My King The President

Home > Other > My King The President > Page 16
My King The President Page 16

by Tom Lewis


  Ernie Latham was Felix Unger and Oscar Madison put together. All four rooms of his bachelor apartment were a combination of old-maid neatness and unbelievable clutter. The living room and kitchen were a mess, but his bedroom/study and bathroom were practically sterile, which only proved one thing. Ernie didn’t spend much time in either his living room or his kitchen. Wearing a raincoat over his pajamas, he led me through the first disaster area into the second one, brushed some newspapers off one chair and instructed me to sit down. He moved dishes, pots, pans, and God only knows what other junk out of his way until he exposed the Mr. Coffee, which, miraculously, had been pre-loaded and timed for whatever hour he considered morning to be. Soon, it was draining brown, aromatic liquid that was as welcome to me as plasma would have been to a bleeding soldier. From somewhere or other, he managed to locate two clean mugs into which he poured half the contents of Mr. Coffee and some of Mr. Jim Beam. Ernie had the grace to wait until I’d had a few sips before saying. “Okay. I’m awake enough now. Take your time, and tell me everything.”

  Except for my moments of intimacy with Liz, I told him all of it, from the time I’d left his office up until ringing his doorbell. Ernie listened to it all without interrupting once. When I’d finished, he shook his head and whistled softly. “Incredible. And Cancelossi let you go? Just like that? I mean, you had just seen him kidnap and attempt to murder somebody, for chrissakes.”

  “Think about it, Ernie. Let’s say I went to the authorities. Who’d believe it? And even if they did, what could anybody do? There’s no record of Hemiola’s trip. No body. No proof. When Bruno got through scrubbing that yacht, she looked as pristine as the day she was commissioned.”

  “What about the rest of the crew?”

  “I think they’d all been herded forward. The boat was on autopilot the whole time. Besides, there is one other thing, Ernie. Cancelossi’s dying. Even if the FBI managed to arrest him, he’d be out on bond within an hour, and he’d be dead long before any trial came up. Oh, he knew what he was doing, letting me go. He also wanted me to deliver Koontz to him if I could.”

  “Why?”

  “Sicilian revenge, I guess. He wrote the book on it. In his eyes, the Judge broke a deal. Nobody—and I mean nobody—does that to Sal Cancelossi and gets away with it.”

  Ernie got up, poured more coffee, and said, “By the way, that priest did call me. From San Francisco. So he’s okay. What are you going to do about McCarty’s sister, leave her down in Carolina for a while longer?”

  I took the replenished mug from him. “Yeah. I’m sure she’ll be safe there.”

  “And what about you? What’s your next step?”

  “I’ve got to get my dad out of that stockade. Question is, how? To be honest, I’m so tired and brain dead, I can’t think of any way—”

  “Hold on! I know a way. What was it Cancelossi said? ‘If you do have McCarty’s diaries, use them for a swap?’ What you can do is hole up here a few days and do what you do best. Write.”

  “Write?”

  “Sure. I’ve got some old notebooks around here somewhere. You can sit down and compose a diary. With your talent and what you already know, you could write a passable, fairly accurate forgery. Who would know it isn’t his?”

  I was far too tired to think whether or not it was a good idea. Whether it would work or not. And, even if I did do it, who would I approach with it?

  As if reading my mind, Ernie reached for the bottle of Jim Beam, poured another dollop into our mugs, and said, “The only way you’d ever get into that stockade at Fort Bragg would be to make a deal with the man himself. The seventh dwarf. Cornelius Ferris. The Secretary of Defense.”

  “Oh, sure. And how the hell do you think I could get to him?”

  “You probably couldn’t. But we both know somebody who can.”

  I raised both eyebrows.

  Ernie’s grin got wider. “He’s now a member of President Fordham’s cabinet.”

  “Ernie, she told us to contact her after I ‘had it all.’ I don’t. Far from it.”

  “You’ve got enough. I’m going to call her.”

  “Now?”

  “No, of course not. First thing after breakfast, though. Look, you need some rest. Use my bed. I’ll wake you up in a couple hours.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d never get back to sleep anyway. Not now. Go on, Jeb, lie down. You’re running on fumes.”

  I didn’t need further prodding. Ernie had a waterbed, and before it Jello-jiggled me twice, I was fast asleep.

  The three hours he let me sleep were like only three minutes. It took me another two to realize he was shaking me. “Rise and shine, Father Jeb. The President wants to talk to you.”

  His last sentence was like a quick slap in the face. I jumped up, then turned, staring at Ernie, not knowing where the phone was. He pointed to the neat desk, which was actually a computer center. The phone rested on top, next to the printer. I picked it up, gulped one deep breath and spoke into it, trying to keep my voice under control. “Ms. President?”

  The voice coming back at me was definitely under control. “Jeb, I’ve had a brief talk with Ernie, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay there. I’m sending a car for you and will see you myself around three this afternoon. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then, and Jeb?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m relieved. Ernie said you have quite a story to tell. You’ll fill me in, won’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Fine.” The line disconnected. For another few seconds, I stood there with the phone in my hand, not quite sure I was awake enough to have heard her accurately. Ernie gently took the phone from my hand, placed it back in its cradle, then said, “Take a shower, son. You’ll feel a hundred percent better. There’s an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. You like waffles?”

  “More than caviar!”

  “I’m glad. They’re the only things I know how to fix. They’ll be ready in five.”

  The unmarked Buick showed up thirty minutes later, with two Secret Service men inside wearing casual clothes and friendly smiles. Ernie waved good-bye from the archway of his apartment house, like a relieved father sending his kid off to camp. Before we had driven two blocks, the driver, who told me his name was Franklin, informed me we really were on our way to camp—Camp David.

  Chapter 20

  The back seat of the Buick was comfortable. Warm, and I would have gone back to sleep immediately had Agent Franklin’s partner not started in on a rambling, sophomoric oral history of the camp. (“…And Eisenhower named it after his grandson, David…”) I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was no stranger there, having covered two of the never ending, useless string of summit meetings between the two middle east adversaries who have been at each other’s throats since practically the beginning of measured time, and will be at the end of it. Still, I listened politely while he proudly spouted off his knowledge like a guide on a tour bus, including a few colorful anecdotes no one outside his own service could know. I don’t know whether President Fordham had told them who I really was. And, if either of them thought it strange to be transporting a humble priest to the famous Presidential retreat, they didn’t let on.

  We were automatically passed through the gate that looked like the entrance to a maximum-security prison. It seemed a far cry from the simple opening it had been at the beginning, back in 1942, when FDR had named the then primitive camp Shangri-La, after the Tibetan paradise in James Hilton’s Lost Horizon. A light snow had begun to fall, slightly obscuring the view of the neat collection of up-to-date lodges that had once been simple rough cabins, all named for various trees. Since Roosevelt, a dozen presidents—or their wives—had, over time, ordered changes; remodeling, updating and modernizing grounds and buildings alike. Eisenhower’s golf green, Kennedy’s stables (now razed), Nixon’s swimming pool, the pond, Nanc
y Reagan’s flowerbeds, and Buck Tyndall’s pistol range were all rapidly disappearing under virgin whiteness. Except for the Marine guards at the front gate, there wasn’t another soul in sight.

  Franklin (who never told me whether that was his first or last name) and his tour-guide partner drove me straight to the lodge named Holly, no doubt thinking they would soon be back to their normal duty. I was sure they thought that since I had no luggage, I wouldn’t be staying very long. The only items I was carrying were the notebooks Ernie had given me, along with the light raincoat he’d been wearing over his pajamas. I wasn’t even wearing a hat, and I was really missing my hair!

  Someone had built a fire in the wonderful fireplace, rendering Holly nice and toasty inside. Franklin showed me the two bedrooms, told me I had my pick of them, and that either he or his colleague would be in the other one in case I needed anything. I thanked him, wondering how many others like him were around, outside, out of sight. I told him any bedroom was fine, that what I needed most was a few more hours sleep, and asked if he’d give me a wake up call at noon.

  Franklin’s knock on the door was prompt. To the minute.

  I made myself at home, more or less. I washed my face, then wandered into the fully stocked kitchen, helped myself to two of the sandwiches already stacked on a platter, and some freshly brewed coffee, tipping my imaginary cap to not only the Secret Service’s thoroughness, but their timing as well. Carrying the steaming mug, I walked into the cozy living room, sat down at the table there, and opened the first notebook, suddenly struck by the painful knowledge that it had been a long time since I’d written anything, especially in longhand. My rip sheet, back in my room at the Mayflower…

  Pencil in hand, I stared at the blank page without a clue as to how to begin. I must have sat there like that for ten minutes or so. My coffee had cooled considerably. I closed the notebook, knowing it would be useless to start until I had a chance to stow my present thoughts in a different brain compartment and concentrate on what—or how—Mac McCarty might have written. It also came to me that I didn’t know very much about him; except for the time we’d been teammates at UNC. Hey, that was at least a place to start. I reopened the notebook and wrote:

  Natural athlete/Quarterback/ strong arm/ quick mind/made good decisions under pressure. Then, a moment or two later: Not a buddy-buddy type/ A little aloof/ Never joined a fraternity/ Never seen to smoke a cigarette or drink so much as one beer/ Dated very little/ Studied hard/ Excellent grades. Summation: Team player and leader on the field, a real loner off the field. No close friends!!

  However, from that moment and those few sentences, I was stumped. Totally blocked. I sat there for two hours, drinking cup after cup of coffee without writing another word, frustration building inside me all over again. Come on, Jeb, get a grip. You’re a writer, for chrissakes. Write something down. Anything. Description. Hair color. Eyes. Height. Weight. Whether or not he’d spit through his facemask, or was left handed or right handed. Anything that will bust your block…

  The sound of the approaching helicopter jerked me out of my mental vacuum. Agent Franklin came in from the second bedroom, straightening his tie. “That’ll be the boss.” He slipped his overcoat on and left, but was back fifteen minutes later. “The President will see you now, over at Aspen. Follow me.”

  * * *

  Helene Fordham didn’t waste time. As soon as I greeted her and was shown a seat across the low coffee table from her, she said, “I wouldn’t have recognized you, Jeb. I presume that costume and your altered looks are for a good reason. Who have you been hiding from?”

  “The man behind it all. The man responsible for the deaths of five people since I saw you last, and the man who arranged to kidnap my father. Judge Ezekiel J. Koontz.”

  Her reaction to my comment about Koontz was as if she’d just heard her straight arrow daughter had been arrested for shoplifting. For a moment or so, she made no reply. Recovering, her voice slightly lower, she said, “You have to be joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  That was the one question I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask, but knew she would. I shook my head. “Not yet. I’ve been too busy running for my life.” I then told her essentially the same story I’d told Ernie, and just as he had, she listened to it all without interrupting. After I finished, she sat there a couple minutes longer still without commenting. Then, in almost a whisper, said, “Koontz called me yesterday, offering to help me out in any way I might need him. I had him come to the White House for a long talk.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Jeb, I don’t know how to tell you this, but at a press conference this morning at eight o’clock, I announced his appointment to the Office of Vice President.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s done. I’ll have to deal with all that later.” She straightened. Lifted her chin up in that resolute way she always had. “First we must decide on what to do about you. And your father. Any suggestions?”

  I told her about the diary idea. “But I need some help with it. I need to talk to people who knew both Mac McCarty and President Tyndall.”

  “Names, Jeb. Give me some names.”

  I looked our new President square in the eye. If there was anyone who could do this, it was her. “Two, and neither are going to be easy. Sergeant Joe Mackenzie, who was Tyndall’s personal driver back when he was a General, and Abby McCarty, Mac’s wife.”

  She nodded, got up and walked to her desk, picked up a pen and wrote the names down, along with Mackenzie’s Bethesda address, saying, “Ernie Latham was right, Jeb. There is no law against helping elect a President. I suppose I helped, too, in my own naïve way, and it’s going to be virtually impossible to nail Koontz’s hide to the wall regarding the deaths of all those people, especially now. Without rock-solid proof, we couldn’t touch him. Can you imagine the outcry in the country, especially in the press, if we tried? I’d be crucified. Drawn and quartered. On the other hand, I don’t really believe Jean Tyndall would take her own life either.” She returned to her chair, facing me. “There has to be a way. A better way than the crude bluff you tried before. First things first, however. I got you and your father into this mess, and I feel responsible for getting you both out of it, and in one piece. Do you have any notion of how we can do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I took a deep breath and laid out the second part of the idea that had been forming in my mind since flying away from Cancelossi’s yacht. “My guess is that the toughest nut you’ll have to crack in your presidency will be the military. They’ve never had a lady boss-man. What if you called Cornelius Ferris and told him that because of that fact, you want to spring a surprise ‘inspection visit’ to several military bases? He is, after all, your Secretary of Defense now, and his reaction to having to set such a trip up on short notice might be very revealing. If I’m allowed to go with you, I might find a way to exchange the diary for my Dad. This Sergeant Mackenzie I mentioned knows his way around Fort Bragg, and—”

  “You’re talking about a diversion.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m talking a major league diversion.”

  A smile crept around the corners of her mouth. “I’ll say one thing for you, Mr. Jeb Willard. You’ve got one hell of an imagination.”

  I grinned back at her. “It’s the only weapon I have to fight with, Ms. President. Plus, I’m sure Cal and I can find the proof we need against old Snow White, that is, if we can stay alive long enough to do it. The country has to learn that he’s responsible for a lot more than rigging an election, Vice President or not.”

  She leaned back, thinking it over. At last she said, “I’ll never get my job done properly until this is behind me. Your idea is a good one, Jeb. Workable. I’ll get back to the oval office and make a few calls. Anything else you need?”

&
nbsp; “Well, if it’s cricket, I’d really like for Mr. Franklin to take me back into town to the bank. With all this running, I’m almost out of money, and I’ll need some for sure.”

  “Not a good idea, Jeb. People think you’re dead, remember? I’ll see that you have sufficient funds for whatever you need. You just sit tight here until you hear from me again, and get to work on that diary. Anything else?”

  “Is it all right to use the phone in Holly?”

  “Certainly. Your calls will be monitored, though. Who do you have to reach, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Mac’s sister. I left her in Tryon’s Cove when I took the nuns south.”

  This time President Fordham laughed as she stood up, glancing at her watch. “Quite in character. I think I understand.” She put out her hand. “Good bye for now, Jeb. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  As if on cue, my two keepers showed up at the door and wordlessly escorted me back to my cabin. A few minutes later I heard the helicopter take off for her twenty-five minute return trip to the White House. I poured yet another cup of coffee, went back into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

  “She’s not here, Jeb.”

  “Lollie, this is no time for jokes. What are you saying?”

  “I’m sayin’ she isn’t here. That big boss nun came back here yesterday with a honest-to-God Bishop in a big car and Liz took off with them. The Reverend and I were both mighty upset, but I reckon there wasn’t much we could do about it. Liz left of her own free will. Said if you called to tell you she was fine and not to worry about her.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it. I’m sorry Jeb. She’s one sweet girl. Pitched in around here like she was born to it. Put Ruby and Pearl to shame, she worked so hard.”

  “All right, Lollie. Wasn’t your fault. Thanks for all you’ve done. By the way, I hope no one else in Tryon’s Cove knows I’d been there.”

 

‹ Prev