By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  “Director,” he said. “As matters now stand, having examined the evidence and learned as much as you have at this point, would you recommend to this committee, to this government, any changes in procedures that might prevent this kind of attack from happening again? Do you think there are any serious flaws that need to be corrected?”

  Kreski remembered a long-ago television interview with one of his predecessors. He inexplicably could not recall which one or whether the congressional inquiry had had to do with the Reagan shooting in 1981 or the attempt on President Ford’s life in 1975 but the man had been asked exactly the same question. His response had been that, given the strictures imposed upon security by the egalitarian nature of the republic and the political openness of the democratic process, there was nothing he could or would change. It was an easy and not irresponsible answer.

  But Kreski could not give it.

  “There have been nearly a dozen and a half successful and unsuccessful attempts upon the lives of American presidents, Mr. Chairman,” he said, “starting with the attack by a lunatic house painter named Richard Lawrence on Andrew Jackson here at the Capitol in 1835. In nearly every case the responsible security authorities have said there was nothing they would change. But after every attempt, there have always been changes and increases in security measures.”

  The television lights, following suit, came back on. Looking to the press table, he saw the ballpoint pens busy again.

  “There are many new measures I might recommend, and probably should,” he continued, “to try to prevent what happened to President Hampton. But you run up against some problems. One has to do with the inclinations and dispositions of the presidents themselves. They don’t like being separated from the people. They don’t like to appear cowards. They have an intrinsic urge to mingle and press the flesh. Another has to do with the basic values of the country. The American people feel they own this city, the Capitol, and certainly the White House. You remember the uproar in 1985 when it was suggested that Pennsylvania Avenue be closed in front of the White House for security reasons. Everyone screamed. You can’t erect a Kremlin in the Federal City.”

  All the television lights were on and the pens were moving furiously.

  “Let me put it this way, sir,” Kreski added. “The president’s current situation at Camp David is almost ideal from a security point of view. He’s more or less invulnerable to everything but a nuclear attack. But, once he recovers, when we’re sure the immediate threat has been neutralized, he has to come back down here. As his chief protector, I’m not comfortable with that, but the American people wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Several reporters rose from the press table and began pushing their way through the knot of people gathered at the doorway. They were bound for the nearest telephones.

  To Atherton’s mind, one of Jimmy Carter’s stupidest acts as president was getting rid of the official presidential yacht Sequoia as a gesture of humility and egalitarianism. It had impressed the voters about as much as the Georgian’s insistence on getting off and on Air Force One carrying an empty garment bag over his shoulder—this from a man who made such frequent use of the White House’s elegant tennis court.

  Hampton, to Atherton’s joy, had defiantly insisted that the government buy the boat back again, federal deficit or no. The vessel was simply too valuable for impressing VIPs, heavy lobbying, rewarding worthy supporters and subordinates, and secret negotiating. It was unsurpassed as a presidential retreat, a restful and pleasurable sanctuary affording the ultimate appreciation of the Potomac’s beauty and the capital’s magnificence, not to speak of discreet indulgence in the trappings of power and high office. It was a floating Camp David one could repair to in minutes whenever one wished.

  The vice president now so wished. He had been left in charge of the White House, if not much else, and the yacht was an extension of the White House. As though on a whim, he had commandeered the craft for most of the afternoon and now sat on the afterdeck enjoying a warm drink as it glided down the Anacostia River from the Navy Yard, heading for Haines Point and the wider Potomac. The Secret Service hadn’t liked the idea much. Gun-toting agents were crowded into two escorting power craft, and one of the navy’s larger patrol boats was following along behind like a nanny, as though assassins were going to attack by submarine. Atherton could still be described as more than a little apprehensive at times, but he had lost the terror he had felt immediately after Gettysburg.

  As Atherton had requested, the Sequoia turned upriver upon reaching the Potomac, slowing and easing over to the embankment at a small wooden dock protruding from the greensward of West Potomac Park. FBI Director Copley, clad in a nautical enough blue blazer and familiar Burburry’s raincoat, clambered aboard and was directed aft. The yacht’s powerful engines shuddered the deck as it churned away from the dock and the captain changed course downriver.

  As the vice president had also requested, they were left quite alone, with security men, stewards, and crew keeping a respectful distance. They were well practiced at it.

  “First things first,” said Atherton. “Have you been able to penetrate Camp David?”

  “Yes,” said Copley. “Today.” He smiled. Atherton nodded appreciatively, and with some amazement.

  “The president is there?”

  “He, or someone who looks very much like him, was observed sitting on a terrace, bundled in blankets.”

  “Observed from close up?”

  “No, but someone who looks very much like Daisy Hampton was with him, along with a short person who could only have been Bushy Ambrose.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet. There’s been a lot of helicopter traffic. There’s a lot of military up there, but also a surprising number of civilians. I don’t know where they’re all sleeping. Or coming from.”

  “Anyone peculiar?”

  “Not that we know of. Unless you count David Callister as peculiar.”

  “Just some of his recent columns.”

  “Walt Kreski is being hanged, drawn, and quartered on the Hill today,” Copley said. “He made a big mistake in not showing up yesterday.”

  “Shawcross is up there for me. I expect I’ll get a report when I get back to the White House.”

  “It was a real inquisition, but he said something that might be helpful.”

  “About the Twenty-fifth Amendment?”

  “Not quite. But he said the president can’t stay up at Camp David forever. He said it’s great for security but bad for the American people.”

  “What a wonderful fellow. Neil Howard’s logged more than a hundred newspapers now that have said the same thing in editorials. The Post this morning was complaining about excessive secrecy and a paralysis of government.”

  “I saw it. ‘ABC News Nightline’ last night brought up Woodrow Wilson and his stroke.”

  “Bushy Ambrose as Edith Gait Wilson.”

  Atherton turned to look along the railing at a barge and tug approaching from downstream. The Sequoia’s helmsman steered away, though staying within the channel markers. One of the Secret Service boats moved up as a screen.

  “Anything else?” the vice president asked.

  “Kreski and I have talked about a possible connection with Peter Ashley Brookes. Finding his book on the Isle of Pines and back copies of Mercenary Magazine among Huerta’s effects was an interesting enough development, but Kreski didn’t seem awfully excited by it.”

  “For God’s sake, Steve. It’s hardly enough to swear out a warrant on.”

  “You saw the treasury report on Huerta’s bankroll.”

  “Yes.”

  “All the banks it came from are west of the Mississippi. One is in Denver and Brookes is a director.”

  “You couldn’t get a warrant on that, either.”

  The barge, shoving a large wave before it, came slowly by, its tug chugging noisily. It wasn’t close enough for anyone aboard to recognize Atherton, although the Secret Service must
have had a dozen weapons aimed at it.

  “Anyway,” said Copley, after the noisy tug and barge had passed. “Kreski’s thinking about it. I feel obligated to at least make a field investigation.”

  “Discreetly. Decorously. After all, Brookes’s been one of the president’s strongest supporters.”

  “Of course. But this will have to include wiretaps.”

  “Just clear it with the attorney general and follow proper procedure. Have you released any information about Huerta’s effects to the press?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Why don’t you give out the inventory? Without comment. Clear it with the attorney general, of course. And keep Walt Kreski informed.”

  “It would be interesting to see what Brookes might do.”

  “It would be more interesting to see what Bushy Ambrose might do.”

  The sudden, loud crack of a gunshot drove both men to the deck, Atherton painfully bruising his elbow. Copley jerked out his pistol. They lay there, breathing heavily and looking frantically about, until finally the ranking Secret Service agent on board ran up to them. He looked both startled and sheepish.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Really sorry. One of our men slipped on the deck and his weapon discharged.”

  “My God,” said Atherton. “They’re going to do it again!”

  Charley Dresden awoke on his living room couch, in severe pain. Much of it was from his auto accident injuries, but most was from his Olympian hangover. He could not have absorbed another ounce of alcohol and lived. He was not altogether sure he had.

  Slowly, his mind cleared. It intensified his discomfort, but brought thought.

  Danny Hill, spared any visits by vengeful brothers-in-law, had spent the night in his own house. His prediction had proven correct. Zack was at home, asleep in the bedroom, and the door was closed, though not locked. There was no sign or sound of the Texan. Dresden had not disturbed her, allowing himself to fall quickly unconscious on the couch without pausing to turn off the one lamp she had left lit. When he finally heard her stir he did not speak or even move until she was out of the house and driving away. Presuming she was going to return—and she had spent too little time getting out of there to have done any packing—he would thrash it out with her that evening or night. He would find a way to apologize meaningfully, to adequately compensate her for the insult and hurt of his outrageous behavior, to restore civility and amicability between them, though it was clear their relationship had irrevocably changed.

  What was not clear was whether it had ended. In his pain and fuzziness, Madeleine Anderson Calendiari now seemed rather far away; Tiburcio and his memories of the night before too near. He went back to sleep. He slept until he could no longer. He discovered it to be nearly noon.

  When he felt well enough he sat up. The time, he realized, had come to confront reality. He had to stop this nonsense about the president, just give it up and let it all be over. As he had said to himself, it really shouldn’t matter who was president. How many had come and gone without making the slightest difference to life in Tiburcio? To his life? Unless the country were on the brink of major war—and, despite all the hysteria on television, that did not seem to be the case—they could be left to thrash this murky business out all by themselves in Washington, three thousand miles and a civilization away from California. He need only proceed to the bath and bedroom to clean, repair, and dress himself; go into Santa Linda and his office, crank calls or no; and life would return to normal. If Madeleine Anderson was to be found anywhere in his future, he could not reach that place by means of this obsessive and pointless pursuit of the truth behind a video tape.

  He showered, tended to his cuts and scrapes, wrapped tape around his sprained knee, and dressed himself in what had been his second best suit, now promoted, if only for the proprietary feel of it.

  But then he made a mistake. He decided his hangover needed treatment as well and made himself a Bloody Mary with what little remained of his gin. As he sat by the cemetery window drinking it, his mind wandered, then fell into a familiar track. He reached for the telephone.

  Tracy Bakersfield was not at her beach house. He tried the university and found her there but teaching her class and unavailable. He left a message and sat down to wait. He was not all that certain she would return the call, given her attitude on the obvious subject. If she did, that fact alone would serve as a statement. If she didn’t, he would leave it at that. It had all come down to one call.

  He still had half the drink when the phone finally rang. Tracy’s voice was very quiet, very serious—not hostile, but without any of her usual cheerfulness.

  “I was expecting your call,” she said.

  “You saw the president’s tape, then.”

  “Yes. Who hasn’t?”

  “I think it’s been extensively edited.”

  “It looks like that.”

  “I think it has new sound on it. I think the president’s lips were out of sync.”

  “That’s certainly possible.”

  “I think that wasn’t the president’s voice. Tracy, I think I’m still right.”

  She made no reply. He waited, realizing that the whole game turned on her response to his next question.

  “Tracy, are there any facilities on campus for making voice analysis, voice prints?”

  “Yes. There’s a lab used by both the police school and our speech therapy department.” She said nothing further. He paused again, selecting his words.

  “I hate to impose upon you any further,” he said. “But it shouldn’t take much time. If you can help me again, I’ll make you this promise. Even if we come up with something, I won’t bother you about this again. Not ever. And if the results are negative, I’ll drop the whole thing. I promise. I was on the brink of doing that today anyway.”

  There was only silence.

  “We already have the president on tape speaking at Gettysburg,” he said. “It ought to be easy for me to scare up one of his television appearances last night.”

  She sighed. “You needn’t bother. I’ve already done that. I had voice prints made and an analysis done.” Another sigh. “Charley, you are right. The prints don’t match. There are many similarities, but they aren’t the same person.”

  “Bless you.”

  “I have it all in an envelope for you. But come by for it soon. I want to go home.”

  “I love you.”

  “Charley, please. Stick to your promise. I don’t want anything more to do with this.”

  The swiftness of his arrival depended entirely on the cooperation of the Hawker-Siddeley, and Danny Hill had warned him it probably wouldn’t start again without another push. Yet, after the briefest of groans and a slightly longer, coughing sputter, the old engine caught with all cylinders. The gods were with him. Perhaps he was their instrument after all.

  Tracy did not linger with him long at the college and refused to let him walk her to her car. He gathered she wanted the envelope out of her sight as soon as possible. But she gave his hand a hard squeeze when he shook hers in thanks and farewell.

  He stopped by his office, Isabel’s fears notwithstanding. If it had been broken into, there was no evidence of it. Everything looked just as before. The landlord had not had the furniture hauled away or the lock changed. There was even some mail on the floor, but, pushing it apart with his foot, he saw nothing that looked like a check. More normality.

  Sitting at his desk, he spread the contents of Tracy’s envelope out before him, studying the two voice prints and the markings she had made on them. There was also a typewritten page of notes she had made from the technician’s analysis. The phone began to ring but he ignored it, reading the notes over several times and reexamining the prints. From the looks of it, to his layman’s ken, what she had given him might even be admissible as evidence in a trial, however little prospect there seemed to be of anything like that.

  The telephone ceased. He sat back a moment and pondered. The data was lacking in only
one respect. He had only one copy of each sheet. Isabel had the typewriter and his video recorder might not be working, but their small Xerox machine was. He went to it and, fiddling with the contrast control, made copies until he was satisfied with the quality, producing three duplicates of each page. The originals he returned to Tracy’s envelope, placing sets of the copies into envelopes from his office supply. One set he’d keep as a backup, perhaps having someone in Tiburcio hide it for him in some safe place. The others he’d mail to people, though he had no clear idea yet as to whom.

  Dresden had just put everything into his briefcase when the telephone resumed its nagging summons. He made a face at it and started toward the door, then halted. The odds were overwhelming that the caller was just another crank but it could be Zack or Isabel, or Tracy calling with something to clarify or add. It might be some police authority who had caught Charley’s appearance on “The Jimmy Moon Show” and become interested in his theory, or Mr. Bolger of the amusement park deciding to retain him after all. If it were through some extraordinary fortune Maddy Anderson who was trying to reach him, he could never forgive himself. He would shoot himself.

  He caught the phone on the sixth ring.

  “Hello. The Dresden Organization.”

  “Is this Mr. Charles Dresden?” It was a man, who seemed to be calling from a great distance.

  “Yes. That’s why this is called the Dresden Organization.”

  The man then identified himself as a reporter in the New York office of one of the most sleazy and scurrilous sensation-mongering supermarket “news” magazines in the country. Dresden got ruder.

  “Please, Mr. Dresden. Hear me out. Our San Francisco stringer told us about what you had to say on ‘The Jimmy Moon Show’ out there and we’re very much interested.”

  “Even though the president has appeared live and almost well on television since then?”