Paramour

by Gerald Petievich

  At the registration desk, Powers informed the clerk he was expecting a call. For the next half hour, he lounged about the lobby, moving from the bar to the coffee shop to the lobby and restaurant to kill time. Finally, at 10 P.M., he walked to a bank of pay phones in the comer of the lobby. Picking up a receiver, he dialed a number he knew by heart.

  "White House Signal."

  "Deputy Director Peter Sullivan," Powers said to the operator.

  "Mr. Sullivan is on sick leave."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Someone came and signed him out a couple of hours ago."

  "Are you absolutely sure he's nowhere in the House?" Powers said.

  "Positive, sir.

  Powers, feeling slightly dizzy, set the receiver on its hook for a moment.

  Referring to an emergency phone number card he kept in his wallet, Powers phoned Sullivan's Fairfax residence. There was no answer. Then he phoned the Secret Service headquarters. An operator informed him Sullivan's name wasn't on the locator board...which meant he wasn't on duty. Powers, feeling both stunned and angry, set the receiver down. Consciously restraining his emotions, he analyzed the situation: Sullivan, the most meticulous man he'd ever known, would have phoned him-unless something was wrong. For all Powers knew, there had been other assassins outside the Rustic Inn waiting for Sullivan. Or, God only knew, perhaps Sullivan had been hiding something from him all along.

  Powers moved deliberately across the lobby to the front door.

  A group of Japanese tourists were climbing off a bus. Powers walked outside and stepped to the left of the doorway. A balding man wearing a nylon baseball jacket-the below-the-waist length favored by police detectives and others who carry guns-came out the door and looked about. Spotting Powers, he busied himself and checked his watch, then returned inside.

  Across the street, a brown BMW was parked in front of a dry cleaner. There were two men sitting in it.

  Powers stood there for what must have been a full minute. He swallowed twice and took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do.

  Steeling himself, Powers turned and walked back into the lobby. Formulating his plan as he walked, he headed into an open elevator car. The door closed. He pressed the first floor button and the car ascended. The elevator door opened and he stepped into a hallway lined with guest rooms. Powers broke into a full run. At the far end of the hallway, he burst through the fire exit door and hurried down the steps three at a time. At the lobby floor, breathing hard, he peeked out the door. The man in the baseball jacket was stepping onto the elevator.

  Powers sprinted along a service corridor and into the hotel kitchen. Continuing past three chefs working at a metal table, he ran out the back door into a small parking lot and vaulted over a wall. Making his way across three commercial dumpsters, he jumped down and made his way to the next street.

  Using alleys and avoiding sidewalks to keep hidden from the street, he wound a circuitous route to M Street. Across from the Finnish Embassy, he pushed open the heavy wooden door of Mistral, an exclusive French restaurant. In every presidential administration, at least one French restaurant becomes known as the "in" place for key members of the White House staff. In the current administration, it was Mistral. Its latticework hand-embroidered tablecloths and gold-plated silverware had become familiar layouts in more than one major magazine.

  The tuxedoed maitre d', Roget Lorraine, a lanky Frenchman with deep-set eyes and a pencil-thin mustache, was at the desk.

  "Agent Powers. Is the President...?"

  "No, I'm looking for the Press Secretary."

  He pointed to the corner table. "Mr. Eggleston has almost finished his dinner. He's at his usual table."

  Powers moved past a long well-stocked bar and black leather booths filled with well-dressed men and women. The walls were covered with flower prints.

  Richard Eggleston, in an unwrinkled suit and tie, was sitting in the second booth from the window between two conservatively dressed women who were his secretaries. The women greeted Powers as he approached the table. Eggleston seemed suddenly ill at ease.

  "Jack. I didn't get a chance to wish you well before you ... uh ... retired."

  "I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I need to speak with you in private."

  Eggleston excused himself from the table and followed Powers to the front door.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Would you mind if we talk outside?"

  "This must be a real doosie."

  Eggleston followed him out the door cautiously. "What's up, Jack?"

  "I need a meeting with the President," Powers said, looking Eggleston in the eye.

  Eggleston started to smile, then stopped when he saw Powers wasn't joking. "What about?"

  "About the national security."

  "Jack, you've been around long enough to know it'll take more than that to get a meeting with the man."

  "I know this is going to sound crazy, but I have good reason to believe there is a plot to undermine the President."

  "By whom?"

  "By someone with high access."

  "Can you give me a name?"

  "I don't know who, but I think the President will figure it out once I tell him what I know."

  "You know how this works, Jack. The Chief of Staff is the only one who can set up the meeting you want."

  "I'm asking you to set up a meeting without going through Morgan. I have to speak with the President one on one."

  "I can't do that-"

  "Look. You've known me since this administration came to the White House. I'm not crazy and I'm not an alarmist," Powers said.

  Eggleston realized he was holding a cloth napkin and shoved it in his suit coat pocket. "The President is headed for Camp David to prepare for the election debates, and you expect me to go rushing in to him with something I don't understand?"

  "I need to speak with the President on a matter affecting the national security," Powers said, gritting his teeth. "Do you understand that?"

  "Jack, you're not a special agent any longer. Can't you just tell me and I'll relay it, word for word? I promise."

  "No. It's too sensitive."

  "Then you can write it down and I'll take the note straight to him-"

  "Listen to me," Powers interrupted. "I took care of a political chore for the President, and now someone is trying to kill me and Pete Sullivan is missing. If you don't let me talk to him you'll be responsible when everything blows up in his face."

  "You say someone is trying to kill you?"

  "Yes. And Sullivan may be in danger."

  "I see."

  "Don't look at me like I'm some goddam lunatic. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not crazy. Just phone the President. He'll know what I'm talking about. If you tell him exactly what I've said, I know he'll agree to see me."

  Eggleston rubbed his chin for a moment.

  "Look at me," Powers said. "I'm not crazy."

  Eggleston looked him in the eyes. "I'll make the call," he said finally.

  Eggleston went back inside the restaurant. Powers paced back and forth on the sidewalk for what must have been ten minutes. Finally, he said to himself, the nightmare would be over. The President would provide the missing facts and everything would make sense.

  The door swooshed open with a blast of restaurant air. Eggleston stepped out cautiously, looking up and down.

  "What did he say?" Powers said.

  "I have a pool car picking us up," he said, without looking Powers in the eye. "We're going to Camp David."

  "I'd like to meet him without the Secret Service working shift finding out," Powers said.

  "I can have him come to my quarters. No one from the working shift would enter my private office," Eggleston said matter-of-factly.

  Powers, like everyone who's ever been a law enforcement officer, had developed radar for detecting lies. Was it a change in Eggleston's tone of voice since making the call?

  "Who's picking us up?"

  Eggleston was staring down
the street. "One of the military drivers," he said, looking down the street.

  Powers suddenly realized something was wrong.

  "I asked you what the man said, but you didn't answer my question."

  Eggleston turned to him. "Jack, the President said he didn't know what I was talking about."

  Powers felt a chill on his neck.

  A black Chevrolet sedan sped through the red light at the corner and, with brakes squealing, came to a stop at the curb in front of them.

  The front passenger door flew open and Special Agent John Capizzi jumped out, aiming his revolver at Powers. "Jack Powers, you are under arrest for suspicion of threatening the life of the President of the United States!"

  A police car sped around the corner and pulled up. Two uniformed DC policemen burst from the car pointing guns.

  Powers raised his hands.

  "I'm sorry, Jack," Eggleston said. "But you'll be able to get some help now."

  One of the police officers shoved him roughly against the sedan and frisked him. As he was handcuffed, Capizzi, in his heavy New York accent, was reading him his Miranda rights from a card, Restaurant customers were coming out to watch.

  "We'll take it from here, Mr. Eggleston," Capizzi said.

  "Get him out of here before the press gets wind of this," Eggleston said.

  "I haven't done anything," Powers said to Capizzi. "This is a setup."

  "Relax. Everything's going to be okay."

  "Can't you see I'm not crazy, you dumb son of a bitch?" Powers shouted.

  A policeman grabbed Powers's arm and shoved him into the back seat of the sedan. As he leaned forward with his arms shackled tightly behind him, the cops climbed in on either side and pulled the doors closed.

  At Secret Service headquarters, Powers was seated at a small wooden table in an interview room reeking of cigarette residue. The walls were pale green, the ceiling yellowish, and a small ashtray formed out of aluminum foil decorated the table.

  Powers's right hand, tightly handcuffed to a reinforced eyebolt protruding from the table, was starting to get numb. He'd been ensconced in the room immediately upon arrival, probably so that Capizzi could phone the Protective Research Section and take credit for the big arrest.

  The door handle turned and Capizzi came in the room and sat down at the table.

  "How do you feel, Jack?"

  "What the hell is going on?"

  "I just need to ask you a few questions," Capizzi said condescendingly. "What's all this about having to see the President?"

  "Let's get something straight. I'm not crazy," Powers said. "But I did ask to see the President."

  "What about?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Jack, you can level with me. I'm your friend-"

  "Capizzi. For once, please try to pull your head out of your ass. "

  "I'm someone you can confide in, Jack. We used to work together. "

  "Capizzi, you're not the kind of guy anyone should confide in. That's why I'm guessing you're an unwitting participant in this. And even if I was guilty of something, I'd die before I'd confess it to an asshole like you."

  "We're going to get you some help."

  "Please, just shut your mouth for a minute and let me talk."

  "Sure, Jack."

  "I'm not crazy. I haven't made any threats. Whoever told you that is lying. I was on duty at the White House less than three weeks ago. Did I look like I was crazy then?"

  "No one is saying you're crazy."

  Powers felt his face flush with anger and frustration. He took a deep breath to regain his composure. "I need to talk to the President because someone tried to kill me tonight, and it relates to a political chore I handled for him."

  "What chore is this?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Those people who tried to kill you ... do you think they are still out there?"

  Powers's mind raced. There was no other option. "I killed them first," he said.

  "Can't blame you for defending yourself," Capizzi said, as if conversing with a child.

  "If you were telling me this I might not believe you either," Powers said, baring his teeth. "But so help me God it's true. This is why I need to talk with the President before it's too late."

  Capizzi opened his notebook and began filling out what Powers knew was a mental evaluation form. Per standard Secret Service procedure in presidential threat cases, he was going to commit Powers to a mental institution for a three-day psychiatric evaluation.

  "If you take me to the Rustic Inn in Great Falls I'll point out the bodies."

  "You're telling me you killed two people?" Capizzi said, without looking up from the paperwork.

  "A man and a woman armed with Berettas. It was self-defense."

  "How did you kill them?"

  "With one of their own guns."

  Capizzi nodded. "Where is the gun?"

  "I prefer not to tell you at this point," Powers said, realizing that if he told him about Susan it might endanger her. "Don't sit there treating me like some presidential threat case. There's nothing wrong with me. Acting in self-defense, I had to kill two people. "

  Capizzi stopped writing, stood up, and left the room. He came back a few minutes later. "There were no murders reported tonight."

  "Take me there and I'll point out the bodies to you. You'll see what I'm telling you is the truth. I'm asking you, man to man, to take me there."

  "How do I know you're not going to try and get away?"

  "Bring ten agents along with us. Chain my feet. No one could ever criticize you for following up on what I'm telling you. You're covered."

  Capizzi stood there for a moment. "Okay." He left the room and returned in a few minutes with four young special agents from the Protective Research Section responsible for investigating those who threaten the President. They led him down a hallway and took an elevator to the underground garage. Capizzi led him to a sedan and opened the door for him. He sat in the back seat with Powers, and one of the agents climbed behind the wheel.

  A police radio car containing two uniformed policemen and two detectives followed them to the Rustic Inn parking lot.

  Before Capizzi allowed Powers to leave the sedan, one of the uniformed policemen brought leg shackles to the car and affixed them to Powers's legs. Tripping now and then on the leg chain, Powers led the group of cops up the steps. There was the sound of leaves underfoot as the group, surrounding him in case he tried to run, moved into the forest.

  The bodies weren't there.

  ****

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  "This is where it happened," Powers said. "Someone must have moved the bodies."

  The cops and agents exchanged "told you so" glances with one another. The plainclothesman turned to Capizzi.

  "Check the trees," Powers said. "I know at least one of the slugs hit a tree."

  "Sure," Capizzi said, taking him by the arm.

  Powers pulled away from his grasp, "I need to talk to the President. "

  Capizzi grabbed his arm again. "C'mon, Jack. We have to go back now. "

  "The President is in danger!" Powers shouted. "You've got to tell him! Listen to me, goddammit!"

  The cops and agents moved closer.

  "Take him!" Capizzi shouted. From behind, a policeman's arm slid around Powers's neck and he was pulled backwards off his feet. He was being choked. Then his feet were lifted and the group carried him roughly down the steps to the car. Someone opened the trunk of the radio car and took something out.

  Powers was forced face down on the hood of the sedan. With each arm and leg secured firmly by a policeman, he felt his handcuffs being unfastened. He was pulled upright. His arms were forcibly extended and shoved into canvas sleeves ... a straitjacket! With a mighty effort, he freed his right arm and punched Capizzi squarely in the jaw. Then he himself was being punched and kicked. His wind was knocked out, and as he tried to catch his breath, he was manipulated into the straitjacket. It was pulled closed, restricti
ng his arms tightly across his chest.

  Someone opened the back door of the sedan, and he felt himself being lifted, then tossed into the back seat, hitting his head sharply against the opposite door. He saw black for a moment and felt a twinge of nausea as the front doors were opened and men climbed inside.

  He sat up on the seat as the car was pulling out of the parking lot. There was reinforced steel mesh extending from the front seat backrest to the roof. Capizzi was sitting in the passenger seat.

  "Where are we going?" Powers said, leaning forward in the seat. No answer.

  Capizzi ignored him during the trip back to DC. Powers began to suspect where they were taking him as they drove past the downtown area. And he knew for sure as they reached the southeast. Passing blocks of brick-front row houses, the driver steered into the driveway of St. Elizabeth's Hospital, a large mental health facility operated by the District of Columbia Department of Health and Human Services. They pulled up to the John Howard Pavilion situated in the heart of the compound. The only maximum-security section of the hospital, it was where the "White House cases," lunatics arrested at the White House, were taken. Powers knew the man who'd shot President Reagan was housed on the seventh floor.

  "Who told you to do this?" Powers said angrily. "I'm not crazy, and you're not going to commit me."

  The policeman showed something to the uniformed guard at the gate and the gate opened electronically. Its rollers grated loudly on the asphalt. The driver pulled up to the front of the John Howard Pavilion and he and Capizzi climbed out. Capizzi opened the rear passenger door and he and the policeman pulled Powers from the car. Capizzi had a swollen lip, which pleased Powers. They led him up the steps.

  Inside, Powers was met by the strong warm odor of mental illness. Though there was no way to quantify or determine whether such a smell actually existed, among themselves all Secret Service agents acknowledged it. Over the years, when investigating persons making threats against the life of the President, Powers had searched hundreds of motel rooms, cars, houses, and trailers looking for weapons and other evidence. Though some places were more pungent than others, each had at least a hint of the scent ... best described by Ken Landry once as a combination of nervous perspiration and dead human skin: the odor of schizophrenia.