The Grid

by Nick Cook

  Jimenez’s dead eyes stare at his blood and brains on the ceiling. A piece of him has narrowly missed a large crucifix hanging beside a crude portrait of the Madonna and Child.

  A second body is face down in front of the chair. Anders has been shot at close range. The bullets have exited his back.

  Lefortz’s body is in the bedroom. I roll him over. Like Anders, two rounds, center mass. I touch his neck with a fingertip. No pulse.

  A dirty nylon drape billows in the breeze. The window is open above his head. I stick my head out and see a ledge running toward the fire escape. Nothing moves below.

  I turn back into the room.

  I try to look at Lefortz, but can’t bring myself to. So I close my eyes and a picture comes unbidden. Lefortz smiling as he gets up to leave the Blue Barge. Wednesday is my ruby wedding.

  Wednesday is today.

  I slump back against the wall. I have no idea how much time passes before I hear a noise behind and to the right of me. I look up.

  A crouching figure, weapon raised.

  ‘Police!’ The voice is female, brittle, scared. ‘Don’t fucking move!’

  17

  ‘NAME?’

  ‘Colonel Joshua M. Cain, United States Air Force.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Forty-four.’

  ‘Title?’

  ‘Director, White House Medical Unit.’

  ‘A position you have held for …?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘How many years have you served in the United States Military?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘You are a recipient of the Air Force Cross?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For heroism in Iraq?’

  ‘For action in Iraq.’

  ‘Just answer yes or no please, Colonel.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The polygraphist sitting across the table stares at his laptop screen then taps the keyboard. His face is barely visible above the lid.

  It is my second interrogation of the night. The first was conducted by a Major Crimes Division detective at a Fairfax County Police Department station fifteen minutes’ drive from Clarke’s Crossroads. The cop had barely hit his stride when two Secret Service agents showed up. I called Reuben from their Suburban, on my way to the White House. He’d heard the news and was on his way back to D.C. with Thompson in Marine One.

  Behind the polygraphist is a two-way mirror, beneath which is a camp bed with two folded sheets, a blanket and a pillow. I am in a basement suite in the West Wing, several doors down from Room W16. The Oval Office is almost directly above me, which is ironic, because the room I’m in looks like a CIA rendition site.

  A jumble of wires connects the laptop to the polygraph, and the polygraph to electrodes on the first and third fingers of my right hand, a blood pressure cuff on my left arm, a heart-rate monitor, and a pneumograph around my chest and stomach. I’m also wearing a headset that monitors the movement of my jaw – to prevent me biting my cheek or tongue, which would send my responses haywire during the control questions. By removing my shoes, they have made sure I can’t press down on anything sharp to produce the same result.

  The first of the control questions: ‘Have you ever taken anything that did not belong to you?’

  I see the pleading eyes of the woman in the abaya, feel my chest constrict and my pulse rate rise. I envisage the effect this will have on the electrodes monitoring my galvanic skin response.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  I hesitate, but only for a fraction of a second. ‘No.’

  ‘Next of kin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever lied to someone who trusted you?’

  Second control question. There isn’t much to imagine this time. I think of Hope, her mother and Jack, and my heart begins to hammer.

  ‘No.’

  More tapping on the keyboard, then, except for the hum of the air-con, silence.

  A beat later: ‘Regarding your role as White House Medical Director, do you intend to answer each of the following questions truthfully?’

  I breathe in and think of the waves lapping on the beach in front of our house; the view from the porch, out over the point. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are the circumstances surrounding the death of White House Special Agent in Charge James Lefortz clear to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Duke Gapes known to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you and Special Agent Henrietta Hart undertake any follow-up investigative actions into the incident at St John’s Church?’

  Henrietta? My mind wanders for a moment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you prepared to cooperate fully with all appropriate authorities in disclosing how you came to track down Duke Gapes?’

  I picture the waves lapping around my ankles, feel the sand between my toes and wonder how Cabot knew ‘everything’, as Lefortz had put it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you working for any foreign government or organization?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you concerned for the health of the President?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes or a no?’

  ‘The question is ambiguous. Naturally, I am concerned for the health of the President. So is half the country – at least, the people who voted for him.’

  Nothing, no hint of frustration or irritation creases the operator’s brow as he recalibrates. Another pause. More taps at the keyboard. Then he asks whether I am responsible for ensuring the health of the President.

  Bravo.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is President Robert S. Thompson presently capable of fulfilling his duties?’

  ‘That is a subjective question.’

  This time, he lifts his eyes to mine.

  I know what’s coming and breathe in.

  ‘From a medical perspective, is there any reason presently known to you why the President should be unable to fulfill his duties?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you aware of any kind of plot to kill the President?’

  ‘Beyond the claims made by Duke Gapes?’

  ‘Do you have definitive proof of a plot to kill the President?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are there any reasons that might prevent you from legitimately fulfilling your duties as White House Medical Director?’

  I let the feel of the beach flood my senses, look in the mirror and very clearly address my reflection. ‘No.’

  I am halfway to the door, still buttoning up my shirt, when Cabot walks in. As I knew he would be, he has been behind the mirror, watching on a back-up monitor. It is the first time we’ve seen each other since the meeting in his Crisis Center. His resemblance to J. Edgar Hoover – short, overweight, energetic and suspicious – hits me again. His pig eyes narrow as they adjust to the harsh lighting.

  ‘You and I know that a polygraph does not constitute proof of any kind. It provides indicators. Even so, congratulations. For what it’s worth, Colonel, you NDI’ed.’

  I hold his gaze. No deception indicated. He’s lying. And he knows that I know it.

  ‘Am I free to leave?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’ll you tell the media?’

  ‘What we told the cops. The truth. That the investigation into the deaths of SAIC Lefortz, Anders and Jimenez is being handled by the Secret Service. And that Jim Lefortz was killed while conducting routine inquiries into the death of the protester.’

  His darting, suspicious eyes narrow. ‘Last time we met, Colonel, a man was shot dead right next to you. Now it’s happened again. I know, for reasons that are not yet wholly clear to me, that your relationship with the President exceeds the regular duties of the White House Doctor. But that’s OK, because we’re on the same team now. Reuben Kantner and I are in agreement. Amateur h
our is over. You guys are off the case.’

  He looks up.

  Reuben appears at the end of the lobby. He is still dressed in his overcoat. ‘What the fuck has been going on?’ He’s looking at Cabot. I’ve never seen him lose it before, but he’s right on the edge.

  ‘The protesters by the North Fence and the –’ Cabot considers his words, ‘– residents of the Settlement represented a threat to national security, as I’ve said all along. So, I have spoken with Mayor Phillips and as of this moment, the city authorities are evicting the protesters from the North Fence and bulldozers are leveling the Settlement. Both sites will be clear by morning.’

  ‘Clearing the protesters was not a part of our discussion,’ Reuben says levelly.

  ‘Nor should it have been. It’s the Mayor’s jurisdiction, not the President’s.’

  For a moment it looks as if what’s left of Reuben’s sangfroid will exit stage left.

  I stare at my friend. Lefortz is dead. Two cops are dead. And I have just been through an interrogation that threatened to reveal the President’s fragility.

  The thought that the pressure would get to Reuben of all people had never occurred to me before.

  Our eyes meet and he seems to read my thoughts. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘The death of Lefortz has hit the President hard. Hit us all, in fact.’

  ‘Quite. And I have a call to make – to his wife,’ Cabot says. ‘We’ll leave the rest of this discussion till morning.’

  He turns and disappears into the Secret Service command post down the hallway.

  I look at my phone and see that I’ve got three missed calls from Mo.

  When I glance up, Reuben is still staring after Cabot. ‘Does he know about No Stone?’

  ‘He knows something,’ I say. ‘But not that.’ I pause. ‘How hard is hard?’

  Reuben rubs at the fatigue around his eyes.

  I try again. ‘Thompson … How’s he doing?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. He and Lefortz had been together a long time. Shit, he …’ Reuben struggles for a moment.

  ‘Lefortz made him feel safe. Which is why I’d like Thompson to reconsider what I said.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The psychotherapy.’

  He nods. ‘I’ll talk to him about it. I promise.’

  I wait for the reprimand I’ve been expecting since I landed, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he asks me what happened. I tell him about the cabin, the crazy wall. Reuben listens, but says nothing. If it’s possible, he looks even more tired than I feel. I ask if he’s all right and he nods. Then I ask about Cabot.

  ‘Leave Cabot to me.’

  ‘He said you were in agreement.’

  ‘We are. You’re going to have to leave the investigation to him now.’

  ‘Did you go public on the conference being in Jerusalem?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, Gapes knew about it, Reuben. He also knew about Hope. He knew about everything. You. Me. Plus a whole lot more that doesn’t add up, including a lawyer I spoke to yesterday who now denies that we ever met.’

  ‘All the more reason to let Cabot handle this. Anything that’ll keep that fucking nose of his out of the Oval.’

  His phone pings. He looks at it. ‘I got to go.’

  I take a route back to the ground floor that avoids passing the Secret Service command post.

  I check my voicemail.

  Nothing.

  I check my WhatsApps. One from Mo. ‘You son of a bitch,’ it reads. ‘Call me.’

  Book Two

  * * *

  THE WOUND IS IN THE PLACE WHERE THE LIGHT ENTERS YOU

  18

  WORD HAS IT THAT HAIGHT GRAHAM IS CABOT’S FIRST CHOICE TO take over as White House SAIC. He is part of the investigative team that deployed to the cabin at the North Laurel Fork overnight. Graham and I are headed back there on a beat-up, eight-seat Citation Jet the Service uses when it needs to get in and out of D.C. in a hurry. Something – I don’t yet know what – has required my presence urgently in West Virginia.

  The interior reeks of cigarettes and take-outs. There are burns on the beige seat covers, the armrests and the matching Formica surfaces, and the john doesn’t work. Within the Service, it’s known, ironically, as ‘Corporate Air’ – a testament to the cutbacks Cabot was brought in to oversee – but the agents call it the Vomit Comet.

  Reports of the Clarke’s Crossroads shootings started to hit the wires just before midnight. Within a half-hour, despite a total news blackout, thanks to social media, the names of the three dead men were public. There is every kind of speculation, but the networks are already right across the connection to the church shooting. It’s a shit-show.

  Reuben and Cabot have been working through the night to ensure the party line, the murder–suicide narrative, is the one that sticks, and my involvement is kept away from it. Meantime, a covert manhunt is underway for the killer. The working hypothesis is that Lefortz stumbled across the execution and became a victim himself. I am lucky to be alive, but it doesn’t feel that way. Like everyone else, I am mourning the loss of a friend. A friend who made me feel safe too.

  Graham sits across the table from me, looking more likely to file the President’s tax returns than to take a bullet for him. He is tall, wiry, and shaves his head. In his rush to act as my escort this morning, he’s cut his scalp.

  As the plane levels out, he gives the top of his ballpoint a double click.

  ‘Army CID showed up at the site this morning. No warning. First we knew they knew was when three Black Hawks circled overhead twice and touched down by the lake. There must have been a leak from the Service to Army Intel or the Joint Special Operations Command.’

  ‘JaySOC’ is responsible for coordinating the activities of all US Special Forces and pretty much for executing the war on terror. Graham tells me that Cabot placed a call of complaint to its commander, General Zan Johansson, shortly after 9 a.m., only to be accused of withholding information about a fugitive from the Department of Defense. This forced a compromise: Army CID has been allowed on site, but only under supervision by the Secret Service.

  ‘You know that the Army has consistently lied about its recruitment of Gapes, don’t you?’ It lied to his mom and aunt and it lied to Katya, their lawyer. I suspect that it lied to his rehab guru – his recovery support specialist – unless he was in on it, too, before the road traffic accident that killed him.

  ‘I don’t like it any better than you.’ Graham picks at the scab on his head. ‘But they want their pound of flesh. Gapes was their man.’

  With two more clicks of his pen, he abruptly changes the subject. ‘You served in Iraqi Freedom with the President’s Chief of Staff.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me about the nature of your relationship?’

  ‘The nature of our relationship?’

  ‘If you prefer: how’d the two of you meet?’

  ‘We trained at Patrick Air Force Base in Florida just before the Gulf War. Kantner was Special Forces – Combat Search and Rescue. I was a combat medic with the 304th Rescue Squadron and attached to his unit. We fought together in Mosul, Fallujah and Tikrit.’ I pause. ‘Can I ask where you’re taking this?’

  ‘We have to assume, Colonel Cain, that Duke Gapes knew something about you we don’t. Our starting point is your security check.’

  Everyone who works for the President and Vice President needs Yankee White security clearance. I had to undergo a Single Scope Background Investigation, an aggressive, invasive review of my past.

  He taps his iPad. ‘Your wife was an artist?’

  ‘Art therapist.’

  ‘And what is that, exactly?’

  ‘She worked with the emotionally distressed. Old people, mostly. People with cancer or in recovery. Stroke victims. Alzheimer’s sufferers. Veterans. The art helped them to relieve symptoms of depression and anxiety. She was very good at it.’

  �
�Might she have come across Gapes in that capacity?’

  We hit some turbulence. The bulkhead rattles and a locker flies open. Several flight manuals spill onto a seat next to us. I wait for things to settle before returning my verdict: impossible.

  Graham considers this. ‘Before you married, she took part in several protest marches, didn’t she?’

  ‘Does the Secret Service have a problem with that?’

  ‘Per se, no.’

  I’m glad to hear it.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The first time you met.’

  He hands me a photograph. Hope and me sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. An hour, maybe, after we’d left the Artiste. A green placard with ‘PEACE’ emblazoned on it in big yellow letters sits on the ground by her feet.

  ‘You were about to graduate into the Air Force. Why were you protesting the invasion of Afghanistan?’

  ‘I wasn’t. She was.’

  Except she never did.

  The protest had moved on by the time we got to the Mall, so we’d strolled into the Lincoln Memorial instead, a place I’d not set foot in since my dad had brought me to D.C. as a kid.

  She asked what had happened to him.

  ‘He died. Quite suddenly. When I was twelve.’

  She reached out and touched my hand. I can feel the electricity now. The extraordinary sense of serenity that followed. And the lingering fragrance of what I later discovered was Ô de Lancôme.

  ‘How did you know about the Rockwell?’ I said.

  ‘You own a Rockwell?’

  ‘A print of a Rockwell. It was the last thing my father gave me.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Glen—’

  ‘Canyon Dam? I love that painting.’

  That was when I knew for sure I’d met the girl I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

  ‘Hope worked in a number of hospitals and residential care homes across the Metro area. She also assisted at her mother’s nursing home in Pennsylvania. If you’re implying she might have forged some kind of relationship with Gapes via her politics, dream on. Far as we can tell, he was a dedicated Marine until he suffered his brain injury in Iraq in 2007 – the date listed in his medical records. Though they appear to have been tampered with, the year is consistent with the estimate made by the medical examiner. My wife was killed the same year.’