Paramour (15 page)

By the time the aircraft touched down, Landry had memorized the President's schedule. The only part that worried him was a short motorcade in downtown LA he'd been unable to talk the political advance men out of. As the aircraft descended, he wondered what would become the Problem of the Day. In the Secret Service there was always one of those, too. It could be anything from an assassination attempt to the presidential limousine breaking down in the middle of the motorcade. Because of the complicated details of the security net surrounding the President wherever he went, the sheer volume of interlocking security details, plans, procedures, and equipment, something was bound to go wrong. And Landry would bear the final responsibility.

As the working shift of special agents moved up the aisle to the bulkhead door, Landry could hear the Los Angeles Secret Service radio traffic in his earpiece. As was custom, the agents were first off the aircraft and hurried down the ramp to take their assigned positions at the presidential limousine.

Landry stood at the bulkhead door and surveyed the area. Across the tarmac, on the roof of airport buildings, agents with binoculars were posted at intervals. Below, the motorcade was in position, with the presidential limousine parked directly at the foot of the aircraft ramp. Shift leader Bob Tomsic had taken his position in the elevated rear command seat of the "Queen Mary," the Secret Service's Cadillac. The other shift agents, like linemen waiting for the ball to be hiked, surrounded the limo in Secret Service formation.

Landry made eye contact with Tomsic. Tomsic gave the thumbs-up gesture. All was ready.

Landry turned, motioned to the Secret Service press agent at the rear of the aircraft, and stepped out of the way as the White House pool reporters and photographers rushed up the aisle, elbowing and shoving one another like school-children rushing to recess. Believing most reporters secretly lusted for an assassination attempt, or better yet a successful assassination, to further their careers, Landry distrusted them. After the last reporter had climbed onto the press bus, Landry knocked on the door of the President's private compartment in the aft cabin. "We're ready when you are, Mr. President."

Moments later, the President came out, moved to the bulkhead door' and waved at the crowd gathered below. Landry followed him closely as he moved down the ramp. At the limousine, Landry kept his eyes on the crowd as he opened the right rear door. The President gave another wave to the cheering crowd and climbed in. Landry shut the door, then took his position in the right front seat. He picked up the microphone on the dashboard and pressed the transmit button. "This is Landry. Let's move."

The pilot car, a marked LAPD black-and-white with red fights flashing, accelerated, and the motorcade followed.

"What happens first?" the President said, studying his schedule.

"We stop in front of City Hall. Four minutes to shake hands with Mayor Molina and the members of the city council. Brief photo opportunity, then an open-top motorcade down First Street for about a mile."

"There's a city councilman named Brown-"

"Yes, sir. I know who he is."

"If he tries to get in the limo, tell him there's not enough room. The Mayor and the other council members are OK. Just not him."

"Yes, sir. "

During the remainder of the trip to City Hall, the President went over the rest of the stops on the schedule the same way, informing Landry of various similar specific political requests. Landry memorized the instructions without making notes. At City Hall he would relay this daily "menu" to Tomsic. Tomsic, in turn, would pass it to the agents.

During the motorcade, the President stood with his head and shoulders protruding from the limousine's bubble top. Landry, hidden behind the smoked windows, was poised just below the level of the bubble with his right hand under the President's suit jacket at the small of his back. Holding the President's belt tightly, he was prepared to yank him down into the safety of the glass bubble at the first utterance of the day's Secret Service code word, "Drumbeat"-which meant an agent posted along the route somewhere had spotted imminent danger. Though he felt somewhat foolish in this position, particularly balanced between three LA city councilmen crowded into the rear seat (Tomsic had led Councilman Brown to a staff car before departure), he knew he would feel much more foolish sitting in front of a congressional committee after an assassination.

Three agents were running on either side of the limousine and nearing the end of the motorcade, Landry could hear the sound of their cap-toed Bostonians slapping the pavement. Rounding the corner onto Sixth Street, there was the sound of a transmitter being activated, then a heaving breathing sound. One of the running agents had pressed his transmitter.

"Drumbeat!"

To the right, a man was running toward the limousine holding something in both hands. Harrington broke into a sprint. Landry pulled the President down.

Aiming low, Harrington tackled the running man.

"Just flowers. It's OK!" shouted Tomsic through radio static.

"Clear! Clear!" Harrington shouted, out of breath as the motorcade left him behind with the flower man. "They're just flowers."

Landry helped the President back into position. "Sorry, sir. Just some posies."

As if his dipping inside the limousine was unrelated to the running man, the President popped up again and resumed waving to the crowd. During the rest of the day, the President never mentioned the incident to Landry. Similar things had happened before and would happen again, and the President, whom Landry respected, was smart enough to know that criticism of any security precaution taken by the White House Secret Service Detail was a rock thrown in a glass house.

Arriving at the Breakwater Hotel in Santa Monica later that afternoon, Landry escorted the President to his penthouse suite. Having checked the posts, including those on the roof, in the basement, and in the lobby, which were manned whenever the President was in residence at the hotel, Landry made his way to the room down the hall from the presidential suite-the Secret Service command post. He quickly wrote a short report about the running man incident, the Problem of the Day, and entered the paragraph in the Secret Service daily log. From the radio traffic, Landry discerned that David Morgan had been admitted to the presidential suite. It seemed that Morgan was with the President almost every minute of the day lately. Something big must be going on.

That evening the President had dinner at Mistral with the Three Musketeers. Named by someone in the White House press corps, they were the President's closest, most trusted advisers: philanthropist Milo Dimkich, restaurateur Arnold Stone, and entertainment attorney Anthony Chan, all powerful, politically active multimillionaires he'd known since his days as a Congressman. The President consulted with them during every crisis. Though cynics accused the three of secretly running the country, Landry knew every President, at least every one he'd protected since becoming a Secret Service agent, had such a group with whom to consult. To Landry, these fat cats from either political party were interchangeable: They not only lived in the same places (Beverly Hills and Manhattan) but, to him, somehow even managed to look alike. All were golfers, had beautiful wives, and were members of San Francisco's elite Bohemian Club. All supported charities and contributed heavily to both political parties to ensure their place in the kitchen cabinet-any kitchen cabinet.

Returning to the hotel late that night, Landry checked the posts. With everything in order he turned over the command post to Bob Tomsic, ate a peaceful dinner alone in the hotel coffee shop, walked around the block a few times whistling the Marine hymn, and retired to his room. Picking up the phone, he dialed the DC homicide squad room. Art Lyons answered.

"Landry here. Did you get the results to that test?"

"They just finished test-firing Stryker's gun this afternoon. The bullet I took out of the wall, the one that passed through Stryker's head, was fired from his gun."

"Thanks," Landry said after a moment. "I appreciate your taking the trouble."

"I hope that clears up any doubts you have about the suicide,"

"I still can't see the man doing himself, Art. I picked him for the White House Detail because he was steady as a rock. But thanks again. We'll talk when I get back."

Lyons said good night and Landry set the phone down for a moment. Then he dialed his home number. Doris answered. "I hope I didn't wake you," he said.

"You can wake me any time, handsome."

"How are Reggie and Tisha?"

"They had one of their usual scraps after dinner, but report cards are in and Reggie came up in both English and math."

"Good for him. I knew he could do it."

"You sound kinda down, handsome."

"I don't know. I guess I've been thinking about Ray Stryker. "

"You shouldn't dwell on that kind of thing."

"Can't help it."

"He's in the hands of the Lord."

"I'll call Reggie in the morning before he goes to school, dear. Sorry I woke you up."

"Are you all right tonight, handsome?"

"Sure. You go back to sleep now."

"I love you."

"And I love you."

It was morning, and Powers was still sitting on an overstuffed sofa in the lobby of the Zum Goldenen Hirsch. He was pleased when a new shift of hotel employees entered one by one and began taking up their assigned duties. During the early morning hours, he'd overheard bellmen and desk clerks commenting to one another about his constant presence in the lobby. If he was lucky, it would be some hours before those on the new shift noticed his loitering.

At 10 A.M., Marilyn left the elevator and strolled across the lobby. Powers followed her outside into the park and stayed behind her at a discreet distance as she moved along a path leading across a small bridge and under the shade of some trees. Emerging into the sunlight again, she made her way to the exhibition hall. At a booth near the front entrance, she stood in a short line for a minute or so, purchased a ticket, and entered the hall.

Because he could see that the front entrance, other than the fire exits, was the only way out of the place, Powers decided to wait outside rather than follow her inside and risk being spotted. For the next two hours, he lingered about, keeping a watchful eye on the door. At about noon, a man set up a frankfurter cart nearby, so he was able to eat lunch without taking his eyes off the place. As far as surveillances went, the opportunity to eat made it a good day. After eating, Powers took out his wallet and removed a lot of unnecessary papers that had been piling up, like credit card receipts and business cards. Inside a compartment was a folded paper with a list of names and phone numbers of women whom he dated: his little black book.

This list, like that of many other bachelor agents, contained the names of scores of women: mostly airline flight attendants and hotel employees, because they were the ones with whom Secret Service agents most frequently came in contact, but also cocktail waitresses and secretaries, hairdressers and schoolteachers: women of all races, classes, and political affiliations, including some whom he'd probably never have met if it weren't for the fact he carried a Secret Service badge.

The very nature of a Secret Service agent's duties provided opportunities for sexual contact afforded by few other occupations. It was as though being within arm's reach of the President at all times and thus constantly bathed in the light of news cameras, agents were somehow irradiated with power . . . or dominance . . . or whatever primal longing it was that drew women to men. Powers found that women from all walks of life, not just the usual nymphomaniacs and other women of low self-esteem who were police groupies, desired to indulge the fantasy of having an affair with a clean-cut, honest-to-God presidential bodyguard.

A realist, Powers was aware that most of the women were as taken with his status as a presidential bodyguard as with him. On the other hand, though he'd never admitted it to anyone, for the last couple of years he'd grown weary-not bored, but simply weary-of living like a Legionnaire. Frankly, he longed for a permanent relationship even if it meant tossing his little black book.