There was the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk and the man stopped at the edge of the driveway, checked the sluiceway for traffic, and continued on to the Toyota.
Powers stepped from the shadow of the building. Lunging from behind, he threw his right arm around the man's neck and pulled him backward. Using his knee as a lever in the small of the man's back, he broke his balance and pulled him down and backward, arms flailing, toward the alley, back into the shadow of the building. The man grunted and kicked wildly.
"Take it easy, clown, or I'll break your neck," Powers said as the man struggled. Without loosening his right bar-arm grip, Powers frisked him quickly. On the man's left side was a gun in an inside-the-belt holster. Powers yanked the gun out and shoved the barrel to the man's left temple. He stopped flailing.
"Who are you working for?" Powers said.
"I don't know what you are talking about, sir," the man said with a slight accent.
Powers whirled the man around and shoved him against the wall. "Drag out some ID."
"I-I don't have any."
Powers aimed the gun at his face. "Empty your pockets, fucker. Turn 'em inside out."
The man complied. From his right pocket he pulled out a large wad of cash and dropped it to the pavement. He pulled the pocket inside out. The same with the left pocket. Only car keys. He turned, showed Powers his rear pockets. Nothing. Suddenly, Powers felt a chill. There was only one reason for a surveillant to carry no identification: if his mission was to kill. If arrested, he'd have nothing to tie him to a motive for the murder. The cash would facilitate an untraceable escape.
"If I knew for sure you'd been sent to waste me, I'd put a bullet in your brain right here and now, but since I don't, tell whoever you work for I'm gonna find out who they are. And then I'm gonna pull the plug on 'em."
There was a squeal of brakes in the street.
The black van came to a stop. The man broke into a run toward it. Powers moved to chase him, then stopped as the van suddenly reversed and sped directly toward him. Powers had the near-death sensation that some Secret Service agents referred to as the "edge." It was a feeling he'd experienced first in Vietnam when his barracks was mortared the day he arrived in country. The edge manifested itself in the feeling of senses instantaneously becoming acute, the tooth-baring, muscle-tightening, fight-or-flight frozen-in-time response human beings probably first experienced stepping outside the primordial cave and finding a saber-tooth tiger, the same adrenaline rush he'd felt when shots rang out during the assassination attempts on Presidents Ford and Reagan.
He aimed instinctively and fired: one, two, three rounds. The shots echoed between the buildings.
The van, still coming in his direction, sideswiped the wall. Powers was brushed by the bumper and thrown violently backward; the force of the impact caused him to pull the trigger again.
He came to his feet and ran to the end of the sluiceway. Heart pounding, he ran across the street. Hoping to lose anyone else that might be following him, he jogged for blocks, moving in and out of department stores, taking elevators and escalators and back alleys, then doubling back. At Market Street, still not convinced he'd eluded the surveillance, he entered Macy's and broke into a run. At the rear of the store, he ran through a storage area past shocked employees and out the back.
Up the street, he rushed into Clancy's, a spacious, dimly lit restaurant with a cafeteria-style steam table in the center. He hurried past some elderly customers lining up for corned beef and cabbage and found a pay telephone. He picked up the receiver and phoned the San Francisco airport. After reserving a seat on a red-eye to DC under a phony name, he used his telephone credit card to call the White House and asked for the Secret Service command post.
"W-16. Landry."
"I'm in San Francisco. Things are getting nasty."
"What happened?"
"We'd better not talk on the phone. Get Sullivan and meet me at Emerson's at 9 A.M."
Powers racked the phone. Fearing that the surveillants might be staked out on the Summit Hotel, Powers chose to leave the few items of clothing he'd brought with him and return to DC immediately. At San Francisco International Airport, he purchased an inexpensive airlines flight bag to check through to Washington. In a restroom stall he unloaded the remaining two rounds from the revolver and wrapped everything in toilet paper. There was a grayish line on the butt of the revolver where the serial number had been removed-permanently-by what he surmised was acid. And the bullets were hollow-point rounds, the kind used to achieve maximum killing power.
****
TWENTY
The morning was muggy, and during the drive from National Airport to downtown Powers sensed electricity in the air-as if at any moment there might be an uncontrollable cloudburst.
Emerson's, a large coffee shop on M Street, was a place Powers and Landry had frequented when first assigned to the White House Detail. Sitting in one of the thirty or more comfortable leather booths in the always-crowded room was the perfect place to discuss secrets. Powers arrived a few minutes early, carrying the flight bag. Landry and Sullivan were waiting in a booth at the corner.
"What the hell is going on?" Sullivan said sternly as Powers sat down.
Powers recounted tracing the telephone call, interviewing Jim Chilcott, and spotting the surveillance. "At least two one-man cars," Powers said. "I did a double-back and went up against one of 'em. A young guy, a military type with a slight accent. I took his piece away from him."
"He was carrying?" Sullivan said incredulously.
Powers tapped the flight bag. "A Smith and Wesson thirty-eight four-inch loaded with hollow points. The serial number looks like it's been worked on with acid."
"CIA agents don't carry guns on surveillance," Landry said.
"Not unless they're going to kill someone."
Sullivan ran his hands through his hair and let out his breath. "This is un-fucking-believable."
"What happened at the beauty shop?" Powers said.
"They said Marilyn was a first-time customer." Landry said. "She talked about art. That's about it. You look like you can use a square meal, my man."
"I'm starving."
Sullivan motioned to the waitress. "This one's on me," he said.
For the next half hour or so, they rehashed the details. They ate and talked and talked, as if the act of talking itself might somehow solve the enigma.
"Marilyn Kasindorf's White House pass shows her coming to the House only once or twice a month carrying Top Secret documents," Landry said. "She would sign in at the gate and go to the Special Projects Office. Morgan would go to the office, pick up the documents from her, and take them to the President for the briefing session. Twice, the upstairs log shows her accompanying Morgan into the Oval Office while the President was there. The visits were short, one about ten and the other about fifteen minutes. The last date she appears on the log is August twelfth."
"Sounds like they might have had a question on the briefing papers," Sullivan said.
"And they called her in to clear it up," Powers said.
Landry sipped his drink and set down the glass. From his jacket pocket he took out a small, clear-plastic bag and set it on the table in front of Powers.
Powers picked it up. In the bag was a round telephone transmitter, the part of a telephone fitting inside the mouthpiece. It was one of the most common listening devices, easily installed by simply replacing the genuine transmitter with an electronic bugging device shaped like it.
"The telephone on Marilyn's desk in the Special Projects Office was bugged."
It was common knowledge at the White House that Secret Service Technical Security specialists searched the White House regularly for electronic eavesdropping devices. Though no listening devices had been uncovered for years, a "find"-as the uncovering of such a device was called in Secret Service vernacular-would be treated as a major security breach and would immediately be brought to the attention of the President as well as the National Secu
rity Council. An intelligence damage assessment investigation (IDAI) would be launched, one involving the use of lie detector tests for everyone with access to the area where the bug was found.
"I'll be damned," Powers said.
Sullivan cleared his throat. "Whoever planted that bug is someone with unlimited White House clearance: a staff or cabinet member, a member of the National Security Council-"
"None of this makes any sense to me," Powers said.
"If the CIA is making a move, they're sure stepping on their dicks," Landry said.
"Maybe there's more to this than just her," Powers said. "Maybe there's a whole ring of spies in the White House."
"But why would that make the Syrians want to kill you?" Sullivan said.
Powers furrowed his brow and shrugged. He didn't know either.
"I say it's Patterson," Landry said. "Patterson and his CIA pointy-heads."
"Were there any witnesses to what happened to you in San Francisco?" Sullivan asked.
"No."
After another forty minutes or so of rehashing the same ground and asking the same questions, they were talked out. "I guess we don't have a hell of a lot," Sullivan said. "And frankly, I don't know where to go from here. But as of now, we have to go on war footing. Keep in touch daily. Before I go to the President with this, I want our ducks in a row. Jack, in the meantime you'll have to take precautions."
"I will."
Sullivan left after leaving money for the bill. Powers had a coffee refill for the road and realized he was exhausted, bone-weary from all that had happened.
Finally, they walked outside and climbed in Landry's sedan.
"You'd better watch yourself, my man," Landry said on the way to the Georgetown Arms.
"I'll take precautions."
At his apartment, Powers stood at the window for a while as a light, warm breeze caused the curtains to billow. He couldn't get Marilyn off his mind.
In his bedroom, Powers opened the nightstand drawer and took out his own gun, a .38-cahber Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver he used to carry when off duty. He flipped open the cylinder to check rounds. With a flick of the wrist, he snapped the cylinder shut. He set the gun on the nightstand where it would be within reach in case the CIA or whoever it was decided to try and kill him, then undressed and climbed into bed. There was traffic noise rising from the street, and he lay there for a long time, unable to get to sleep.
After dropping off Powers at the Georgetown Arms, Landry drove to the Secret Service garage and parked the car in its assigned space. He waved at the attendant in the booth and walked out the street entrance. There was a time when he would have driven the Secret Service car home, but with Elmer Cogswell in charge of Inspection Division, he knew even a minor traffic accident on the way to or from work could destroy his career. All traffic accidents in official Secret Service cars were investigated by the Inspection Division-giving Agent-in-Charge Elmer Cogswell a chance to twist the facts and, by innuendo, allege negligence on Landry's part no matter what the facts. Therefore, Landry had decided that it was better to pay an exorbitant monthly parking fee in a private garage to park his own car rather than use a government car for home-to-work driving and risk being sandbagged.
Moving down G Street, Landry hummed the U.S. Marine Corps hymn, his favorite tune. Crossing the street, he passed a blue Chevrolet with two men sitting in it.
Farther down the street, at the Nineteenth and G Street parking garage, a three-story garage with open bays, he entered using the driveway. It was dimly lit inside as he walked toward the far corner where his Ford was parked. Outside, a blue Chevrolet drove past with its lights out. Was it the same car that had been parked in front of the headquarters garage? Because of the darkness it was hard to tell. He stopped walking. There was silence.
Instinctively sensing danger, he unfastened the button of his jacket to allow better access to his gun and continued along the shiny garage floor toward his car. Moving cautiously, he realized that the wide cement pillars in the garage were the most likely places for a robber-or perhaps one of the men who'd been following Powers-to lie in wait.
There was an echoing sound of footsteps moving on cement. Landry stopped. The footsteps stopped. Unable to determine from what direction the sound came, he unholstered his revolver.
Holding the gun at his side with the barrel pointed down, he moved nimbly, ready for action. Near a pillar adjacent to where his car was parked there was movement. Was someone hiding? Landry raised his weapon.
"Federal officer, motherfucker. Come on out!" Landry called.
He wished to hell he had a flashlight.
"I'm only going to say it once more, slick. Raise your hands and stand up. Don't make me shoot you."
The man moved closer. His hands were on his head. He was wearing a dark suit.
"Keep the hands up and turn around," Landry shouted. His heart was beating wildly and he could hear the sound of his own breathing. As the man complied, Landry, using his left hand, touched his waist checking for handcuffs. Slipping them from his belt, he moved slowly forward.
Realizing the man hadn't actually violated any law, he hoped that when he searched him at least he had some kind of weapon. If not, Elmer Cogswell would have a field day with the subsequent investigation for false arrest. On the other hand, he remembered the Secret Service School graduation address given by former Secret Service Director Robert Powis. "Gentlemen, during your careers you'll be required to make many crisis decisions. But I want you always to remember that, in making those decisions, it's infinitely better to be tried by twelve than carried by six."
There was the sound of running.
Landry, raising his gun, wheeled to his right. The figure of a man came from behind a pillar to his right. There was a popping sound, like that of the air gun Landry played soldier with as a child in Chicago. With the sound, a powerful force lifted Landry and slammed him down. Instinctively, he fired his revolver, but more impacts pounded his body. Then, as if in a dream, he was lying on his back angrily trying to pull the trigger of his Secret Service revolver ... but he couldn't move. In fact, he couldn't even breathe and, just as he had in Vietnam when he'd been shot, he wondered, God only knows why, whether the bullets had remained inside or passed through his body. But it was different this time. This time he was going to be carried by six. "Doris . . ." Landry said, and then a wave of pain and freezing cold overtook and suffocated him.
****
TWENTY-ONE
There was a violent pounding on the door of Powers's apartment.
Powers rolled over, struggling to emerge from the paralysis of sleep.
The pounding continued. "Police officers! Open up!"
Powers turned to the clock radio on the nightstand. It was 4 A.M. He swung his feet to the floor and threw on jeans and a T-shirt. He made his way to the front door and used the peephole. There were two uniformed policemen standing in the hallway, a young man with glasses and a heavy-set African-American woman whose uniform cap was set back high on her forehead.
Powers opened the door,
"Sorry to wake you, sir, but we're investigating a street robbery," the male cop said. "The robbers took everything from the victim except his appointment book." He held up a copy of a photocopied page from a tiny government appointment book. On the page was the notation 510-4521, scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that looked familiar.
"Is that your telephone number?"
"Yes," Powers said.
Then, in a sudden wave of trepidation that made him feel weak at the knees, he recognized the handwriting. "The victim," Powers said, steadying himself. "Is he a tall black man with short gray hair?"
The female officer averted her eyes from Powers. "Yes, sir," she said somberly. "Do you know him?"
Powers felt as if he had fallen and landed on cement. "Ken Landry. He's a friend."
"We'd like you to accompany us back to the scene of the robbery."
Powers cleared his throat. "The victim-what
's the condition of the victim?"
"I'm sorry, sir. He was pronounced dead at the scene."
Flashing police emergency lights gave Nineteenth Street near G an eerie intermittent glow. The avenue, a short commercial block near the White House, was shut off by a combination of police cars and yellow evidence tape extending from curb to curb and across the driveway of a parking garage-where, because he had driven to and from work with Landry many times, Powers knew Landry always parked his car.
The officers led Powers under a boundary of yellow tape and up the ramp of the garage. In the dim fluorescent dusk of the first level, uniformed policemen and detectives milling about glanced coldly at Powers, an outsider. In the corner of the building, Landry's car was parked facing the wall.
Landry's body was lying next to the driver's side of the car. He was flat on his back about ten feet from the door, his arms at his sides, his lifeless palms upturned. Other than his necktie and suit jacket being askew and every pocket in his clothing being turned inside out, he might have been alive and resting. His eyes and mouth were closed. There was a murmur among the other policemen standing nearby.
"Oh, God. "
"Do you know him?"
"I want you to call Art Lyons at homicide," Powers said, staring at the body.
"Homicide is already-"
"Lyons knows the victim."
"Yes, sir."
Powers turned away, wiping his eyes.
Art Lyons was located at home and arrived about fifteen minutes later. He blanched visibly when he saw the body.
For the next hour or so, Powers, seething with anger, watched as Lyons moved about the crime scene. Finally, Lyons joined him.
"How do you read it?" Powers said, gathering himself.
"At this point it looks like someone, there may have been more than one suspect, tried to rob him and he shot it out rather than turn over his money. Ken got off two wild shots. When he was down, they rifled his pockets and took his wallet, wristwatch, gun, and cuffs. A cold son of a bitch did this one."
Paramour Page 20
