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  Landry looked around to see that no one else was listening. "My man," he said, without looking up from his paperwork, "may I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "Are women all you ever think about?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've heard about the trip to California next week and you're trying to rearrange your schedule around pussy."

  "If there's a problem-"

  "Do you ever think about anything else? Like baseball. Do you ever think about baseball?" He looked up and winked. "Enjoy the beach, my man."

  "Appreciate it. "

  Landry tore a page off his note pad and stood up to face the group of agents. "Listen up! The man will be staying in the House all day. He'll be having lunch in the Blue Room with Congressman Lyman from Pennsylvania, who happens to be on the Appropriations Committee. So if you're standing post when they walk by, look sharp; Lyman can cut the Secret Service budget. We're working on Whisky frequency today."

  He referred to his notes.

  "Be advised that last night at twenty-three hundred hours a lunatic named Myron Foxbettor, fifty-one years old, approached the East Gate carrying a garden hoe and a box of Tide, which he was pouring over his head. He made verbal threats against the President and was committed to the psychiatric evaluation ward at St. Elizabeth Hospital.... An hour later one Richard Gastineau, thirty-three years old, also approached the gate. Gastineau, who was costumed like Charlie Chaplin, said he'd been hired to throw a lemon pie in the President's face. This whipdick was also committed to St. Elizabeth's. A search of his car revealed a lemon meringue pie, which is now being analyzed by Technical Security Division. That's all I have. Any questions?"

  "Is it true we're going to Santa Monica next week?" Capizzi asked.

  "There's no travel scheduled at this point. So those of you who are thinking about asking me to change your shifts in order to get beach time on the Coast can just forget it. Gentlemen, I spent five years on this detail before I dared ask my shift leader for so much as a sick day, much less a change to another shift. So a word to the wise should be sufficient." With a straight face, Landry glanced at his wristwatch. "It's about that time. Let's make the push."

  There was some good-natured grumbling, and the agents filed out the door to man the interior guard posts. While the Secret Service Uniformed Division was responsible for manning the exterior posts, those visible from Pennsylvania Avenue and to visitors on the White House tour, the on-duty shift of plainclothes special agents was responsible for the close-in posts. In the Secret Service manual for protective operations this system of guard posts was referred to as "the concentric theory of security," a meaningless term coined by the Director, Rexford J. Fogarty.

  Powers took the stairs to the East Wing two at a time. Because of seniority, he relieved the agent standing outside the Oval Office.

  For the rest of the day, at half-hour intervals, Powers and the other special agents on duty would move, in succession, from one guard post to another throughout the White House: from the door of the Cabinet Room, to the door of the Oval Office, to the door leading to the President's study, and so on. Standing at these posts with arms either crossed on his chest or casually behind him or at his sides, shifting his weight now and then and balancing alternately on the balls of his feet to avoid fatigue, he would watch young White House staffers, Congressmen and Senators, generals, admirals, cabinet members, and members of the Vice President's youthful staff rush in and out of various offices carrying papers and speaking fiercely in hushed tones.

  White House staffers said little to Powers and the other on-duty Secret Service agents during the course of the average day. Powers had accepted his place in the hierarchy long ago: inside the White House, he was simply an observer, a symbol of security in a place already protected by spiked fences, electronic barriers, outside guard posts, and every type of alarm imaginable. Looking like gun-carrying cigar store Indians, he and his colleagues would come to life only in the event that someone already admitted through the elaborate screen of security tried to harm the President.

  And Powers knew this was very unlikely.

  In fact, the only action he'd seen while pushing post inside the White House was the time an insane army private, Leroy Mildebank, had stolen a helicopter from Fort Meade, Maryland, and tried to land it in the White House Rose Garden. Once it was established that the chopper was unauthorized, every special agent within range, including Powers, had emptied revolvers and Uzi submachine guns at it. Private Mildebank, uninjured because the military craft was bullet-resistant, had calmly turned off the chopper blades and surrendered outside the Oval Office.

  Nevertheless, even though Powers kept vigilant because it was his job, he hated pushing post in the White House itself because, though his job was certainly necessary, it was monotonous. The only human contact he'd have all day, except for other special agents, was when some power-hungry politician or admiral asked him, with restrained condescension, where to find the nearest rest room.

  When the President traveled, there was plenty of excitement. Powers had been one of the agents who wrestled the gun from John Hinckley's hands moments after Hinckley shot President Reagan. He had also been standing two feet from President Ford when Sara Jane Moore opened fire. A bullet had whizzed so close to his face that the recurring memory, like the nightmares he'd experienced after returning from Vietnam, still occasionally woke him in the middle of the night.

  Powers had just taken his post at the door of the Oval Office when there was the sound of static in his earpiece. He adjusted the squelch, to hear Landry inform him via radio that Chief of Staff David Morgan was headed for the Oval Office to see the President. Soon Morgan stepped off the nearby elevator. Fiftyish and with a receding hairline, the most visible member of the White House staff wore a pinstriped suit with a tight-fitting vest. Perpetually squinting because he was too vain to wear eyeglasses, he moved deliberately, ever conscious of maintaining an assured demeanor.

  Powers nodded. Rather than ignoring him completely and entering the Oval Office, Morgan stopped.

  "Good morning, Jack."

  "Good morning, sir." And since you've taken the time to speak, you must be going to ask a favor.

  "Jack, would you be good enough to check with your command post to find out if Dick Eggleston has arrived yet?"

  "The President is alone, sir."

  "I'm aware of that, Jack. I want to know if Eggleston has arrived."

  "I'm not allowed to use my radio net for anything other than Secret Service official business," Powers said in the impersonal but nonthreatening tone he'd developed over the years for dealing with power freaks, as he called them. Powers believed Morgan just wanted to kill time because he was early for the meeting and to remind Powers of Morgan's dominant position in the pecking order-something power freaks like to do.

  Morgan-son of Durward V. Morgan, of the stock brokerage house of Morgan, Arbogast and Klingheim; author of the President's winning election ad campaign featuring well-known movie actors in folksy heart-to-heart television spots-, graduate of the Fletcher School of Diplomacy and former U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union-gritted his teeth and looked momentarily at the ceiling.

  Thriving on intrigue, Morgan, who'd been active in both political parties at one time or another before coming to the White House, spent most of his time shielding the President from ambitious staffers or military zealots attempting bureaucratic end runs. A genius at limiting political damage, he was the power behind the throne in the White House, and everyone knew crossing him meant a one-way ticket right out of the administration. But Powers felt there was little Morgan could do to him. The way he saw it, he'd been working in the White House before Morgan arrived, and he'd be there when Morgan was ushered out by the next administration.

  A couple of minutes later Richard Eggleston, the hulking presidential Press Secretary, stepped off the elevator. Morgan immediately entered the Oval Office. Powers winked at Eggleston and touched his watch in a m
ock scolding manner as Eggleston reached the door. Eggleston smiled. In Powers's opinion, Eggleston was the hardest-working member of the staff. An easygoing former Yale journalism professor, Eggs had mastered the art of reinterpreting the President's controversial remarks for the press corps each time the President stepped on his dick during one of his infrequent press conferences. He had the unique ability to twist gaffes into something sounding reasonable.

  While Morgan and Eggleston were inside with the President, Powers could hear their voices clearly and was pleased he would have something to occupy his mind for the half hour until rotation, when, like a robot, he would move to the elevator post. He stepped a little closer to the door, permissible within the special orders of the Oval Office post.

  They were talking about the Middle East again, in serious tones. From what he had learned inadvertently as a bystander during similar discussions and White House briefings, Powers had come to appreciate the President's dilemma. The incursion of American troops to stem the aggression of Iraq's ruler Saddam Hussein in the early nineties had backfired. Rather than produce a Pax Arabia, the Arab masses, fueled by the fires of Islamic fundamentalism and enraged by the sight of foreigners treading on the sacred soil of Islam, had risen up against their rulers. With new, radical regimes in Jordan and Lebanon, for the first time in modem history the Arabs were asserting their power as a coalition. With this worst-case political scenario a reality, in 1992 President Bush had been forced from office rather than run for re-election.

  Syria, America's sworn enemy, had emerged as leader of the alliance. Taking advantage of the power vacuum caused by the destruction of the Iraqi war machine, Iran had promptly joined the new alliance. Forged by hatred of the infidel, and strengthened by a flood of arms from the Soviet Union, the Arabs had taken the first move toward reclaiming the glory of the Pharaohs, of Carthage and Babylon: the forming of a coalition. Syria's strongman Hafez al-Assad, champion of the dispossessed Palestinians and promulgator of worldwide terrorism, was now flag bearer for most of the Arab world. And Syria believed there was only one more roadblock to reclaiming the glories of the distant past: Israel.

  Whether the United States, with its continued dependence on Arab oil, would defend Israel against the new Syrian-led coalition was the test of the administration. American public opinion was split over whether the United States should risk American lives in another war, one with much greater potential for loss of life, but there was no assurance that a general settlement of the Arab-Israeli conflict could be reached. The President, at his lowest point in the polls, had his political career riding on whether to risk American lives and fortune again by pledging unqualified United States support to Israel. During the discussion, the President spoke softly, as was his habit, bluntly probing the others for their honest opinions.

  Then the conversation changed to the upcoming election debate.

  "They're pushing for two hours," Morgan said.

  "That's great if we're ahead," the President said. "But if things are rocky it could be a killer."

  "We have great confidence in our President," Eggleston said, in the disarming, jocular fashion that made him well liked not only by the press but even by cynical Secret Service agents.

  "We have to go with the assumption that I will be either slightly behind in the polls or even. With everything that has occurred there's no way I'm going into this election as a sure winner," the President said. "They're going to hang the Middle East around my neck like a great big albatross."

  "Good point," Morgan said.

  "If we limit to an hour we cut the risk potential," Eggleston said. "Anything can happen. Jesus, Nixon got hurt because of perspiration on his upper lip. I say we limit time. We limit risk."

  "And if they're ahead and refuse to debate?" Morgan said. "What if they tell us to go pound sand up our ass?"

  Straining to hear, Powers moved even closer to the door.

  "Then you say I'll go to the American people and tell them presidential election debates are sacred," the President replied. "We've had them ever since Kennedy and Nixon, and we are prepared to debate anywhere on any date they choose. Tell them we'll screw them with that position every day until the end of the campaign. They'll debate, all right. Have no fear."

  "Yes, sir," Morgan said.

  "Mr. President, there is also the question of standing or sitting. You are taller, and we feel that if you are standing during the debate it will give you a psychological advantage. They of course want both candidates to be seated."

  "I'll stand, and he can have a riser on the podium so we will appear to be the same height," the President snapped. "Next question."

  "They're insisting on Philadelphia over San Antonio," Morgan said.

  "Forget Philadelphia," the President said. "I want San Antonio."

  There was the sound of the phone. One ring, then footsteps. A discussion ensued, but Powers couldn't make it out.

  The door opened.

  The eavesdropping Powers caught his breath. Stifling the urge to jump away from the door, he turned casually as if to clear the doorway.

  "The President has a question for you," Morgan said, holding an eyeglass front with lenses by the bridge. The temples had probably been removed, so they would fit nicely in Morgan's vest pocket without making an unsightly bulge in his tailored suit.

  "Just a moment, sir."

  Powers used his radio to notify Agent Bob Tomsic, manning the Cabinet Room post down the hall, that he would be entering the Oval Office. From Powers's earpiece receiver came the sound of two clicks, an informal acknowledgment of the message by Landry in the command post. Less than a minute later, Special Agent Tom Harrington, a sad-eyed man who looked older than his forty years, appeared from the stairwell.

  "I'm working utility. What's up?" Harrington said.

  "The man wants to talk to me."

  "I'll cover the post."

  Powers entered the Oval Office and Morgan closed the door behind him. The President was sitting behind an antique oak desk on which were three telephones.

  Without looking at Powers, the President continued his telephone conversation for a moment, then tapped the mute button. "Jack," the President said. "San Antonio. The Alamo. Is there any security reason why we can't hold an election debate there?"

  "You should probably ask Director Fogarty-"

  "I'm asking you."

  "Yes, sir. The streets can be blocked off and a tent could be set up outside for the press."

  "You're sure?"

  "President Bush once spoke at a reception there, and I did the security advance. It was no problem."

  The President winked a thanks and pressed the mute button on the phone again. "My Secret Service people tell me the Alamo is suitable," he said. "Tell them I said yes." The President mouthed the word "thanks" to Powers and continued his conversation. Eggleston gave Powers a little punch on the shoulder on his way out the door.

  In the corridor, Powers whispered the President's question to Harrington so Harrington could relay it to Landry, Landry would pass it up the chain of command to Secret Service Director Fogarty. Fogarty, miffed at not being approached directly by the President with such a question, would in all probability try to contact the President to discuss the matter. But he would be rebuffed. Morgan considered him a dunce and preferred to deal with Deputy Director Peter Sullivan. The sound of static came from Powers's earpiece. Powers used his sleeve microphone.

  "Powers, this is Landry."

  Powers pressed the transmit button on his radio. Had there been a tone of urgency in Landry's voice? "Powers. Go."

  "Meet me at ... the Special Projects Office."

  ****

  THREE

  Powers stepped off the elevator in the basement, and hurried down a long shiny corridor past the neatly labeled office doors. Landry was waiting in front of the steel security door of the Special Projects Office. His complexion was grayish, there was a mist of perspiration on his forehead . . . and were tears welling in his e
yes?

  "Do you feel all right?"

  "Ray Stryker's dead," Landry whispered.

  Powers felt his stomach tighten. "What?"

  Landry looked around and then opened the door. Powers followed him inside.

  Landry pointed.

  Ray Stryker was lying on his back. His head was turned and his legs were askew. There was a revolver in his right hand, a service-issue Smith and Wesson .357. His suit jacket was open and the cross-draw holster on his belt was empty.

  "Jesus Christ," Powers heard himself saying. He crept closer and knelt by the body. Stryker's mouth was open and his head was turned, as if twisted, to the left. There was a nearly bloodless entry wound at the right temple. The cranium at the left temple was open and distended ... blown outward. Directly above the body, at head level, dried blood and brain matter was splattered across the word CLASSIFIED on a black drape covering a wall map. Powers, restraining a brief gag reflex, felt dizzy. "He must have been standing when he did it. "

  "He left a note," Landry said, his voice cracking.

  A few inches from Stryker's left hand was a piece of unfolded government bond paper with typing on it. Powers moved close and knelt. The note read:

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  I'm sorry about the way things turned out, but I have never believed in looking back. Those of you who judge me certainly have that right, but I don't think what I did was so wrong. It was never my intention to harm the country in any way, shape, or form, and I apologize to my fellow agents for whatever embarrassment my death may cause. I accept full responsibility for my actions.

  To my Aunt Beatrice, my only living relative, and to everyone who wishes me well, I bid farewell. I guess I forfeited my life when I first violated my oath. I can only hope my years of loyal service and the fact that I always tried to be a good father to Kelli mean my life wasn't a complete waste. Goodbye, everyone. For me, it's wheels up for the last time.