By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  The rain struck no more than ten miles down the road, a good distance yet to go before the main highway to Tegucigalpa, a few large dollops impacting on the dust like bullets amidst a heavy scent of jungle and ozone, followed by a crashing deluge. Kreski, like the colonel, wore khakis, but Sandoval was dressed in a civilian shirt and gray slacks. All of them were quickly and utterly soaked, but the feeling at first was less one of discomfort than of relief at the coolness. The Jeeps slowed as the road began to mud up in places. After a while the coolness turned more to cold, and Kreski began to wish for his hotel room and one of those rum drinks.

  “Lo siento,” said the colonel, shouting to make himself heard over the downpour. “The weather this time of year is always unpredictable.”

  Suddenly the lead Jeep lurched to a stop and, at a command from the American in the beret, began to back up rapidly, wheels spinning. Kreski supposed it had something to do with an obstruction in the road, but he saw the American suddenly dive from the vehicle into the roadside brush as orange bursts brightened the gloom ahead and the sound of gunfire crackled in the thundering deluge.

  The American in the beret, rolling, fired his M-16 in response as his driver slumped over the wheel. The other Honduran in the vehicle skipped to the opposite side of the road, firing his weapon.

  The American looked back at Kreski’s Jeep, shouting: “Get out! Get down!”

  Colonel Victores was already in the act of doing so. Kreski and Sandoval leaped over the side and flattened themselves in the mud. As Kreski looked up, he saw their driver scamper into the brush. In a moment, both Honduran soldiers and the American in the beret had disappeared into the heavy growth.

  The firing ahead became more frequent and closer. Pulling out the Beretta, Kreski at length saw three, then four, shadowy figures dodging along either side of the road toward them, firing short bursts. The colonel, just ahead of Kreski, his feet almost in Kreski’s face, got off two quick shots from his pistol, hitting no one. Kreski held his own fire, waiting with teeth hard against his lower lip as the dark figures came nearer. As Kreski should have expected, one of them abruptly halted, reached down, and then threw a grenade, which landed in the lead jeep, the following explosion knocking it askew, setting it aflame despite the heavy rain.

  Kreski, gripping his automatic with both hands as trained, raised his weapon and squeezed off three careful rounds, the last one hitting his target in the chest and whipping him backward. The man had been about to throw another grenade, and it went off just behind him, lifting his body and wounding one of his comrades. At once there was a great cacophony of gunfire coming from the jungle on both sides of the roadway. The other attackers fell, but the gunfire continued, moving away. More shadowy figures appeared, backing out of the brush, but they fell too.

  When at last there was silence the rain magically began to abate, as though it had been a special effect written into the script for which there was no longer any need. As it dissipated, leaving only a ground mist, the American in the beret and his two companions stepped out into the clear, weapons smoking and held at the ready.

  “The dumb bastards should have used a Claymore,” said the American in the beret. “Don’t nobody know how to ambush anymore?”

  He and his companions began examining the attackers’ bodies, kicking each hard in the head with their boots. One they kicked and pulled to his feet. He appeared only slightly wounded but very much afraid.

  The American looked back at the burning jeep, swore loudly, then turned to the wounded prisoner and shot him in the face. He crumpled without a sound.

  The American joined Kreski and the others, who had risen from the road covered with mud.

  “Why did you kill him?” Kreski asked.

  “We got only one fucking Jeep now,” the American said. “There’s no room for the bastard.”

  Whatever complaint Kreski might have uttered was precluded by his remembering and looking at the man he had himself shot. He had an impulse to go and look at the body, but a stronger desire not to. Despite all his years in the police and the Secret Service, he wasn’t much hardened to killing, especially when he was the killer.

  “That was excellent shooting, Señor Director,” said the colonel. “You may have saved our lives.”

  The American in the beret nodded and grunted what Kreski assumed was a similar compliment.

  “Who were they?” Kreski asked.

  The colonel shrugged. “In this country, they could be anyone. Bandits, drug smugglers, El Salvadoran infiltrators, leftist guerrillas, anyone.”

  “They were fucking Nicks,” said the American in the beret, putting a fresh clip into his weapon. “Nistas, with fucking AK-7s. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  It was the most voluble he’d been on the entire trip. When they were all crowded into the cramped, remaining Jeep and churning down the road again, the human lumps left in their still, contorted positions on the track behind them, he lapsed back into silence. In fact, no one spoke until they reached the outskirts of Tegucigalpa, and Sandoval suggested a place for dinner.

  Maddy was right. David Callister and his wife were listed in the Social Register, as she and George Calendiari were not. The copy made available to them at the public library on 42nd Street was that year’s, and it showed three addresses—one on Park Avenue, one in Bermuda, and one in Pound Ridge up in Westchester. Dresden wrote them and the accompanying telephone numbers down, then returned the book to the librarian.

  “I know him,” Maddy said, as they came down the library steps into the crisp cold. “I mean, I’ve met and talked to him at several parties. We were seated next to each other at a dinner party once, but with him, it’s hard to tell how much attention he pays to other people. He does all the talking. He might remember me.”

  “I’d remember you, even if you never said a word.”

  She took his arm as they turned up Fifth Avenue toward the park and the Plaza. The sky was clear and the sun was bright. The city looked almost beautiful.

  “Dare we make these calls from our room?” he asked.

  “Charley. If we’re able to track down David Callister, it’s not going to matter where we call from. If everything you believe is true, all that will matter is that we’re able to get away from him again. Fast.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Besides,” she said, pulling him closer. “Going back to the room has other advantages.”

  They tried all three numbers—Park Avenue, Westchester, and Bermuda, in that order—but reached only rude servants who would tell them nothing.

  “Perhaps I should have said it was the White House calling,” said Dresden, exasperated.

  “Let me try,” she said.

  But the response was largely the same. The servants politely took down the message, but gave no information as to where Callister was or when he’d be returning.

  An hour later they were having scotch and water in the Plaza’s Oak Bar, physically more content but otherwise frustrated.

  “Charley. I have an idea. Haven’t you noticed something different about New York?”

  “It’s more expensive.”

  “It’s always more expensive. I’m talking about the shoppers, all the limousines at the curbs, the lights, the season.”

  “It’s almost Christmas.”

  “Exactly. I think we should buy a present for Mr. Callister and deliver it personally to his Park Avenue place.”

  She emerged from Saks Fifth Avenue carrying a large gift-wrapped box in a shopping bag.

  “What are we giving him?” Dresden said. “A dozen copies of The Preppy Handbook?”

  “Nothing so heavy. Two dozen pairs of Jockey shorts. I hope in a size several times too small.”

  “Maddy. People from his background make a point of not wearing Jockey shorts. They wear boxer shorts. De rigeur.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said, grinning mischievously. “Come along, Santa.”

  Callister’s doorm
an admitted them without hesitation and with considerable deference, but, in the lobby, they encountered the same sort of security attendant they had in Howie King’s building. This one was younger, much better dressed, and considerably more officious.

  “I’m Madeleine Calendiari,” Maddy said. “This is my husband, Senator Calendiari.”

  The Italian name did not overly impress the young man.

  “We wanted to drop off our Christmas present for the Callisters before we left New York,” Dresden said. He decorously slipped the man a twenty-dollar bill. “They’re not in, apparently, but if you could take good care of it until they return …? They will be back by Christmas, won’t they?”

  “As a matter of fact, no sir. I can send it upstairs to their apartment, but they’ll be away until after the first of the year.”

  “Oh dear, not at their place in Bermuda?” Dresden said.

  “We could never get this to them in Bermuda in time,” said Maddy.

  “Mrs. Callister is in Bermuda,” said the attendant. “Mr. Callister is traveling.”

  Dresden retrieved the box, ignoring the money still in the attendant’s hand. “Oh, well. Perhaps we’ll run into him back in Washington.”

  “He didn’t say where he was traveling, sir. But you might …” The young man appeared reluctant to say anything more to strangers, no matter how well dressed. His principal job was protecting residents of the building from strangers, though it also included providing every assistance to residents’ friends.

  “Might try sending it to the house in Pound Ridge?” Dresden asked.

  “Yes, sir. I presume you have the address. Mr. Callister said he’d be stopping by there this weekend.”

  “We’ll do precisely that,” Dresden said. “Thank you very, very much.”

  Outside, unable to find an available cab, they decided to walk.

  “Damn,” Dresden said. “It’s three days until the weekend.”

  “Charles,” said Maddy, affecting an Eastern tone. “I think we can find something to do for three days in New York.”

  19

  North of White Plains there was snow on the ground. When Dresden turned the yellow Mercedes off Interstate 684 at the Katonah exit some twelve miles farther up the road, the snow cover was thicker and more was falling. Under leaden skies, everything seemed black and white—old white colonial homes with dark roofs and windows set in fields of white amidst the stark silhouettes of winter trees, the highways a moist black where the snow was not sticking.

  Charley drove in the easy, practiced manner of a man who knew where he was, though he had not been in Westchester for more than fifteen years. They followed the shore of a large and pretty reservoir that extended for several miles, passed through a small village that consisted of little more than post office and general store, then headed up a set of sweeping curves to the top of a high ridge. Turning onto the highway that ran along the summit, Dresden proceeded perhaps a mile and then abruptly pulled into the long, curving drive of a large estate. There was a separate four-car garage with an apartment above it, several outbuildings, including a summer house, and hedges indicating a formal garden. The main house was almost large enough to be called a mansion, an antique of genuine colonial architecture that established it as possibly two centuries old. Charley continued along the drive slowly, passing under the porte cochere at the house’s entrance and then coming at length to the highway again, pausing at the open gate in the stone wall and looking back.

  “It has thirty-five acres running all the way to the stream at the bottom of the valley,” he said. “There’s a pond with a waterfall, a stable with six stalls, a fifteen-foot-deep swimming pool, and the grape arbor is made of cedar wood, if it’s still there.”

  “Is this David Callister’s house?”

  “No. Just a place from my past.”

  “You knew the people who lived here?”

  “We were the people who lived here.” He gunned the Mercedes’ engine, wheels slipping in the snow until they had gripped the firmness of the highway again. “My father killed himself sitting in a car parked on the back drive.”

  She sat silently, glancing back one quick time, and then staring straight ahead. The snow had now stopped, and there was an unfolding break in the clouds visible above the hills on the horizon.

  “Don’t be overawed,” Charley continued. “We rented the place. My father never saved enough money to buy anything. The real owners were one of those Russian émigré families. They didn’t charge us all that much, really. The place was a little run-down and difficult to care for. They had a hard time finding renters. I loved it, though. When I was made to leave Westchester I felt like those émigrés must have when the Bolsheviks drove them out of Russia.”

  “With so many bad memories, why did you want to come back here? Was it just to impress the California car dealer’s daughter?”

  At the crossroads he turned onto a different highway, heading south.

  “It was to impress myself. To remind myself of our old status. When we deal with Callister tonight I want to feel as confident as possible.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It will be the best time to catch him unawares, and to be sure of not being interrupted. Or so I hope. First, I’m going to take you to dinner at Emily Shaw’s Inn. It’s one of the more pleasant experiences to be had around here. What comes after won’t be pleasant at all.”

  En route to the restaurant, they first located the Callister home and drove by it twice. It was set well back from the road, but they could see a number of tire tracks in the snow-covered driveway. There were lights aglow in many of the windows. Someone besides a servant or two was at home.

  It was fully dark when they left the inn. Maddy stiffened as they waited for the attendant to bring their car, and from more than the cold. He sensed she wished the dinner were the concluding event of the evening.

  “Cheer up,” he said. “This is the last part of the ordeal. Then we make our escape—from many things.”

  She merely shivered. At Callister’s door, holding the spurious gift box from Saks, she took a deep breath and relaxed, preparing herself for her part in the nasty business that was about to follow.

  “Just be careful how you hold your purse,” Charley said. “We need every word of this on tape.”

  After another deep breath she rang the bell. After a fairly long wait, a woman who appeared to be a maid or housekeeper responded.

  “I’m Mrs. Calendiari, the senator’s wife. I just want to drop this Christmas package off for the Callisters.”

  The woman opened the door further. “Well, Mr. Callister’s home tonight,” she said. “Won’t you come in?”

  She hadn’t noticed Charley, who’d been standing in the shadows to the side, and looked somewhat startled when he entered behind Maddy.

  “This gentleman’s a friend of mine,” Maddy said. “My host for the weekend.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Callister you’re here. He’s in his study.” The woman went to a large, paneled door a short ways down the hall, and knocked. There was a response they could not hear, and she entered.

  “Mr. Callister,” she said. “There’s a Mrs. Calendiari here. She says she’s a senator’s wife and has a present for you.”

  He replied with some churlish muttering, and then said, more loudly than he perhaps intended, “How in hellfire would anyone know I’m here?”

  When he appeared at the study door, dressed in cardigan sweater, button-down shirt, gray flannels, and tasseled loafers, his expression was at first very disagreeable, and then one of puzzlement. It was the first time Dresden had seen the commentator without his television personna. He had expected the aloof, almost supercilious, patronizing contempt that was Callister’s trademark. Instead, there was only irritability.

  The maid started down the hall.

  “Mrs. Calendiari?” The voice at least was aloof—and mellifluous and refined.

  “Do you remember me?” Maddy said. “We sat together one
evening at dinner, at the Canadian Embassy, as I recall.”

  “I remember vaguely. They had some ghastly French-Canadian folk singer for entertainment. You’ve brought me a present?”

  “It’s from George.”

  The maid had disappeared, shutting a distant door behind her.

  “Oh yes. On the Foreign Affairs Committee. Atherton’s friend. Is this some sort of unamusing joke? I just savaged your husband in a column a few weeks ago.”

  He stopped talking, his look of puzzlement become one of alarm. Dresden had taken out his Magnum pistol.

  “Get into the study,” Charley said, stepping forward.

  “Is this a robbery? If so …”

  Charley shoved him. “I said get into the study.”

  He did as bidden, a jab from the barrel of Dresden’s pistol urging him on. When all three were in the room, Charley closed the door and locked it.

  “If you are Mrs. Calendiari,” Callister said, some of his arrogance returning, “and as memory serves, you look to be, you and your husband are in a great deal of trouble. If you are simply robbers, take what you want and leave quickly. You will still be in a great deal of trouble.”

  Dresden looked past Callister to his huge, mahogany desk. It was covered with newspaper clippings—not copies of Callister’s columns but news stories. From the size and form of them, Charley guessed they were transcripts of presidential speeches and press conferences.

  “Where is Howie King?” Charley asked.

  Now Callister’s expression turned to astonishment. His voice became very cautious. “Who are you?”

  “Just consider us the political opposition,” said Dresden.

  Eyes darkening, Callister looked to Madeleine. “Your husband is a friend of the vice president’s. Is Atherton involved in this?”

  Charley went up to Callister and jammed the gun barrel into the man’s stomach. “Where is Howie King?”

  Callister gagged slightly, staggering backward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”