By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  He turned back to the front page again, and the three-column photograph of the wreckage of the vice president’s limousine. The bodies had been removed by the time the picture had been taken, but it was wrenchingly apparent what must have happened to the victims.

  He now had a bond with the vice president of the United States of America, a bond of the most intimate and terrible sort. Two women, dead, by the same hand.

  There was nothing about himself in any of the Midwest papers. Journalistic interest in the Tiburcio murders appeared to have ended at the California line. The Los Angeles Times had run a long story under the headline: “Ad Exec Sought in Double Murder.” Mrs. Mercredes was quoted calling him a violent man with a love of guns. Dresden had several times suppressed an urge to telephone one of his California friends. He began to wish he had not sent Tracy away, though he could not be certain she had actually gone. A quick call—just long enough to hear her voice if she answered—would tell. He looked to the old black dial telephone on the night table.

  It was too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous. He dialed. It rang seven times. There was no answer.

  He limped to the television set. It was time for the television news.

  They were showing footage now many hours old of the smouldering auto wreckage on the bridge. Mrs. Atherton’s remains, encased mummylike in an orange-colored body bag, were seen trundled away on a wheeled stretcher through the glare of television lights to an ambulance. With sirens wailing and warbling constantly in the background, police, detectives, Secret Service agents, FBI, even soldiers armed with automatic weapons, swarmed everywhere as the cameras and lights swept back and forth. Helicopters rattled overhead. The director of the Secret Service, looking both furious and tearful, refused questions. Other officials tried to push reporters away. A badly wounded Secret Service agent was limbered past the battery of television lights and a hand reached out angrily and smashed the camera’s view into darkness when it focused too closely on the injured man’s stricken face. There were shouts, more sirens, more helicopters.

  They cut to a sudden, jarring shot of a hotel doorway, which Dresden quickly recognized as the one former President Reagan had exited from before being shot some years before. From it came Vice President Atherton, his handsome face ugly with grief. The glimpse of him was brief. He vanished behind the dark forms of Secret Service agents and into his car. The news anchor, if somberly, boasted that this footage was exclusive. They ran it again.

  After a commercial for a line of Japanese cars, a White House correspondent did a standup report with the Executive Mansion unusually distant in the background. As she explained, the Secret Service had permanently closed Pennsylvania Avenue from 17th Street to 15th Street, and had set up a barbed-wire perimeter around LaFayette Square. All public tours of the White House, the correspondent dramatically announced, had been permanently canceled.

  A sudden loud crash sent Dresden leaping clumsily from his chair to press himself against the wall. The sudden sound had come from the street. He pulled his revolver from its place in his belt and peered around the drapes, exposing just the edge of his face. An old ironbound stake truck, laden with junk, was thumping along the pavement. It had struck a deep depression in the concrete opposite the hotel entrance.

  He had forgotten about cities, real, gritty midwestern cities. Letting his breathing subside, he returned to his chair, his attention at once snatched back by the television screen. There was videotape footage of the president speaking, expressing his sorrow at Mrs. Atherton’s death and his deep affection for her and her husband, his faithful right hand.

  It had been three weeks since the Gettysburg shooting. It was nearly Christmas.

  Kreski had once more sought the late-night solace of his living room, but there was no classical music on the stereo. His eyes were fixed on his television set. He had tuned to the continuous news broadcast of the Cable News Network, and what he was watching was his own professional death. In deference to the others in the house at this late hour, he had kept the volume at a barely audible level, but it would not have mattered had he turned the sound off entirely. Every image that appeared on the screen imparted the same message: The Secret Service was guilty of catastrophic failure, and that failure was Walter Kreski’s.

  His wife, as he feared, and yet hoped, entered the room, tying her robe.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I turned the volume …”

  “You didn’t wake me,” she said, putting her hand gently on his shoulder. “I’ve been awake since I went to bed. I’ve just been waiting for you to join me. When you didn’t after all this time, I decided I’d better join you.”

  Kreski stared at the flickering colors of the screen.

  “We accomplished one thing tonight,” he said. “We established that the van with the bomb was parked on the bridge exactly five minutes before Mrs. Atherton’s car left the Hilton. We have witnesses who passed the spot just before the van was parked and just after. We have the time down exactly. Whoever did it was given precise information from someone at the hotel.”

  “Not very precise, Walter. They didn’t know the vice president wasn’t in the car.”

  “No, but they knew Perkins was. Perkins was the target. That lovely woman died because of one of my agents, because someone turned him, and was now trying to effect some damage control. Perkins was the key to the Gettysburg shooting. I don’t have proof. Not yet. No proof of anything. But it fits like a box. I’m quite sure Perkins was the ‘second gun’ at Gettysburg. He was on a competition rifle team in the army. According to his two-o-one file, he could fire one shot for windage and then empty an entire magazine into a bull’s-eye at a thousand meters. A thousand meters! I’m amazed the president’s alive.”

  His eyes were on the television screen but his mind was elsewhere. His wife, watching his expression carefully, waited.

  “They beat us, Babs,” he said. “They got through us. I don’t know if they were Latins or Russians or homegrown traitors, but they penetrated us. We did our best, we followed all the right procedures, but they beat us and almost killed the president and vice president of the United States.” He coughed. It served to distract from the catch in his voice, and his near tears. “But Babs, I’m close to something now. I think I can trace it back to them. I …”

  She took his hand, knowing what was coming next.

  “No point,” he said. “All irrelevant. All moot. They beat us, and they beat me.…” He sighed. “Babs, I’m going to get the sack.”

  “Walter, I knew that was going to happen just as soon as I heard about poor Mrs. Atherton.”

  He gripped her hand tightly. “I’m to see the attorney general at ten tomorrow morning.” He looked at his watch. “This morning. His secretary didn’t state the reason for the meeting, but it’s obvious. And I checked with some people. I’m to resign at once, pension or no. There’ll be wholesale transfers of practically everyone in the White House detail and the Washington field office. The new director will be Marv Jellicoe of the San Francisco office. The vice president’s known him for some years. Atherton ordered all this. I don’t blame him. If it was my wife, if it was you, I’d fire me too. I’d probably kill me.”

  “Walter,” she said, “it’s not the end of the world. You can go to work with my brother anytime you want. And if you don’t want to live in Florida, you can do something else. Frank Holcomb called up this afternoon. He said that, whatever happens, you’re to consider the offer he made to you six months ago still open, and you’re to name your own salary.”

  Holcomb was president of one of the largest branch banking chains in Virginia. The job he had offered Kreski was vice president for personnel management and security.

  “That’s very kind of him.”

  “He didn’t mean it as charity. You happen to be very good at your work. For heaven’s sake, didn’t Time magazine call you the best Secret Service director in memory?”

  “They called me the �
�most intellectual.’ And that’s a crock. They were just impressed by my taste in music. I was probably listening to Berlioz when I approved the advance plans for Gettysburg.”

  “Walt. What I’m trying to get across to you is that Frank Holcomb is your friend. You have lots and lots of friends, all over the country. There are a lot of people who are on your side in this.”

  “What’s on my side in this is Mrs. Atherton’s dead body.”

  “Walter. If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were feeling sorry for yourself. And that’s something I’ve never seen before.”

  “Okay. Forgive me.”

  “Forgive yourself, and whatever happens tomorrow, let’s get on with our lives. There’s a lot of happiness out there, a lot of future. You don’t have to take that job with Frank Holcomb. We don’t have to stay here, though I certainly wouldn’t mind. But there are all kinds of things we can do.”

  “I’ll call Frank. In a few weeks, maybe a few months, I’ll probably gratefully accept his offer. But at the moment, there’s only one job I’m interested in. The job I have now. I want to finish it. I want all this over with. I want the killings to stop. Babs, I’m going to have to clean out my office tomorrow. What if two days after I walk out of there the president gets it for good, or it’s Atherton himself who gets blown up?”

  “That would be horrible, but there’d be nothing you could do about it.”

  “That’s the problem. There’s a hell of a lot I could do about it, that I can do about it right now. With Steve Copley’s help, I’m convinced we can shut these people down. But all I have left is a few hours.”

  His wife took his hand in both of hers, turning slightly on the couch to look directly at him. “I was once asked by a reporter from the Washington Post if you had any faults, Walter Kreski. I, of course, said you didn’t, except perhaps when you forget to pick up your socks. But that’s what your fault is. You’re faultless. You simply won’t accept fault. You won’t accept it that anything could go otherwise than the way you planned it. You Secret Service people have this wonderful deity complex. Only you have the power to prevent death. The president’s life is your sacred trust. If something goes wrong, and somebody gets hurt, then it’s the Apocalypse. I think you’re the most wonderful man on this planet. But I don’t think you’re God. God doesn’t leave His socks on the bedroom carpet.”

  He smiled.

  “You did your best, Walt. You’re being treated unfairly. A lot of people are. We’re going through a horrible time. You did your best. You did right. You have a terrific record. Accept it. Let Marv Jellicoe have his try. And let’s move on to the rest of our lives.”

  She rose, and then kissed his forehead.

  “I think I got through to you.”

  He smiled, less sadly this time. “You always do.”

  When she was gone he returned his thoughts directly to where they had been before she had joined him—to a pondering of his agency’s personnel list, to a mental examination of his department’s defenses in search of the weak spot where they’d been penetrated, where rot, corruption, or treachery had burned their way through. Marv Jellicoe or not, fired or not, he was going to resolve this.

  Bushy Ambrose was waiting at the edge of the floodlit helipad, wearing nothing warmer than a suit despite the December night’s bitter mountain cold, his legs spread slightly apart and his arms folded. The helicopter appeared as a tiny light in the north sky, an oddly moving star. Ambrose tilted his head back to watch the machine’s approach. It was as though he were commanding it to come to him, to pull it to Earth.

  C.D. Bragg was at his side. On this trip, he had sent Jerry Greene and David Callister. The latter was beginning to make him very nervous. He was spending entirely too much time in New York.

  “They’re burying Mrs. Atherton Wednesday,” Bragg said.

  “I know. Shawcross called this afternoon.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  “Negative. I don’t think the vice president would appreciate my presence,” Ambrose said, “and I wouldn’t leave here in any case. The members of the cabinet will go—except for the secretary of defense, and Jim Malcom. We still have Central America to worry about.”

  “Should I go?”

  “Where?”

  The helicopter’s light was a great glare in their eyes, a seeming visual manifestation of the machine’s now near deafening roar.

  “To California!” shouted Bragg. “To the funeral!”

  “Hell no! I need you here!”

  Ambrose wondered what had possibly entered Bragg’s mind. Like everyone else, he had been up on this mountain too long. There was such a long time yet to go.

  The helicopter settled gently to the ground, the pilot killing the engine the instant the skids touched the surface of the helipad. As it subsided in a chuffing whine, Jerry Greene scrambled out, carrying a very large briefcase. No one came out after him.

  “Where’s Callister?” Ambrose said, as Greene approached.

  “He decided to stay in New York.”

  “You were there to prevent such decisions,” Ambrose said.

  “He has a lunch with his publisher tomorrow,” Greene said. “He thinks his wife is getting suspicious about what’s going on up here. He said she’d really think it funny if he stood up his publisher. They meet for lunch every month come what may.”

  “Bullshit,” Ambrose said. “He’s just tired of pulling this duty. Not enough pâté de fois gras up here.”

  “Maybe so, but he was a big help,” Greene said, lifting up the briefcase. “Thanks to him we got everything we needed. No muss, no fuss.”

  “How high up did you have to go?” Ambrose asked.

  “Not high at all, thanks to Callister,” Greene said. “The only one we dealt with was a studio librarian. He turned on so much charm I don’t think she paid any attention to what we were after. We were out of there in an hour. I was afraid we’d have to go out to that warehouse they have in New Jersey.”

  “If you were out of there in an hour,” said Ambrose, “why are you getting back this late?”

  “More chopped liver,” said Greene. “And a case of rock ’n’ rye.”

  “Rock ’n’ rye?” said Ambrose.

  “He claims it’s good for his throat,” said Greene. “We’ve got to do something about that voice.”

  They started up the walk toward Ambrose’s cabin.

  “Are you going out to California for Mrs. Atherton’s funeral?” Greene asked.

  “Does no one around here think?” Ambrose said. “Of course not. There’s no point in irritating the vice president, and that’s all I’d do. We’re up here to serve and protect the president. That’s why we never leave.”

  “Almost never,” Greene said.

  “When Atherton comes back he’s going to have to hole up too,” said Bragg.

  “Yes,” said Ambrose. “I think it’s finally dawned on him how dangerous the situation is.”

  “Observatory Hill isn’t very easy to protect,” Bragg said.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not where he plans to hole up,” said Ambrose. “He said it’s too painful being in the house where he and his wife were so happy.”

  “When he was home,” Greene said.

  “Where’s he going?” Bragg said. “Out to that National Park Service retreat in the Shenandoah?”

  “No such luck,” said Ambrose. “Until further notice, the vice president of the United States is going to live in the White House.”

  14

  Dresden arrived in Washington wearing his suit. The Federal City was a formal place, and he didn’t want to look in any way out of the ordinary, though in the seedy bus terminal and seedier surrounding neighborhood he looked so presentable he drew glances, as though he were a government official, or a mark for a mugging. Pausing only to choose a hotel from the Yellow Pages and make a room reservation from a public phone, he hurried west into a more respectable district, where he could deal with his most immediate need: new cl
othes, most particularly a warm, lined trenchcoat; decent gloves; and the sort of dark, pin-striped suit that he had seen so many congressmen and White House officials wear on the Sunday morning television talk shows. For an extra fifty dollars the haberdasher he found on Connecticut Avenue agreed to have the alterations on the suit completed by the following morning.

  The hotel he chose for himself was the best in Washington, the palatial Willard, just around the corner from the White House. It was not the sort of place one would expect to harbor a desperate fugitive from the hills of California.

  Checking in, he made what could prove either a very smart or extremely foolish decision. Defying the instincts that had guided him all the way across the country, he registered under his own name, using his only remaining credit card, a revolving charge card from one of California’s larger banks. He had been wise enough to keep up the monthly interest payments. The desk clerk treated it—and him—routinely. If Dresden had put down a large cash deposit, he would have marked himself in the man’s memory. His calculations now all had to be based on presumptions. He presumed that the police would not be checking every hotel registry in the country; that they would not have expected him to travel three thousand miles to this place just five blocks from the FBI building. In St. Louis he had been too much the paranoid desperado, costumed like a drifter on the run. He meant to spend some time here in Washington, and to do so he must be the substantial citizen. All substantial citizens used credit cards.

  His elegant room was a startling surprise. It overlooked not only Pennsylvania Avenue but, just beyond the rooftop of the Treasury building, the White House itself, the view centering on a curved, half-moon window that was part of the president’s third-floor family quarters in the East Wing.