty officer in the Pentagon. But CID headquarters is located at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. We should call Major General Daniel Tingle, the CID commander.”

  Phyllis looked at George, then at Townsend. She suggested, “Mark, it might be advisable to use Drummond on this.”

  Townsend looked at me. “You ever work with CID?”

  I nodded.

  “Then do it.” He added, but I think not for my benefit, “Do I need to remind everybody that every hour lost can be counted in lives? We cannot...be sitting around...with our thumbs up our—”

  “Up our noses,” Phyllis helpfully interjected. “And you’re absolutely right.”

 
; “I think I should go with Drummond,” Jennie suggested.

  Townsend looked at us both and asked, “Why are you still sitting here?”

  And we weren’t.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WE TOOK THE SAME HELICOPTER, THOUGH THE PILOTS HAD CHANGED OUT while we were in the building. The new pilot jocularly informed us he was named Jimbo, the flight time to Fort Belvoir would be approximately twenty-five minutes, so we should sit back and enjoy the ride. A stewardess would be making the rounds after takeoff, offering a selection of fine wines, snacks, and reading materials.

  I grabbed Jennie’s gun and shot him. Just kidding.

  About two minutes after takeoff, Jennie’s cell phone went off. She answered, “Margold,” then listened for a minute. “Yeah, good. Hold on.” To me, she said, “It’s Chuck Wardell. Meade Everhill was found at home, in bed, unharmed. They’re moving him to FBI headquarters.” She returned to her conversation with Wardell, and they began chatting about the protection screen being set up around Townsend.

  It was a little odd that Wardell had called Jennie. But in chaotic situations, people migrate toward competence, and through good luck, good timing, and, if I say so myself, a bit of deductive brilliance, Jennie and I were the heroes of the hour. I reminded myself that nothing has a shorter half-life than a hero.

  I whipped out my cell, called the Pentagon switch, and asked the operator to put me through to the CID duty officer. She did and he answered, “Major Robbins. CID.”

  I identified myself and informed him I worked for the Director of the FBI, which was partly true and certainly more impressive than the whole truth. I said, “You’ve already gotten a request for assistance regarding some lost and stolen munitions. Right?”

  “About two hours ago. An agent...uh, hold on”—he apparently checked his duty log—“Meany...George Meany, asked for assistance. He gave me a list of the purported thefts. I already faxed requests for assistance to the CID offices in the locations where the thefts occurred.”