Authors: Gerald Petievich
She shook her head. "Talk about a raw deal. How did you end up on the First Lady Detail?"
"The slot was open at the time."
"Roland Prefontaine told me he didn't want to leave, but got the boot all of a sudden."
Before Garrison, Prefontaine had been the supervisor of the First Lady Detail.
"He thought it was because he did something that pissed someone off," she went on. "But no one would say. You know how those things happen. A White House mystery."
"The First Lady has never mentioned anything about him to me."
Breckinridge shrugged and glanced at her wristwatch.
"I'd better be going." She reached into her purse.
"I'll get the bill."
"Thanks, Pete. I'll get it next time."
They went back to discussing the case.
Garrison pondered the events of the day as he arrived at his apartment in the Scott Circle Arms on Rhode Island Avenue. He'd lived in the brick-front apartment house since coming to D.C. to join the Secret Service thirteen years earlier. After dialing a code number on an electronic keypad, he walked into a stifling foyer that held the D.C. humidity like an orchid farm. Unlocking his mailbox, he pulled out bills, a fishing catalogue, and a padded envelope with no return address.
On the third floor he unlocked his apartment and hurried inside to the closet to enter the ALARM OFF code on the keypad. He'd installed the alarm system a few weeks earlier. Though no one could prove it, a teenager who lived on the first floor had been burglarizing apartments to feed his narcotics habit, and Garrison had figured it was worth investing a few dollars on the alarm to avoid the kid stealing his gun and perhaps shooting someone.
On an assemble-yourself entertainment center in the living room was a framed photograph of Garrison's father, in Army dress uniform. He had been nineteen years old when the picture had been taken. Garrison adored him. Garrison took his gun and handcuffs from his belt and placed them on the dinette table. Attached to his key ring were a duplicate White House gun box master key and the ignition and trunk keys for the Presidential limousines. Every agent was required to carry the keys so they would be able to both gain access to White House shoulder weapons and drive the President to safety even if a limousine driver were disabled by gunfire.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Selecting some leftovers, he created a dinner that included a small tin of mandarin orange slices, half a liverwurst sandwich, a frozen French roll, and some creamed com in a Tupperware container. Carrying the items to the work counter, he ate over the sink while reading his mail. In the padded envelope were a letter and a 5 X 7 photograph of him and Eleanor standing inside the glass patio door at the Rehoboth Beach house, kissing passionately, his right hand on her breast. Garrison felt like he'd opened a coffin and found his own corpse inside.
"What the hell?" he said out loud.
A letter attached to the photograph read:
Dear Agent Garrison:
Please tell the First Lady that the price to purchase the original negative of this photo is two million dollars, a reasonable amount considering what I could get by selling it to the tabloids. I'm sure you agree that the shot would capture a big price.
If you or one of her representatives would like to discuss an amicable settlement of this matter, come to the Mayflower Hotel Bar tomorrow at noon to discuss the arrangements. I suggest you proceed discreetly. If you try any
tricks, please be advised I have taken steps insuring that the photograph will be released to the worldwide press if anything goes wrong. I am only in this for the money, and once I am paid, you will never hear from me again. So I suggest you not try to get clever on me, but just go along with the program. There is an easy wav and a hard way to handle certain matters. Why not the easy way?
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."