Cordially,
A Concerned Photographer
Garrison felt suddenly overwhelmed, confused, and angry. It was as if he were standing at the edge of a great chasm, staring down. He considered the coincidence factor. Was it bad luck, fate, or bad karma? Goddamn it to hell. He should have known better than to be near a glass door. He was well aware of the existence of cameras that could take easily identifiable photographs from more than a mile away. Could the Aryan Disciples hit man, Alexander, have been stalking the President and seen them? What were the chances that Garrison would be kissing the First Lady at the beach house at the same time it was under surveillance by an Aryan Disciples assassin? A million to one? Or could it be two separate, unconnected people? A reporter perhaps? But it had been black-and-white film he'd found in Alexander's room. Garrison knew that blackmail was always a losing proposition for the victim. During the last Administration, there had been a number of blackmail attempts on the President, and Garrison had personally handled two of the investigations. He knew that some blackmailers, once they were apprehended, inexplicably chose to reveal the embarrassing information anyway.
Garrison left the kitchen and walked to the window. Across the street, the streetlight illuminated the traffic only as the cars passed by, as if they were disappearing into the darkness. He let out his breath. He's been stupid and foolish. He'd momentarily abandoned his good sense when he'd gotten involved with Eleanor, and now he was in the worst predicament of his life. He felt like a dunce.
In the First Family quarters Garrison got off the elevator and walked down a wide, oak-paneled vestibule. Crossing an expansive living room filled with antique furniture and original American art, he moved through a doorway that led into a study. Eleanor was sitting at an antique desk, reading. She wore a yellow summer dress that contrasted with her tan.
"Pete, I have a surprise. You and I are going to have a night alone at Camp David before everyone else arrives for the Russian summit meeting.... What's wrong?"
Her eyes were on his as he handed her the photograph and the blackmail letter. She studied them and her mouth became a straight line.
"Oh, my God."
She stood.
"Someone mailed this to my apartment."
"Who...?"
"I think this relates to the Aryan Disciples."
"In what way?"
"We believe they hired a mercenary to assassinate the President." He told her about Hightower's information. He explained searching Alexander's motel room and finding a receipt for film that had been purchased in Rehoboth Beach. "I think this is one of the shots he took."
There was a look of horror and shock in her eyes.
"I still don't get it. Why would an assassin-?"
"I think this mercenary - his name is Alexander - was scouting the beach house and just happened to see us."
"By scouting, you mean...?"
"Planning an assassination. Looking for security weaknesses. I think the blackmail idea came to him as an afterthought. Look, if my information is correct, if the person who sent this letter is part of the assassination conspiracy, he could have figured that he could pull off both the blackmail scheme and the assassination and collect the money for both jobs before flying back to Europe. I'm guessing now. But his type would be in this for the money."
"Is that the way these kind of people think?"
"Stranger things have happened."
"Pete, isn't it possible that this assassin and the blackmailer could be two separate people?"
"Yes. For all I know the entire Aryan Disciples could be in on it. Or, it could be the work of one enterprising blackmailer, an opportunist who is taking advantage of having taken that photo. But it doesn't really matter. The point is: There is a real threat against the President and a blackmail scheme has to be dealt with."
"Does my husband know?" She had a look of fear in her eyes that he'd never seen before, and he suddenly felt sorry for her. She wasn't used to talking about assassinations and other crimes the way he was.
"I briefed Wintergreen on the threat. I assume he'll brief the President."
She handed him the photograph and walked slowly to the window.
"Is my husband safe?"
"I don't want to frighten you, but I believe this is a real threat."
She pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and index finger in contemplation.
"And it is certainly a real blackmail scheme," she said. "It's just you and me? We are the only ones who know?"
"Yes."
"Pete, what can be done?"
"This type of man has to be dealt with."
"You mean-"
"In person. I'm going to meet with him."
"And do what?"
"Force him to turn over the negatives."
"How? How will you do that?"
"You don't want to know."
"'What if he turns out to be connected with the Aryan Disciples?"
"This isn't just another case. This is all or nothing."
"The Aryan Disciples are killers."
"There is no other way. If they are behind this, I'm going to turn him against them. I am going to make him take me to the ones who killed Charlie Meriweather."
"It's too dangerous to handle alone, Pete."
"Don't you see what would happen if this photo gets out?"
"I don't like your plan. I don't like it one single bit. Something could happen-"
"If the tabloids get their hands on this photo, they'll be selling posters of us in every shopping mall in the country. It would never end."
"I would be ruined," she said staring out the window. "Humiliated for life."
"As would I."
"We could deny. We could say that the photo is doctored-"
"And the media would hire a thousand experts to prove that the photograph was true and accurate. It is a damn photograph and it is solid evidence. There is no denying the truth in this kind of thing."
"Surely this person isn't going to just sit down and talk with you."
"He might send a middleman. He thinks he has nothing to lose as long as he doesn't let me get close enough to arrest him. But that's where he is wrong. I'll do whatever I have to to draw him in. And once I get my hands on him, he's not going anywhere until the matter is resolved. One way or the other."
"It's too dangerous. Something terrible could happen. I don't want you to go through this-"
"He is in this for the money. That's what I'm going to use against him."
"Pete, listen. If they want money, I will pay."
"It could take a lot."
"I have a lot. That's one thing we don't have to worry about."
Garrison thought her tone was less than confident. He joined her at the window. Below, a uniformed officer was walking to his post.
"And if you did pay, they would come back the next week for more. No, this has to be handled once and for all. Blackmailers don't go away."
"The best way is to give them money. You tell him how much-"
"The difficulty in this kind of thing is who to pay and how to pay without getting ripped off," he said. "It's not going to do us any good to give someone a suitcase full of money and then have him come back next week for more."
"I'm scared to death, Pete."
"I'll take care of this."
But he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything.
****
CHAPTER 9
BRECKINRIDGE WATCHED ANXIOUSLY as Rachel Kallenstien adjusted the focus on a slide projector. They were sitting in the Protective Research Division briefing room with the lights dimmed. When Kallenstien told her that the Secret Service forensic division had developed a clue on the Aryan Disciples threat letter, received the day Charlie Meriweather had been murdered, Breckinridge had hurried into the room.
Kallenstien pressed a remote-control button, causing a photographic slide of the letter to come onto the screen.
"This is the letter before."
She clicked the control a
gain. The next slide that came on the screen depicted the letter with a seven-digit number scribbled in the lower right corner.
"And this is the letter after the EDSA process - which involves placing the letter in a vacuum frame and sprinkling it with powdered graphite. A vacuum frame makes the graphite stick to any indentations that are on the paper. The criminalists think that this piece of paper was in a stack of similar paper when someone wrote on it using a ballpoint pen, leaving an indentation."
Breckinridge had heard of the EDSA process, but had never seen it demonstrated. For the first time since being assigned the case, Breckinridge felt energized.
"Seven digits - a phone number. Too bad there is no area code."
Later, Breckinridge and Kallenstien were at Breckinridge's desk. Breckinridge typed the password DUSTY on her keyboard and waited for a clear screen.
"Dusty?" Kallenstien asked.
Breckinridge tapped the phone number onto her computer keyboard.
"My father gave me the nickname. My mother hated it."
Breckinridge's father had been an oil-rig worker who spent many months away from home each year. She had been a Daddy's girl, and had written him every day when he was away from home on the job.
The display screen flashed the message NOT IN FILE.
"Goddamn it."
"Let's try the number using the dialing codes around Washington, D.C.," Kallenstien said.
"Good idea."
Breckinridge dialed the first number. It was not in service. She dialed the second number. A woman answered in the Spanish language.
"You speak Spanish?"
Kallenstien said she did, and Breckinridge handed her the receiver. Kallenstien held a short conversation in Spanish, then dropped the receiver onto the cradle.
"That was the sister of a retired postal worker. She doesn't know anything about her phone number being on a threat letter. She's been in the country for two years and she cleans houses for a living. She doesn't know anyone in the Aryan Disciples. She sounds legit."
Breckinridge and Kallenstien used computers to verify that the person to whom the telephone was registered had no criminal record, and to query telephone company security representatives in other telephone dialing codes across the country to obtain the registered users of the telephone number in question. Of the eighty numbers they came up with, more than half were no longer in service. Of those remaining, many were registered to phone booths and business addresses. As for the few that were registered to private persons, only a few of the persons had criminal records. One was a child molester, and the other was a man who had a juvenile record for car theft. Finally, Breckinridge stood and walked to the water cooler. Kallenstien followed. They sipped water for a minute or so.
"So the phone number is like a dead lead."
"Something else will come up," Kallenstien said. "Anyone could have written down a number on some piece of paper that was later used for the threat letter.
Don't let it get you down."
"The lady the number registers to. Would you interview her in person? Maybe there will be something."
"Sure."
"We don't have much else to go on."
"Martha, you look like you could use a drink."
Breckinridge nodded agreement. It had been a long day.
As they were leaving the office, Kallenstien mentioned the subject of the lie-detector tests that were being given to every agent on the White House Detail. Breckinridge didn't let on that she knew their real purpose.
"The operator said it was a routine security investigation, but I don't buy it," said Rachel. "The questions didn't jibe. I think they are trying to camouflage an internal investigation. There is no other reason for putting everyone on the box like that."
"Rach, you're a very observant person."
"Sounds like you may know something I don't."
"All I can tell you at this point is that it is a high-power investigation."
"You little tease."
"I've been ordered not to talk about what I know. But ... thanks for the help on this Aryan Disciples case.
"The ADs?" Kallenstien asked.
Breckinridge nodded.
"If it's an internal investigation, that could mean that someone in the Service may be suspected of having some connection with the ADs."
Breckinridge nodded.
"Wow."
****
CHAPTER 10
IN WHITE HOUSE Room 5711, sitting in a chair next to a polygraph machine, Garrison had sensors attached to his index fingers and chest.
The polygraph operator, Army Intelligence Lieutenant Mary Nicklanovich, was monitoring the polygraph stylus as it rolled ink onto moving paper. Prior to beginning the test, she'd introduced herself to him and had told him the test was required of all special agents because of newly formulated government security regulations. Garrison hadn't believed her.
"Are you acting as an agent of a foreign power?"
"No."
"Have you lied on your daily report during the last thirty days?"
"No."
"Have you done anything to endanger the President of the United States?"
Nicklanovich was the polygrapher used in the most sensitive White House internal investigations. She was a trim, athletic woman with a pixie haircut and broad. Slavic features. Her uniform fit her perfectly.
"No."
Garrison stared at a framed color photograph on the facing wall of President Ford playing with his dog on the South Lawn. He was concerned that some of his answers might be affected by his interlude with Eleanor. What if his concern showed up as possible deception? He'd left his post in the Rehoboth Beach security room to be with her.
"Have you knowingly withheld information during this interview?"
"No.
Nicklanovich made a red mark on the chart.
"Have you violated Secret Service protection protocol during the last thirty days?"
"No."
"Are you planning to do anything that might tend to harm any Secret Service protectee?"
"No."
"Have you done anything that could harm Presidential security?"
"No," Garrison said after hesitating for a moment.
Nicklanovich frowned and used a red pen to make a note on the chart, an indication to Garrison that his answer may also have been marked red on the chart.
"Have you done anything that could harm Presidential security?"
"No."
After repeating the series of questions and noting his answers twice more, Nicklanovich turned off the machine. She stood and leaned down to unfasten the chest strap and the finger sensors, then sat back in her chair.
"How are you feeling today, Agent Garrison?"
"Fine. Why?"
"You had a problem with: Have you done anything to harm Presidential security? Why do you think that is?"
"I have no earthly idea."
"You showed deception every time I asked it." She shrugged, and then used a knuckle to push her eyeglasses back on her nose. "That's strange."
"I didn't sleep well. Maybe that could be playing into it."
"Maybe," she said studying him.
"So that's it?"
"Unless you have some explanation-"
"I'll let you know if anything occurs to me."
"Look, I don't know what the hell they are looking for with these questions. They haven't told me. But I can tell you that this is a major investigation and if you don't clear up whatever is on your mind - whatever is bothering you - you're going to stand out like a sore thumb in the investigation. Having said that, would you like to take the test again?"
"No."
"It's your decision. But don't blame me if you end up on the suspect list."
She stared at him as he got up and left the room.
Garrison knew a polygraph did nothing more than test one's physiological reactions to various stimuli. He also knew that most law-enforcement professionals considered such tests unreliable. Pol
ygraphs were, by their very nature, inexact. Like most other Secret Service agents, he believed them to be pseudo-scientific nonsense. Lie-detector test results could not be used as evidence against the accused in any legal proceeding. Nevertheless, it was clear that he would be singled out for further questioning. The problem was, his concern about his affair with Eleanor had caused him to show deception, and he would probably never be able to answer security questions without showing deception. And he could never explain the truth. A hundred things went through his mind at the same time. He knew that he had just become a suspect. His daily reports, his shift schedules, and his expense accounts would be scrutinized. Such Secret Service paperwork, with its strict accounting of hours, was designed to fix blame and was a powerful tool to use against agents during internal investigations.
In the command post, Garrison found a classified E-mail message from Breckinridge on his computer. In it she mentioned that she'd come up with what looked like a telephone number on the Aryan Disciples threat letter received shortly after Meriweather's death, but that a preliminary investigation indicated that the phone number wasn't a local one and that more investigation was required. He appreciated her keeping him informed.
"How do you like the Frau detail, Pete?"
Garrison turned. "Long time no see, Roland."
Roland Prefontaine was Garrison's predecessor on the First Lady Detail. He was a natty dresser and his hair and mustache were neatly trimmed. His olive complexion seemed to match his necktie.
"So far, it's a walk," said Garrison.
"Bored?"
"I'm getting used to it."
"They put me in the Foreign Dignitary Protection Division. I just spent two weeks protecting the President of Guinea while he was traveling to power plants in Texas."
Garrison nodded. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Go."
"Why did you leave her detail?"
"You tell me."
Garrison stared. "You really don't know?" Prefontaine said coldly. "One day I came to work and I had transfer orders waiting for me. She said she didn't know anything about it. I figured Wintergreen was making room for one of his fair-haired boys. Was he?"
"If I'd wormed my way into the job, I wouldn't be asking you what happened, would I?"
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