By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  Kreski supposed he had been a thoughtful and fairly able administrator, that he had a good sense about people, that in many ways he was an insightful and skillful detective. But his image as a genius policeman was a rotten myth. As the last six weeks had proved, his agency had failed more disastrously than any in the history of the federal government, save perhaps for the navy intelligence apparat that hadn’t responded to the Japanese threat to Pearl Harbor. He had been precisely the wrong man for the job at a time when the right kind of man was most vital. He had, to quote the Lewis Carroll line, sat in uffish thought, when what had been needed was a mean, tough cop who would have clamped an iron lid on everything at the first shot, even a pretentious, class-conscious man like Steve Copley, who had known enough to turn over every rock in sight.

  A key turned loudly in the lock at the apartment door. When it opened only an inch or so against the bolt there was a pause, and then a violent crash. The bolt came off, swinging on its chain, as the door swung, smashing against the wall. Kreski had seen a glimpse of a boot-clad, kicking foot. An instant later, pistol in hand, Mason Barren stood in the doorway, filling it. His eyes, dark with anger or hate, took in as much of the apartment as he could see, then he stepped inside, slamming the damaged door behind him, aiming his pistol at Kreski.

  “They hit us,” he said. “All over fucking Tegucigalpa!”

  “I know. I was downstairs when they shot Sandoval.”

  “You don’t have a scratch.”

  “I know. I …”

  “They wasted Victores in his house, in front of his wife. They took out two of my boys sitting in a café. One of them came after me, but I blew his fucking brains out.”

  Kreski only stared. He supposed his face was drained of color. His fear was overwhelming him, enraging him.

  “In every case they pulled this ‘death to La Puño’ shit,” Barren said. “They made out like they were ’Nistas. It’s all bullshit, Kreski. Fucking, lying, bare-ass bullshit. And I wouldn’t be surprised if right now up in the States some asshole Fed has pulled Mr. Brookes over on a traffic stop and conveniently found some fucking phony ‘La Puño’ flag in the trunk of his car.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, either,” Kreski said.

  Barren took a few quick steps forward and slammed Kreski back against the wall, shoving his pistol up against Kreski’s sternum. Kreski knew many practiced ways to disarm a man. He had used them many times. But he would not have dared with this man, certainly not now.

  “You’re mixed up in this, Kreski,” Barren said, his voice lowered, but more menacing. “I don’t know if somebody’s just using you or you’re a willing agent or you’re part of the brains behind the whole fucking thing. But you’re a big part of the reason we got hit today and if it was up to me this wall would be a blood-covered lab display of your anatomy.” He stepped back, lowering the pistol somewhat. “But my orders from Mr. Brookes were to protect your ass as long as you were in this country, and I follow orders. I’ll deliver you to the airport and get you on your plane, but I don’t ever want to see you again, mister.”

  “That will suit me fine, Mr. Barren.”

  “Colonel Barren to you, Mr. ‘Director.’”

  C. D. Bragg was the only senior staff person on duty at the Camp David command center. The phone call from Washington caught him yawning, but he snapped to upon hearing the caller’s message. By the end of the conversation, however, he was smiling, a rare expression for him even in normal times.

  The message was sufficient cause to wake Bushy Ambrose from his slumbers. Bragg hurried to his cabin.

  “Is it war?” said Ambrose, sitting up in his bed.

  “No, sir. There was some trouble in Harpers Ferry. You were right and Andy Rollins was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were right that it was a bad place to stash Meathead. A bunch of FBI hit it tonight.”

  “And?” Ambrose rubbed his eyes and turned on the light on the night table.

  “Fortunately, Andy and Meathead decided you were right. Dubarry moved from there this morning. The FBI got nothing but a bimbo and some hootch.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “The bimbo put up a fight and got knocked around a little. One of the agents shot himself in the leg.”

  “The vice president isn’t going to like that.”

  “If he’s even aware of it. Rollins says he’s still pretty withdrawn from things.”

  “Where did Meathead go?”

  “To a place where he’ll be happy. Rollins said he should have thought of it in the first place.”

  The telephone on the night table rang. Ambrose had left instructions that only high-priority calls were to be cleared through to his cabin. He wondered if it was Rollins.

  It wasn’t. Ambrose listened somberly as the other party spoke, then said thank you and hung up, looking not at all happy.

  “You look like there’s a war on.”

  Ambrose stared vacantly a moment, then brought his attention back to C. D. Bragg.

  “There was some gunplay in Tegucigalpa,” he said. “A lot of Peter Ashley Brookes’s people were hit.”

  “By whom?”

  “No one knows. Walt Kreski was down there. He wasn’t hurt, though.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “No one knows that, either.”

  “Why don’t you call up Admiral Elmore? The CIA takes night calls.”

  “That was Admiral Elmore.”

  When the wheels of the Mexicana Airlines 737 lifted from the tarmac of the Tegucigalpa airport Kreski swore the holiest oath of which he was capable that he would never, ever enter this country again or even look at it on a map. When the pilot informed them, in Spanish, that they had not only left Honduran air space but had crossed the border separating Guatemala from Mexico, Kreski’s blood pressure probably lowered ten points. Landing in the night at the Mexico City airport, gliding into that enormous mountain-ringed valley so endlessly filled with glittering lights, his relief was such he felt almost happy. He stepped into the terminal like a rescued survivor of a shipwreck returned to civilization. He had nearly three hours to wait until his flight to Dallas, where he would transfer to a red-eye run that would get him into Washington’s National Airport shortly after sunrise. It was the quickest way back, though far from quick enough.

  Stretching his legs in a stroll through the international terminal area, he came upon a café, seated himself at an empty table, and ordered coffee. It was strong and hot. Rather than stimulating him, it relaxed him. He looked about. There was a middle-aged couple nearby who were obviously American, a dozen or so others who were obviously Latins, a man in a dark suit reading a newspaper who could have been either. In a waiting area not far from the café he could hear an infant crying. In Central American airports there was always a baby crying, no matter what the hour.

  Finishing his coffee, Kreski looked at his watch, depressed at the hours still remaining. The area of the airport available to him without passing through customs was relatively small, containing only some duty-free shops, a restaurant and bar, a newsstand, and a waiting section encompassing several rows of uncomfortable leatherette seats. He made several circuits of it, then headed for the bar. The man who for most of his life had seldom taken more than a glass of wine or two in the evening was about to have another strong drink.

  He took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a rum and tonic. As soon as it was served, someone slipped onto the empty stool beside him. It was the man in the dark suit from the café, and he was definitely American. He ordered a beer.

  “I haven’t much time,” he said softly, not looking at Kreski, after his beer had come. “Do you know me?”

  Kreski glanced at him quickly, then stared at his glass. “No.”

  “We met. Five months ago. I worked with your people advancing Hampton’s trip. Identifying locals.” He took a large gulp of his beer, then refilled the glass from the bottle. “I work for the admiral.” />
  “Admiral Elmore? You’re with …”

  “Just listen to me. Get it straight. The admiral wants to be perfectly neutral in this. No sides. We just do our job. By the book. Follow orders. By the book. No sides.”

  “What do you mean, sides?”

  “Just listen.” He drank again, seeming bent on consuming the beer as quickly as possible. “Get it straight. The admiral is going to be perfectly neutral, but the admiral knows we all work for the American people, and the American people have something coming.”

  He took another gulp. Kreski sipped his own drink again, pretending to be looking off in another direction.

  “The admiral wants you to know this. Listen good. Juan Jalisco held three jobs.”

  “Jalisco had many jobs. He worked for almost every outfit down there.”

  “I’m not talking black job stuff. I mean civilian work. Before he got mixed up in the Central American war. The three jobs were all in Mexico, one in Tabasco, one in Veracruz, one in Tampico. The admiral thinks you should want to find out what they were.”

  The man drained his glass and stood.

  “That’s all?”

  “The admiral has just done you a big favor. Be careful.”

  Kreski did not turn to see where the man went. He knew that when he finally did, he would have vanished. Tabasco. Veracruz. Tampico. He kept repeating the names to himself as he consumed the last of his rum and tonic. Tabasco. Veracruz. Tampico. Tabasco, the center of the off-shore oil drilling. Veracruz, Mexico’s largest port. Tampico, the oil-refining center. Tabasco. Veracruz. Tampico. “The admiral has just done you a big favor.”

  Kreski paid his bill, then sought out a telephone booth where he could use his AT&T credit card. His line was undoubtedly tapped, but that couldn’t be helped.

  His wife answered before the phone had rung twice. “Hello?” Her voice was a little tremulous.

  “It’s Walt. I’m fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Out of Honduras.”

  “Thank God. They said on the news there were all kinds of shootings there, that some leftist assassins had murdered some leaders of that La Puño organization.”

  Kreski swore to himself. There’d not been a word of it on Honduran television, but already the story was all over the American media, and all wrong.

  Probably all wrong.

  “I’m fine. I was hoping to get back by morning, but something important has come up. I’ve got to make a side trip. A long side trip.”

  “Walt. It’s almost Christmas.”

  “We’ve missed Christmases before, Babs. This is just as important. Maybe more so.”

  “All right, Walt.”

  “We’ll have a hell of a Valentine’s Day.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “I’ll keep those words with me. I have to go. Be careful.”

  “I am. I never go anywhere without friends. Just like you said.”

  Kreski wished he had some friends. “Good night, then, Babs. Everything will be fine.” He hung up. He wished he were a better liar.

  He looked at his watch. It had been one month, two days, and nine hours since the shooting of the president. He had to keep on.

  Back in Washington, they stopped first to get Dresden another hotel room, this time in Arlington, just across the Potomac from Georgetown. He chose the Marriott, taking a room with views of the converging highways below and the high Key Bridge that led across the river. There was a Metro subway station a block distant that could take him anywhere he wished in the District of Columbia. The hotel was also not far from McLean.

  He left his bag in his room, but kept the briefcase. Maddy drove, with no apparent nervousness, though each mile of the George Washington Parkway brought her closer to McLean and the dreaded confrontation with her husband. It was a day of intermittent clouds and sunshine. The river’s surface kept performing a ritual light show—shifting gray-green shadows, followed by dappled wavelets and shimmering sweeps of brightness.

  Holding the Mercedes at a steady speed, she reached and held his hand. It was a demonstration of affection, not a need for it. She was in full possession of herself. From this point on, it would be her show, her responsibility. Charley’s fate was fully in her hands, and they both understood that.

  “I keep wondering if I should have called him first,” she said.

  “No. I think you were right in the first place. It’s important to take George by surprise.”

  “Nothing has ever taken George by surprise.”

  “Then it’s damn well time.”

  “I have this fear he might not be home, that he might have gone off on some trip to the Far East, or Central America. But I know better. Our Christmas plans are always the same. Make all the Christmas parties in Washington during the week, then on Christmas Eve fly back to California to spend Christmas Day with his family. He wouldn’t dare disappoint ‘momma.’”

  “Are they having Christmas parties in Washington this year? With everything that’s happened?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They may shut down the Congress and turn the White House into a fortress, but if they cancel the Washington Christmas parties, then you know they’ve really brought the American government to a halt.”

  She barely slowed, turning into her cul-de-sac and her own drive, the garage door rising just in time to miss scraping the Mercedes’ roof. It slid down again with a decisive slam, imprisoning them in the big garage as might the grate of a castle gate. Their only way forward now led up a flight of steps into the house. Parked next to them was a long gray BMW sedan. Calendiari was home.

  Leading Charley past a huge kitchen, Maddy went in to the wide entrance hall, setting down her bag by the main staircase and matter-of-factly turning to the front closet as she took Dresden’s coat and then hung up her own. As she shut the closet door, another one opened across the hall, revealing a large, sunken room with logs burning in an oversize fireplace, revealing also a perplexed and anxious George Calendiari.

  “Madeleine, where have you been?” His large, dark eyes went from her to Dresden, and narrowed.

  “Hello, George,” she said, almost casually. “How is Europe coping with the American crisis?”

  Calendiari stood staring at Charley, unspeaking.

  “This is Charles Dresden, George. From California. I’m sure you remember. We were talking about him just the other day.”

  Madeleine’s insouciance amazed Charley; it must have infuriated Calendiari.

  Dresden nodded to the man he had cuckolded, for all practical purposes, twice, now, in a lifetime. “Senator.”

  “I remember too well,” Calendiari said. “Where were you, Madeleine?”

  “In New York. I’ll explain it all in a moment, but now I think we could all use a drink. It’s been a long drive.”

  “Goddamn it, Madeleine, you went to New York with Dresden? And you bring him back here? I’ve been waiting for you for two days! I had no idea where you were.”

  “I’m familiar with the experience, George. If I had had a staff aide with me I would have had him call you.”

  Fuming, shoulders hunched, Calendiari turned and started hurriedly toward another door that led to what Dresden presumed was a library or study.

  “What are you doing, George?”

  Calendiari halted, glaring at both of them. “I’m calling the police. The man’s wanted for murder in California. I’m a member of the United States Senate, Madeleine. I’m not going to harbor a fugitive. Not even for a few minutes.”

  “George, by now I’m sure Charley and I are both wanted by police in New Jersey and New York. The charges include robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. If you’re in a mood to call police, you’d better call them up there too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re in trouble, George. And now you are too. As you said yourself, Charley didn’t kill anyone in California. Those people were friends of his, murdered by someone else. Charley’s stumbled
onto something, something very important, about the president, about what’s going on here in Washington. I went to New York to help him get more proof. Now, we need your help.”

  Calendiari was rapidly losing control. “You went to New York to shack up, you goddamn whore! I go to NATO on important government business and you can’t wait to hop in the sack with your old lover! Bring him all the way out from California!”

  Maddy’s calm was icy. “George, you’re acting like a child. Go back into the living room and we’ll talk this out.” She turned to Dresden, speaking more warmly. “There’s a wet bar through there. Make yourself a drink and wait until I convince George of the seriousness of this.”

  Dresden did, turning on a light over the bar and selecting a bottle of expensive scotch. Behind him, he could hear the Calendiaris, speaking loudly.

  “Time after time I’ve heard you complain how I’ve never been willing to put the interests of our country ahead of our marriage,” Dresden heard Maddy say. “Well, now, for once, I’m asking the same of you.”

  Calendiari swore, and then a door slammed shut. Dresden took his drink to a nearby armchair and sat, nervous and uncomfortable. He studied the titles on a bookshelf next to him. They were all works on Italian Renaissance art.

  He could hear Calendiari shouting now. There was a crash of breaking glass, and Dresden half rose from the chair, intent on intervening but uncertain. He had not known Calendiari to be a terribly passionate man, and did not know what to expect of him. At their first encounter years before violence had been the least of his concerns. But people changed. Still, Maddy had not cried out. Dresden eased back in his seat. At the first untoward sound from her he’d break in. Until then, he’d do as she said.

  At length, the door opened and Madeleine emerged. Her face was flushed, but she still seemed completely in control. She put a hand on his shoulder.

  “This is going to take some time, Charley,” she said. “I’m going to call a cab for you. I want you to go back to your hotel and wait. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”