My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  He still hadn’t raised his head. “I want you to go back to that night you had dinner at Koontz’s house. Close your eyes. Step by step, word by word, I want you to remember what you did. What you said. What he said. What you saw. Exactly what happened and when.”

  “Come on, Cal.”

  “You can do it. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Go back. Was it raining when you got there? Who was there besides the Judge? Retrace your steps. Take your time, too. We’ve got all day.”

  I wished I hadn’t drunk so much coffee. Made it harder to do, but finally I slipped backwards in time and relaxed enough to gradually put myself into a kind of quasi self-hypnotic trance. After a while, I wasn’t even conscious that I was talking out loud, nor was I aware of Cal’s presence any more until he abruptly stopped me. “Wait! Back up and tell me again about the stacks of recordings. Saint Saens, Sibelius. Go from there. Slower.”

  I closed my eyes again. “…Saint Saens: Carnival of the Animals, Danse Macabre, Organ Symphony. Sibelius: Finlandia, En Saga, Violin Concerto, Symphonies one through ten. Tchaikowsky—”

  “Stop! Sibelius? Symphonies one through what?”

  “One through ten. Why?”

  Cal stared at me hard. Then shook his head. “Try again, Pal. Sibelius only wrote five symphonies. What’s in those other CD cases?”

  I stared back at him, remembering that something that night had bothered me, but at the time I couldn’t put my finger on it. “DAMN! Jesus H. Christ, Cal. We’ve got to get in there and find out.”

  Something else was bothering Cal, too. He was biting his lip, his forehead creased like a plowed field. “Are those other people still at Camp David? Abby and Mrs. ? Abby’s twins?”

  “Yeah. Thurmond Frye, too, far as I know.”

  “We’ve got to get them out of there. Pronto.”

  “Why?”

  Cal jumped up, knocking his coffee cup over, spilling its cold contents all over the embroidered tablecloth. “Because that place is not guarded by the Secret Service, Jeb. They’re Marines. Military. Think, man. I’m sure Judge Koontz knew of my escape from Bragg not more than an hour after we were gone. And by now he probably also knows where Abby and her kids are. It wouldn’t take him long to arrange their kidnapping, and your FBI friend Frye is just one man. He couldn’t stop a platoon of commandos any more than we could at the cabin, and hostages like that are—”

  I didn’t let him finish. I was already running through the hallowed old halls of Blair House, screaming at the top of my voice for Bert Franklin.

  He wasn’t, thank God, very far away.

  After picking up Mackenzie at the White House, Agent Franklin broke every speed law between Washington and Camp David, talking on his cell phone most of the way. By the time we reached the main gate, another light snowfall was in progress, but Franklin’s colleague was waiting there in another unmarked car, its motor running, with Abby, her twins, and Betty stuffed inside it like so many sardines. Frye was standing nonchalantly aside, smoking a cigarette and talking casually to one of the two tall Marine guards. His feet were spread apart, however, and I had the feeling he was ready to take instant action should anything out of the ordinary happen. When he saw us drive up, a distinct look of relief crossed his lean face, like a scudding cloud passing across the moon. And, it disappeared just as fast. He walked over to our car. Leaned over while Franklin rolled the window part way down. “What’s the deal, Jeb?” His voice had an iron edge. I didn’t know how much Franklin’s partner had told him, so I tried to keep my tone placid, not wishing to make the two Marine guards suspicious. “Time for everybody to go home. You can ride with us. Sarge, you can join Betty in the other car.”

  During the ride back to Washington, I filled Frye in on what had happened, leaving out the part where I had left the keys and money at the stockade. “Thurmond, we have to move fast, now. We have to get into the Judge’s house, warrant or no warrant.”

  “You sure are intent on getting me fired, aren’t you? Just when are you planning this little caper?”

  “Tonight. We can’t afford to wait any longer.”

  “Yeah? And what about the Judge? You think he’s going to oblige us by taking a short vacation while we burglarize his house?”

  “I’ve got one idea. Bert, you’ve got to call the President and let me talk to her. Now, please.”

  Franklin gave me a sour look. “She’ll have my head on a plate.”

  “Either that or she will bump you up to Chief of White House Security.”

  Franklin puffed out his cheeks, picked up his phone and dialed a series of numbers, never taking his eyes from the road. “Sorry as hell, ma’am, but I think you’d better talk to Mr. Willard.” He handed me the phone, with a glance that said, “She’s pissed.”

  She was, but her voice was quiet. Controlled. “Jeb, this had better be important. I’m up to my earrings here.”

  I took a deep breath. “Ms. President, I wouldn’t do this unless it was critical. More lives are at stake. I’ll explain it all later, but can you possibly call Judge Koontz and get him to the White House for a private dinner tonight? Use any excuse you can think of.”

  “Why?”

  “Please, ma’am. Just do it. We’re fairly sure we know where the evidence is, but it’s critical to have him away from his house, and just as critical we know where he is. Can you manage it?”

  There was a short pause. Then, “I’ll guarantee it. I’ll have him at the White House by eight. It’ll be a five-hour foreign policy meeting, but you had better be right about him, Jeb. You’re sticking me out on a long, rotten limb.”

  “I know. And thanks. Is it all right to bring Abby and her kids to the Blair House? It’s the only place I know where they’ll be safe. Camp David is a trap waiting to be sprung.”

  “I understand. Yes, by all means, and call me tomorrow. Bert knows how you can reach me. Be careful, Jeb, and try not to break too many more laws. Now let me speak to Bert again.”

  I handed him the phone, heard him grunt under his breath a couple of times, then say, “Yes, Ms. President. I’ll do that.” He put the cell phone down and gave me a quick glance, exhaling loudly. “All set. Anything else?”

  “Just one thing more,” I said. “May I borrow this car tonight?”

  Bert Franklin rolled his eyes and shook his head, left to right, but I knew he was saying yes.

  Chapter 26

  Once we had everyone safely herded into Blair House, I caught Franklin by the elbow and pulled him aside. “Bert, I didn’t want to mention this in front of the others, but I really need to use that car this afternoon.”

  “Yeah? What for?”

  “An important personal errand. You can say no if you like, and I can take a taxi or rent a car, but if it won’t get you in trouble, I’d really appreciate it.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before handing me the keys. “What time will you be back?”

  “Before dinner time. Promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “And be careful. Anything happens to that car, we’ll both be up that well-known creek.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t drive nearly as fast as you do. See you later, and if anybody asks where I am, especially my father, tell ’em I’ve simply gone to get some civilian clothes.”

  It had stopped snowing by the time I got to Alexandria, and when I pulled into the drive of the convent, the noon sun was shining brightly. An omen? I rang the entrance bell, praying that a caretaker, somebody was inside. I was not expecting it to be Sister Agnes, however, so when she opened the heavy front door herself, it took me a few seconds to recover my wits. She recognized me instantly, and spoke first, as I yanked off the hunting cap. “Mr. Willard. I’ve been expecting you. Come in, please.”

  She led the way to her office, closed the door, and asked me to have a seat.

  “How long have you been back?” I said finally.

  “Since last Friday. All of us.”

  “I’m looking for Liz. D
o you know where she is?”

  “She’s here. With us.”

  Why did that not surprise me? “Great! Could you please tell her I’m here?”

  She didn’t answer right away, which made me start to feel something like budding apprehension, though I couldn’t have said why. I waited, keeping a neutral expression on my face.

  At last she said, “My son, we owe you a great debt of gratitude. Possibly even our lives. So does the Monsignor, and there is very little I would deny you. I’m going to allow you to see Liz, but I must also say to you that she was close to a total breakdown by the time you left her at Tryon’s Cove. Very close.”

  “Breakdown?”

  “Yes. With all the other things on your mind, you didn’t notice, but try to imagine how she felt: Her brother’s tragedy, her own misfortunes at school, her harrowing adventures with you, not knowing when or where she might be killed? Well, perhaps I had best allow Liz to speak for herself. Our chapel is midway down the corridor on the left. Wait for her there.”

  The tiny chapel was candle-lit and quiet as a grave, which did nothing for the queasy feeling spreading like a mudslide through my gut. I sat down and waited, barely breathing. I didn’t hear Liz arrive, a few minutes later, and only sensed her presence when she eased down on the pew behind me. “Don’t turn around, Jeb. I don’t want to have to look at your eyes.”

  Something in the sound of her voice froze me in place. “Liz? Sweetheart, what is it? I came for you as soon as I could. You—”

  “Please listen to me, and don’t interrupt. If you do, I’m not sure I can get any or all of this out. First, I love you. I know I will always love you, but I have made a more important decision for the rest of my life. I’ve already started my initial probationary period. I’m a novice now, preparing to take my first vows. God willing, I’ll make it through my time as a novitiate, and within two years, will take my final vows. I’m going to be a nun, Jeb.”

  I don’t know how much time passed between those shattering words and her next ones. The only sound I heard was the accelerated thumping of my own heartbeat.

  “While I was in Tryon’s Cove with the Williams family and later, in Florida, I was close to losing it. Really losing it. I’d been trying hard to imagine a life with you. Every first thought was of living with you. Marrying you. Having your babies. Not dying with you in some God-forsaken place. And every second thought was, what about the day you didn’t come home? Or if you did, would you be dead or alive? I knew if we were together, I mean permanently together, I wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to you. With the helter-skelter life you lead, the probability, the risk is too high. Maybe I’m weak, but I have already lost too much. Bishop Doyle knew I was at the end of my rope. So did Sister Agnes.

  “But they didn’t talk me into this, Jeb. Nobody did, unless it was God. I’ve been dreading seeing you again. Telling you this, and I’m begging you not to say one single word. Otherwise, I’ll be lost forever. Let me go, my love. Just… let me go. Please.”

  I didn’t hear her stand up and leave. I don’t know how much longer I sat there either, alone except for the sympathetic stained glass saints and slow-burning candles. I found myself staring at one in particular, trying to work out in my head how long it might take to burn down, or how long the air around it would stay warm if someone snuffed it out; ill-fitting metaphors for the quick flash and warm flame of Liz McCarty who had lighted a new part of my life with the brilliance of a Roman one, and with the same brevity.

  Sister Agnes was standing beside the front door when I left, offering her hand. “We will all pray for you, Mr. Willard. God be with you.” I muttered a word or two of thanks and stepped outside. It had become cloudy again. Probably would snow again before nightfall…

  Without really thinking about it, I drove into a nearby upscale mall, parked, and found a men’s store where I bought jeans, three flannel shirts, underwear and socks, plus a pair of comfortable Nike’s, all of which I wore outside, thus legitimizing my reason for borrowing the car. I dropped Ralph Curtis’ things in the first trash bin I saw. Since leaving the convent, I had felt like I was wearing somebody else’s skin, and it was burning me up. By the time I got back in the car, I was feeling a little better, at least physically. Another thought came to mind, so I got out again, looking for the nearest telephone. I dialed Ernie’s number and left a message on his machine to call Father Ralph. “Tell him it’s okay to come home, Ernie. It’s safe now, and his church needs him more than ever before. I’m okay, too, and so is my Dad. More later.”

  It was snowing again by the time I got back to Blair House. Saying nothing to anyone, I found a sofa in an empty room, stretched out, my feet over the edge, and by some miracle, fell fast asleep.

  The snow was heavier when Frye pulled out of the Vienna side street, glancing at his watch. “Seven fifteen. He’s on his way.”

  “How do you know?” Cal said.”

  “My secret.”

  During our earlier dinner at Blair House, which I had barely touched, Thurmond had already reluctantly revealed to Cal and me a few of his long kept professional secrets, the most important of which was how he had known about Judge Koontz’s security system for three years, and while I had been off on my afternoon shopping trip, had arranged with the Vienna police and the Allison Alarm and Security Company to shut it down at seven o’clock because Judge Koontz had “wanted the FBI to make a few additional Federal modifications,” which would take until past midnight to finish.

  And like Cal, I wondered how he had known exactly when the Judge had left his house for the drive into Washington, but I let that pass. The heightened spurt of adrenaline coursing through my veins when we pulled into Koontz’s property with our lights blazing shoved all lingering thoughts of Liz out of my head. I also swallowed another dose of grudging admiration for Thurmond Frye’s professionalism when it dawned on me that he had somehow commandeered a car that was the same make, model, and color as the one Judge Koontz drove!

  It took him no more that twenty seconds to pick the back door lock. Inside, we used flashlights to find our way up to the music room. I went straight for the stacks of recordings, praying that Cal’s amateur musicology was on the money. Not taking any chances, I extracted all ten of the plastic Sibelius cases from the shelf. “What now?”

  “First things first,” Frye said, not bothering to whisper. “We find a CD player and test them out.”

  It took a while. We finally found it—in the Judge’s kitchen! I should have known that’s where it would be. One by one, we shoved the disks into the machine, set normal levels, and were rewarded by the darkly beautiful sounds of Jan Sibelius’ genius. Symphonies one through five were all legitimate performances. Collectively holding our breath, we listened for something musical to come out of the speakers when Frye jammed Symphony number six in. All we got was rough static. “Bingo!” Cal said, his own voice half an octave higher. “Let’s look for his computer.”

  This was easier to locate. It was in Judge Koontz’s upstairs bedroom, which he hadn’t shown Walt and me before. Its animated screen saver was casting dancing light shadows on the far walls. “Uh, oh,” Cal said.

  “What? I asked.

  “Koontz’s password. We can’t do squat without that.”

  Frye reached for the wall light switch and flipped it on, revealing a sneaky look in his eyes. “Not a problem. Like most people who aren’t computer experts, Koontz uses a password he couldn’t easily forget.” He sat down. Without saying anything further, and while we looked over his shoulder he typed in the word idamae. Turning back at us, he added, “His mother’s name.”

  Cal and I exchanged glances, both of us thinking the same thought. How does he know?

  He slipped the “Sibelius 6th” in, clicked on SHOW ALL FILES, and like Cal and me, caught his breath when it immediately responded with—OPERATION CASTLE

  “Chess term?” Cal whispered.

  Those were the last words spoken by any of us for ove
r an hour. Thurmond tapped the mouse rapidly. It was there. All of it. The whole diabolical, unbelievable plan, in detailed perfection. As if by tacit agreement, Frye scrolled fast, only pausing here and there, as if he couldn’t quite believe some of the underlined names, phrases, and dates.

  With a shaking hand, he inserted the next disk, then the next. We all stared unblinking at the screen, much, I imagine, the same way other eyes had first beheld King Tut’s treasure tomb. Or the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or maybe the same way men in the New Mexico desert watched the first atomic bomb test.

  Thurmond was slipping in the last disc when a voice from behind us quietly said, “Freeze. Raise your hands.”

  Simultaneously, the three of us turned. A hatted, tall man in an expensive overcoat was standing in the doorway, holding a nasty looking machine pistol leveled at our chests. We had no chance to do anything other than what he’d commanded. We froze. The muzzle of the Uzi, or whatever type of weapon he expertly held, didn’t waver a millimeter. The voice didn’t either. “Hands on top of your heads, please, and don’t talk. Not a sound. I don’t want to shoot you, but if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to, you’ll all be dead before you fall.”

  At the range of no more than four feet, with all three of us standing close together, we believed him, and slowly did as he had told us. It was only then that I noticed another man behind him, half a foot shorter, also holding a similar weapon. The second man came inside quickly and snatched up the discs, including the one still inside the computer. As if by habit, he touched the shutdown key, nodding to his partner, who said, “Good. All right, then. You’re all going back down the hall to the music room, one at the time.” With the barrel of the pistol, he motioned to Frye. “You first.”

  In the soft, but adequate light of Ezekiel Koontz’s bedroom, I saw Thurmond Frye’s face harden as he stared into the face of his new enemy, and then took a slow step toward the door. “Just a moment,” the tall man said. “Hands up against the wall, please. High up. Spread your feet.”