Garrison entered through the glass doors of the administrative office at the Watergate apartment complex. A young female desk clerk standing behind the counter looked up at him.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I'm Jonathan Hollingsworth. The First Lady's, uh, staff person told me there would be a key here for me."
She smiled.
"We just received a call from the First Lady's office, Mr. Hollingsworth." She reached into a drawer and handed him a key. "If you have any questions, just call."
"I'll do that."
He crossed a lobby flanked on either side by an atrium. He pressed the elevator button and looked back at the woman behind the counter, now busy at a computer.
In the sixth-floor condominium, Garrison walked through the four rooms, admiring the expensive furniture and wall hangings. The living room walls were painted a deep mocha that accented the rattan furniture and marigold patterns on the sofa and pull-up chairs. There were mirrors in bamboo frames and bamboo legs on a round, glass-topped dining table. Everything in the room indicated comfort and relaxation. The kitchen was a showcase of butcher-block and stainless steel - a gourmet's workplace with an exit leading to a service elevator. In the bedroom, he walked to the window.
Across the street was the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, the hub of D.C. culture where the city's upper crust went to be seen by other members of the upper crust as they sat through music recitals. Garrison knew the interior of the imposing structure inch by inch, having been assigned as Presidential advance agent there three different times in the last two years. He preferred a boxing match or a basketball game. For a moment, he had the feeling that he was in the middle of a dream. He was hiding out in an apartment owned by the First Lady and he had few options. It was only a matter of time before agents found him - before the conspirators moved again to assassinate the President.
At the living room table, Garrison opened Flanagan's briefcase and went over the paperwork on Alexander again. He took out a pen and began making notes, random notations about what he knew, hoping that the simple act of writing itself might guide him. Such doodling had helped him in other investigations. After a few minutes, he was staring at a name he had written: SPIKE VINCENT. In the file, Vincent was the only listed associate of Garth Alexander, the Aryan Disciples mercenary to whom Frank Hightower had directed him.
With Alexander dead, Garrison had little else to go on. He had to trace Alexander and determine who had hired him.
****
CHAPTER 21
IN THE WHITE House Situation Room, Wintergreen anxiously described the evidence against Garrison to the National Security Council: the President, National Security Advisor Helen Pierpont, Cabinet members, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Wintergreen was standing at the far end of a long mahogany conference table. He could tell by the eye contact he was getting that he had everyone's undivided attention.
"You're saying Garrison did this because the Aryan Disciples gave him money?" the President asked.
"That's what his motive appears to be at this point, Mr. President."
Finally, Wintergreen finished his talk and turned deferentially to the President, who was tapping a pencil on the table, an irritating habit that had been getting on Wintergreen's nerves. The President glanced toward Pierpont, to whom he often looked for advice in such matters. Wintergreen had known all along that it was Pierpont he had to convince. Few Presidents went against the advice of their National Security Advisor. And with Jordan, Pierpont had special influence.
"What in the name of God made this agent think he could get away with something like this?" the Secretary of the Treasury asked.
"Targeting the executive is a psychological syndrome - a psychopathology," Wintergreen said.
"It's psycho, all right," Pierpont said.
"To hell with all the gobbledygook," the President said, and a hush spread across the room.
"I have a question, Mr. Director," Pierpont said, doodling on a yellow pad. Then, with upturned palms and her thin lips formed into an O, she continued. "As we sit here, is the President of the United States safe?"
Wintergreen had anticipated Pierpont digging into the Garrison issue. Making others look bad was her way.
"Garrison is not going to be able to make it through our security if that's what you mean. No way."
Pierpont stood and walked to a formidable array of the latest in military communications equipment.
"How can you be so sure?"
"I certainly don't mean to imply that we're taking this lightly."
"Nor did I mean to imply that."
"I've ordered every working shift beefed up. We've launched a full-scale, nationwide manhunt."
"What I mean is: Wouldn't a veteran Secret Service agent assigned to the White House Detail - an agent with Garrison's experience - be able to defeat all your security plans if he so chose?"
"He knows we are looking for him," Wintergreen said.
He'd anticipated the question, and had already decided to lead her on with the incomplete answer.
Pierpont pensively rubbed an index finger along her upper lip.
"All your agents are fully knowledgeable about all your security arrangements and plans, are they not?"
"Yes."
"And Garrison had a supervisory position, did he not?"
"My point is: The plot has been uncovered. He's not going to continue on now that he has lost the element of surprise. The Aryan Disciples is a crazy, extremist organization, but they are not suicidal."
"How can you be sure he won't try some kind of kamikaze attack to finish me?" the President said. "Isn't that what these kind of fanatics do? The helicopter bomb missed, so they try something else? Garrison is at large. He is out there."
Wintergreen swallowed. "I really don't anticipate anything like that in this case, but I can only surmise-"
"Surmise?" the President interrupted. "I surmise that I am in danger of getting my ass blown off. And who was the damn mastermind who allowed Agent Garrison to escape from custody?"
"Agent Beatty. But I take responsibility, of course."
Wintergreen recognized the risk in making such a self-evident remark. But what else was he to say?
"That's admirable," the President said. "But it doesn't change the situation, does it?"
Wintergreen felt drawn and enervated. He had the feeling he was watching himself from afar. But he was confident that at the end of the meeting he would have what he wanted. As he saw it, it was why the other Cabinet members were being silent. They knew that extraordinary measures were about to be imposed. They knew that the President of the United States wasn't going to sit back and allow someone to assassinate him. He was going to defend himself. Pierpont would lead him to making the decision.
"I have a team of handpicked agents on the street as we speak, Mr. President. Agent Flanagan is in command. He will get results."
"What results?" Pierpont asked.
"We will apprehend Garrison," Wintergreen said. "We will throw him in a federal lockup." He knew what Pierpont wanted to hear, but he would force her to get the President himself to say it. Wintergreen was stimulated by the exchange. He was in control and he liked the feeling. "I have a major effort out there to recapture him."
"And then what?" Pierpont asked.
"He'll stand trial in federal court. My agents have gathered plenty of evidence to use against him."
"The judicial process might be a problem in this case," Pierpont said.
The President coughed dryly. "Please explain, Helen."
She turned toward the President.
"Every passing day means a greater risk of the story getting out to the press. When it does, the Presidency will be hurt. The country won't just roll merrily along with a government-trained stalker lurking out there, waiting to kill the President. I can see it on the six o'clock news: President in Danger. The issue would build by the day. It would be another Iran hostage crisis. The stock market might e
ven nosedive. Can you imagine what this town would be like with an assassination conspiracy trial going on? If it turns out that Garrison is connected to the Aryan Disciples, he could even become a hero to the neo-Nazi movement. The reports that I get indicate that these people are out there. More of them than we like to think."
Wintergreen loved how power freaks like Pierpont thought they could foretell events. He felt like asking her to predict the winner of the Kentucky Derby.
"What is your take on that, Mr. Director?" the President asked.
Wintergreen fidgeted. "I agree. If the press gets this story, we will have to worry about behavioral contagion."
"What's that?"
"I'm referring to insane people getting the same idea. Our studies have shown that even talk of assassination causes kooks to come out of the woodwork. It creates instability and can frequently rouse them to action."
"Let's not forget that Garrison is a trained federal agent who has the expertise to defeat Presidential security," Pierpont said. "His file shows that he is also an explosives expert. He is a walking time bomb."
The President licked his lips.
"Is there anyone who doesn't believe that this is a matter requiring special action?" he asked. The others shook their heads.
Wintergreen waited for someone to disagree. But because of the President's tone of voice, indicating that he was for such an action, the others said nothing. To Wintergreen, it was always fascinating to watch the pack mentality at work. Even at this level, the bureaucrats invariably went along with whatever they thought the President wanted. During the Yugoslavian crisis, Wintergreen had attended a National Security Council meeting and watched with interest as everyone in the room had concurred with the President's decision to cluster-bomb civilian areas. Hungry sled dogs. He noticed Pierpont place a pencil on the yellow tablet in front of her, and Wintergreen wondered if it wasn't a code she'd worked out with the President beforehand.
"Then it's my firm opinion that if a decision was made to reach outside normal channels, it would conform to precedent," the President said. "Thanks, everyone," he added to close the meeting. "I'd like Ms. Pierpont and Director Wintergreen to remain."
The others departed. A military aide closed the door.
"Mr. President, as of this moment, no one outside a few people in the Secret Service and some staffers know about the Garrison matter," Pierpont said. "It could be brought to an end swiftly. Even if some of the facts later leaked, it would be manageable."
"How would it ... sound?"
"People have mental problems," she said. "A bump-in-the-road thing. People have been known to commit suicide. Afterward, the President appoints a blue-ribbon commission to investigate. I would be happy to chair such a commission."
The President rubbed his chin. He rose from his chair and walked slowly to an electronic map of Russia. He absentmindedly pushed a button on the projection. Moscow lit up.
For a moment, Wintergreen wondered if the President would balk. But he knew the President didn't like messes. He believed in anticipating future events, in taking action now rather than later. Wintergreen could almost see the goal line. Wintergreen had taken the horse to water and he was about to drink. Come on and say it, you fucking blowhard.
The President returned to the table.
"I find the facts clear as to what has to be done to put things back in order without any more commotion - to neutralize the problem." He sat, picked up a pen, and made a note on the writing pad in front of him, then tore off the sheet of paper and shoved it in his pocket. "Are we all on track with that?" the President asked looking at Wintergreen.
As Wintergreen was aware, the President's use of the words find and neutralize had a special meaning when used in a national security context. He was issuing a Presidential finding, in which the word neutralize was a euphemism for murder. A CIA lawyer, authorizing Garrison's murder under Presidential executive authority, would now prepare a legal document. Wintergreen revisited the urge to release his breath in a gesture of relief, but he held back.
"Mr. President," Wintergreen said. "If you would ... I don't want to make a mistake on this. I want to make sure I'm reading you correctly-"
"Catch Garrison and kill him. Is that clear enough for you?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Put together a team," Pierpont said. "People you trust. We want this done right."
"Roger that."
After the President and Pierpont left the room, Wintergreen stretched. He imagined Garrison as a miniature cloud in the room, floating toward the ceiling to be sucked out of the room by the air conditioner to join the ghosts of others who'd gotten in the path of the wrong people.
****
CHAPTER 22
GARRISON WAITED ON a crowded sidewalk outside the arrival baggage area at Dulles International airport, watching a line of arriving passengers waiting in a taxi line. He was headed for Bakersfield, California, where he hoped to be able to find out more about Garth Alexander. But to get there he needed someone else's identification. By now Flanagan had probably placed his name in every law-enforcement and travel-security database in the world.
A man at the end of the line had a foreign passport protruding from his shirt pocket. Garrison studied him. He was about Garrison's height and age. Figuring that with some luck he might be able to impersonate him, Garrison got in line behind him. When the man walked toward the trunk of a taxi to put in his luggage, Garrison intentionally bumped into him, deftly snatching the passport.
"Pardon me, sir," he said.
"Entshuldigen sie mich. "
Garrison moved away briskly. Meshing into the crowd, he looked back. The man got into a taxi and it pulled into traffic. Garrison looked about to see if anyone had seen anything, then checked the passport. The man's name was Joachim Porzig. In the passport photograph he wore eyeglasses and his hair was brushed forward.
In the airport departure-terminal gift shop, Garrison purchased a pair of reading glasses and a comb. In the men's room, he stood at a mirror and combed his hair to approximate Porzig's forward sweep. Satisfied that the style was the best he could do to match Porzig's appearance, he put on the reading glasses. He didn't look like Porzig's twin, but no one expected passport photographs to be precise, particularly a harried ticket clerk who looked at ID photographs all day.
At the United Airlines ticketing area, Garrison checked the flight-departure schedule. There was a United Airlines flight leaving for L.A. in forty minutes. He waited in line at a ticket counter, telling the clerk that his destination was Bakersfield, California.
"You have to fly through Los Angeles."
"Yes."
He purchased a ticket using some of the cash Eleanor had given him. He knew that flying across the country to follow up the lead he'd found in Flanagan's briefcase was a dangerous exercise, a long shot, and might end up being a waste of time. But he had to try.
"May I see some identification, Mr. Porzig?"
"Certainly."
He handed her the passport. She opened it and looked up at him to compare the photo with his appearance. After entering the passport number into her computer, she handed him the ticket and the passport.
"I love Salzburg," she said, having noted the address in the passport.
"My hometown."
"You have no accent."
"I'm a language teacher."
"No wonder. You'll be departing from Gate 23A. Have a nice trip."
Relieved, Garrison moved cautiously toward the boarding area, staying close to groups of people, using them as camouflage. Reaching the jet way, he checked in at the gate, then sat and waited.
Two uniformed police officers emerged from the escalator and began walking past the boarding gates.
Garrison hurried into the bus and moved anxiously into the corner, facing away from the door as other passengers filed in. After a few minutes, the bus pulled away from the terminal and drove toward the waiting aircraft. Garrison looked back at the terminal receding in
to the distance. He felt numb, as if some strange magnetism was holding him in its grip.
During the flight to the West Coast, Garrison tried to plan his moves and went over what he knew a hundred times. Garrison had to do more than just shoot holes in the evidence against him. He had to come up with something solid. To convince the President that he was innocent, he actually had to solve the case. Nothing less would suffice.
****
CHAPTER 23
AT ROBERTS FIELD, the airport north of Bakersfield, Garrison got off a commuter plane from Los Angeles. Inside a small arrival terminal, he rented a car.
The weather was as hot and dry as Washington, D.C., was humid. It was hellish Central California evangelist-tent heat that turned necks into red leather, melted asphalt on drag strips, and brought a steady stream of refrigerated beer trucks crossing the ridge route from L.A. each day.
Garrison knew about Bakersfield from having been there during the last Presidential campaign. Its growth in the 1920's stemmed from the migration from the Dust Bowl by people looking for farm labor. It had been a harsh desert that had eventually been transformed into agricultural farmland for as far as the eye could see. He'd learned that Bakersfield was an unusual place made up of wealthy farmers, stoop laborers, and a suburban class that owned boats they stored in their garages until the weekend, when they launched them in the Kern River, the lifeblood of the flatland city. Up until the 1950's, there had been Ku Klux Klan activity and reports of lynchings in the city. Even today, Bakersfield's politics was kooky, with right-wing city prosecutors in the District Attorney's office and KILL THE IRS stickers on pickup truck bumpers all over town.
He drove to a downtown clothing store and purchased Levi's and a white crew-neck T-shirt. Having changed clothes in the rental car, he used a city map he found in the glove compartment to find the Corral Club, the establishment mentioned in the file folder he'd taken from Flanagan as being a hangout for Garth Alexander's associate Spike Vincent.
Cruising slowly on a road just off Highway 99 at the Norton Boulevard turnoff, Garrison spotted a sign: CORRAL CLUB - DANCING. Above it was a martini glass. Inside, it would be bucking bronco. Garrison parked his car in a gravel-covered parking lot.
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