By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  She squeezed his hand hard, then lifted her face to kiss his cheek.

  “What does that mean?” he said.

  “I’m not sure yet. I suppose that I need you very much.”

  He squeezed her hand back. He wondered if she realized that there was an opportunity for her to escape, to walk out a door and away from this nightmare. But for all their idle, empty, unhappy hours in the embassy, they had never discussed this. They could not talk about it now with Graham Thompson near. If they were to choose that course, it would have to be a matter of spontaneous initiative. As they would be seated on opposite sides of the chamber, it would mean not simply escape but abandoning each other. They had no rendezvous point except the British car that was to be waiting by the fountain. They might never see each other again.

  Dresden had never considered anything other than a resolute conclusion to this. To walk away now would be to depart the path he’d been following for two months and three thousand miles, to walk away from his revenge, discarding his pride and courage. It would mean a denial of his manhood, of what he had taken on the entire world to prove.

  What would Maddy do?

  The subway car was coming to a stop. “Charing Cross Station,” said Thompson, rising. The doors slid open. Thompson and Maddy moved into the crowd, leaving Dresden, as planned, to make his way to the third-floor press gallery, alone.

  Walt Kreski stood watching the unmarked van carrying Copley’s body as it drove away, not moving until it had disappeared around a distant curve. He shook his head—in remorse and disgust. There was still some shattered window glass and a spattering of blood on the shoulder and sleeve of his suit coat. Kreski brushed at them ineffectively, then picked up his bags and walked to where Special Agent Hammond stood by the open door of a dark sedan. He paused, then dropped his luggage in the rear and eased into the seat, not speaking until Hammond had shut the door and come around to the driver’s side.

  “The last time I got into a car this way, I wished I hadn’t.”

  “Don’t worry, Director,” said Hammond, as he turned the ignition key. “I guarantee an uneventful trip, at least until we get to Washington. No telling what’s going on there just now.”

  He backed up smoothly, then turned and headed for the access road that led out of the airport to the expressway.

  “I wish Copley hadn’t been killed,” Kreski said. “And not just for professional reasons.”

  “He didn’t give us much choice. We hadn’t expected him to try to take you out here at the airport. It didn’t give us much chance to set up.”

  “That was a damn good shot.”

  “Behind left eye, through and through, from a hundred yards. Piece of cake. It helped that I used a scope.”

  “Judging from your records, you didn’t need one. You’re a better shot than Perkins was.”

  “I was afraid that when you noticed that and my proficiency in Spanish, you’d put me at the top of your suspect list.”

  “No way, Dick. You were too much in the line of fire at Gettysburg. What I was thinking of doing was putting you up for a commendation.”

  “You deserve one yourself for dragging Copley out to the bitter end that way.”

  “He could have told us a lot more.”

  “He wouldn’t have. You were two seconds away from finito, Director.”

  “Did you get it all on tape?”

  Hammond pointed to the rearview mirror, indicating an unmarked Secret Service van that was following close behind.

  “Every syllable,” he said. “They’re making copies in our little mobile recording studio right now.”

  “I don’t want too many of those things around. Tell them to stop.”

  “You just did.” Hammond smiled.

  Kreski swore, then pulled his tie aside and unbuttoned his shirt. In a moment he had pulled free the flat microphone pack that had been taped to his side. He clicked off the switch and set the device gently on the console between them.

  “I’m tired of being listened to,” he said.

  Hammond slipped the microphone pack into his pocket. “I’ll make sure there are no more than three copies of the tape. That’s all we had official requests for anyway.”

  “I’m not even sure any of them will ever be used.”

  “I think they will be in part, Director. It only seems fair that Copley be used the way he was going to use you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They did such a good job of creating this mythical La Puño outfit, why not leave it in place? Only instead of portraying you and Peter Ashley Brookes as the leaders, produce evidence that puts the mantle on Steve Copley instead. The public is convinced someone high up was involved in the assassination plot, and all the other killings. Why not Copley? He’s perfect for the role, especially because he actually was involved, and most especially because he’s dead.”

  “Only Copley. No one else?”

  “I was just thinking out loud, Director.”

  They rode along in silence for a mile or so, passing a lonely airport bus in the darkness, and nothing else. The lights of some of Washington’s outer suburbs glowed against the reflecting overcast in the distance.

  “I wonder why they picked January for these ceremonial occasions,” Kreski said. “It’s the gloomiest time of the year.”

  “The state of the Union is usually gloomy.”

  “The speeches never are. All right, what’s on the immediate agenda?”

  Hammond pulled a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket. “This restores you to the post of director of the Secret Service, effective immediately. Jelicoe goes back to Los Angeles and I’m to resume charge of the White House detail. By order of the president.”

  “I approve,” said Kreski, glancing quickly over the paper. “What else?”

  The other man handed over another document. “Here’s a copy of another White House directive, also bearing the president’s signature, that’s being put out all over town. It orders all FBI personnel within the jurisdiction of the Washington field office to report to the J. Edgar Hoover Building auditorium at once for further instructions.”

  “To be given by whom?”

  “The president’s old friend, the solicitor general. But it doesn’t matter who. The main thing is to get the feebees far away from the Capitol and some other key places, just in case.”

  “That’s all you have for me?”

  “It’s enough. Your call from New York only came this afternoon, after all, and it kept us pretty busy. Our principal mission tonight is to make sure no one else gets killed, or even hurt. Those on high want very much for Copley to be the last victim of the assassination plot.”

  “That suits me fine.”

  “Me too. Real fine.”

  “I have just one lingering problem, Dick, and that’s you.”

  “How so, Director?”

  “You haven’t been playing straight with me. You’ve done a wonderful job for the Service, but it’s clear to me you’ve also been working for someone else.”

  “I think you’d better explain that, sir.”

  “You were a thousand times overqualified when you joined the Service in the first place and you’ve been overqualified for every post you’ve held since, including your present one. Your life-style has been just the slightest bit more extravagant than your financial records would indicate you can afford, even with big debts, of which you’ve had none. I’ve thought for some time that you’ve had a source of extra income—cash income. Besides, you’ve been far too knowledgeable about a lot of governmental matters than anyone in the Service has a right to be, including me. You’ve done a lot of ‘thinking out loud.’”

  “Thinking out loud can be a useful procedure, sir.”

  “Who’s your patron, Dick? Bushy Ambrose? Senator Rollins? Peter Ashley Brookes? Or is it Vice President Atherton?”

  “That makes no sense whatsoever, sir.”

  “Who’s it been, Dick? If we’re going to h
ave a future relationship, professionally or otherwise, you’ve got to tell me.”

  Hammond tapped the steering wheel for a moment. “I can tell you this, Director. Any outside involvement I may have had was with a disinterested party—disinterested, that is, except for the national interest.”

  “Who, Dick? Not our warm, loving, jovial friend Admiral Elmore? Not the gray ghost of Langley?”

  Hammond said nothing—and everything.

  As a young congressman, following the advice of a wheezing old veteran of more than twenty years on Capitol Hill, Atherton had developed the habit of arriving extremely early for State of the Union addresses, assuring himself a seat on the aisle and, consequently, his appearance on national television when the president entered the chamber and made his slow, handshaking way to the rostrum. If things were going well for the nation and the administration, Atherton could make a highly visible point of greeting the chief executive warmly. If the White House was in trouble, he could evidence a certain diffidence. In either case, he had never failed to gain at least a few seconds of network exposure.

  Once he’d been elected vice president, of course, he’d stopped the practice as one far beneath his dignity, and had been careful to enter the House chambers on these occasions just before Hampton himself made his appearance.

  This night, despite his best intentions to maintain the aloof demeanor required by his high office and somber new responsibilities, he had been among the first to enter. Wild rumors about the presidential address to come had been rampant in the city all day. The vice president had believed none of them. His certainty as to what would actually occur had in no way diminished, or so he told himself. Over and over. Yet there was so much excitement in the capital, and the situation was so unprecedentedly bizarre, that he could not resist the compulsion to be where everyone else of consequence was or would soon be. This was the only night of the year when virtually the entire American government could be found under one roof. Despite fears of a terrorist attack, no one was staying away that evening. Congressmen, senators, cabinet officers, foreign ambassadors, Supreme Court justices, the wives of ranking members, and even a few astronauts and military figures, all kept coming in a steady stream. Their entrances were nearly all the same. They stepped through the doors with practiced smiles, making their way through the cordon of security men and waving or nodding to familiar faces. Then at once they stopped short, transfixed by the huge screen that hung behind the speaker’s rostrum in place of the customary American flag. It was similar to those used at the convention that had nominated Hampton three summers before, in Philadelphia. Improving upon a visual-aid technique first perfected by Ronald Reagan at his last nominating convention, Hampton and his communications gurus had used the system to magnify his presence when he was speaking and to generally dominate the convention with his persona by running silent videotape footage over it of Hampton and his family in an assortment of views and poses while the convention was concerned with other business and speeches.

  The Philadelphia system had employed three of these outsize screens. The House chamber, much smaller than a convention hall, would accommodate only this one. As he watched workmen and electricians move about it, completing some last-minute labors, Atherton found himself unsure as to what purpose it would be put. A living president would not need to resort to such dramatic effects addressing the full Congress in the House of Representatives of the United States of America. And the television cameras would magnify his persona for the benefit of the home viewers without the need of screens, as they magnified everyone’s. Atherton told himself that the installation of this system was simply confirmation that Hampton would not and could not appear to make the address in person. The members of his apparat would use the device for yet another—and it would have to be the very best—spurious videotape presentation. The dead president would speak to the Congress and nation again from his mountaintop retreat. Atherton was convinced of this. The great blank screen might well serve as a grave marker, so starkly did it proclaim the president’s demise. Henry Hampton was dead. And after that night, anyone who would insist otherwise would be compelled to prove it.

  Yet, for the first time in weeks—since those first unsettling days immediately after the Gettysburg shooting—Laurence Atherton was beginning to feel vague, unsettling tremors of doubt.

  No. It was his mind, his nerves. From the very instant things had gone wrong at Gettysburg, he had had to cope with an unfolding madness, the nightmare of a lunatic. It was beginning to wear on him, with increasing severity. He really was convinced of Hampton’s death. He truly did believe that in a matter of hours he would be installed as acting president of the United States at the very least. His problem was whether he could handle it. Atherton was having very serious trouble sleeping at night. Long periods sometimes passed now without his remembering them. Every so often he sensed his wife near him, following him.

  The vice president was claustrophobic, and the press of people around him was beginning to be an irritant. With a faint smile of apology, he edged to the side, then made his way up to the speaker’s rostrum, a throne representing much more majesty and power than the chair he himself occupied as presiding officer of the Senate.

  His own chair had been brought from the Senate for the occasion. He seated himself carefully, well aware of how many eyes must be upon him.

  The speaker was over at a doorway, conferring with an aide. Seeing the vice president, he gave a friendly wave, but continued his conversation where he stood. Atherton found himself joined on the dais instead by a man wearing what looked to be electrician’s clothes. The fellow made some adjustments on a contraption that had been mounted on the lectern below, where the president would stand if he actually were to make his address in person. It was an odd device, one Atherton could not recall seeing before.

  Whistling, the man followed a cable line that led from the lectern up to the rostrum, where Atherton was sitting. It connected with a small metal box, from which a thicker cable ran to a quite large metal case, which in turn had several electrical lines leading in a jumble from its interior. Atherton had very definitely never seen anything like that case before. The man opened the case’s lid, and was doing something with a screwdriver and a meter.

  “What’s that?” Atherton said.

  “It’s a voltmeter,” said the man, with a grunt.

  “No, I mean the metal case.”

  “It’s like a junction box. I’m checking the power level.”

  “What’s that on the lectern down there? It looks like a photograph enlarger.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It projects things on the screen. Look, I’m kinda busy.”

  “Well, look yourself. I happen to be the vice president of the United States.”

  “Yeah, well, I work for Mr. Padua.”

  “Yeah? Well, Mr. Padua might soon find himself out of work, and you with him.”

  The man stared at him for a moment, then lowered the lid of the case and walked away without another word. Atherton turned back toward the House floor, squinting against the television lights. He should not have been so childishly short with the man. There were reporters around who might construe the incident to mean he had gotten so power mad he was abusing mere workmen. There were others who would simply say he was losing his grip. He was not. He was perfectly in control. If he was nervous, it was just that there had been something odd about the fellow. The man had lowered the lid of that case with entirely too much gentleness. The vice president pondered the possible reason for such excessive caution, then turned and leaned closely over the lid, peering at it intently, as though able to see through it. Finally, he reached with trembling fingers and slowly opened the case, finding only a metal facing and sockets into which the cable ends were plugged. Gripping the lid tightly he tried moving the box and found it heavy, perhaps excessively heavy.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Vice President?”

  He
looked up to see the great bulk of the speaker towering over him. They had known each other for some years. On the odd occasion when they had a drink or two together, the speaker would call him Larry. But once the bottles were put away, it was back to “Mr. Vice President.”

  “I’m fine, Pete. Just fine.”

  “You’re sweating like a navvy. You better towel off with your hankie. They’ll be turning on the TV cameras in a couple of minutes.”

  Atherton did as suggested, hurriedly. The speaker lowered himself into his chair and picked up his outsize gavel, fondling its handle as a professional golfer might the grip of a favorite and lucky club. A congressman approached, the speaker’s majority leader, and the two spoke quietly with heads close together. Unable to follow any of the conversation, the vice president sat stiffly in his seat, mustering dignity and control as best he could. He knew exactly how they must appear to those on the floor below, how in a few minutes they would appear to the many millions watching on television at home. He had studied the tapes of Hampton’s previous two State of the Union addresses carefully. It was very difficult to maintain poise—to avoid the odd scratch of the nose or unthinkingly slack facial expression—while sitting directly behind the president of the United States for the duration of a long and important speech. He supposed few professional actors could manage it. He closed his eyes and saw himself again as he had been a year before, he, the speaker, and the president—the three most important men in the United States.

  But there would be no president in front of him this night. There would only be himself on the rostrum, along with the speaker, and the big metal box.

  The year before, the president pro tem and next in succession had been Senator Moses Goode, one of the most popular and capable men on the Hill. Now it was Maitland Dubarry. Atherton glanced about the chamber, back and forth, several times, but saw nothing of Dubarry. Meathead was somewhere else, somewhere safe.