Chapter 16
As the deep-blue convertible, its silver grill gleaming, approached the concrete barrier the uniformed Secret Service agent had swung open half of the heavy steel gates, welded to resemble ornamental iron, guarding the Southwest Gate of the White House. He checked the names against his list and shifted his attention to the chauffeur.
“Straight ahead; follow the blacktop across the South Lawn; left turn will bring you back up and across to the diplomatic entrance.” The agent waved them ahead as soon as the second half of the massive gate was clear of the drive.
Despite the mounting haze and humid heat, the White House grounds were vivid in their beauty. The historic trees planted by two centuries of presidents were in full foliage. A deep carpet of red geraniums ringed the sparkling jets of the South Lawn fountain. As the convertible crossed the grounds, the South Portico appeared, then disappeared behind one of two knolls of elegant lawn, landscaping added by Thomas Jefferson.
First General Sherman, glowering astride his bronze mount, then the columns of the Treasury Building showed through the trees beyond the fenced grounds. The chauffeur made the turn toward the president’s residence.
“Good afternoon. Please do come in where it is cool.” A butler in tuxedo opened the rear door.
“It would be best, Sullivan, if you stayed in the car, I don’t want to overimpose.” Starring gave the order in a clipped voice, turned smiling to the butler who had gone to the other side of the car.
“Please, sir; please, madame, follow me.” The butler extended an arm toward the red carpet running beneath the canopy’s shade to the diplomatic entrance.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. May I please have a look in your bag?” The lean, young face beneath the sculpted black hair had delivered the words so quickly—Who? Leslie Renfro’s mind raced to recover. He was five steps from her, enormous shoulders beneath the dapper suit, strong hands, one already extended—extended to receive her weapons, the money, false papers. Who had done this? This was their method, these secret agents! They know; they have Paul and Filippo. They have discovered! How? Who? Something had gone wrong on the catamaran; when? No rush of police; no guns in sight. But, there were others. She had seen them. Now, they have sprung their trap, silently, swiftly. They will destroy . . .
Not a flicker broke the calm of her face when the agent had made his request, emerging from the shadow of the doorway. “Thank you for reminding me.” She looked down at her bag with amusement. “I didn’t mean to bring this with me. I meant to leave it in the car. Thank you.” Her voice was light; her eyes and smile projected thanks.
She was on her way back down the drive to the convertible parked beneath the trees before anyone could offer assistance. She fought the fear that clutched at her, the ice in her stomach and palms, the pounding in her chest. She turned the corner of the low hedge swinging the bag casually from one hand to the other. In the heart of the night she had selected the place and the moment of Starring’s death. She felt the July sun on her neck, dropped the zippered bag over the passenger’s door onto the floor of the front seat. The chauffeur was leaning against the car, Sullivan seated on the grass; the presidential park was so silent. 1:45 P.M. They would be on the attack in the bay. Justice depended now on her alone. The fingers of her left hand ran along the top of the hedge; she turned again under the canopy.
The agent followed her with an admiring eye—a swimmer, an athlete of some kind by the looks of her in that outfit, a good-looker, for sure, one of the better parts of the post.
“Thank you, again. I really was not planning to move in.”
He returned the smile. “No problem. They’re inside.” He folded his arms across his chest, shifted on his feet, thankful for the break in the tedium. He raised a hand to one ear, adjusting the clear plastic earphone—command post confirming Marine One lift-off; the president was in the air. The agent removed a speck of lint from the sleeve of his sharply tailored tan suit, resettled his arms, and continued the watch.
An oval rug, dark and light blues with gold, added to the museum-silence of the mansion. She stood for a moment at the inner door of the softly lit lobby. Starring and a woman were at the far end of the room.
“Here we are, Leslie; this is the president’s hostess. . . .” She didn’t hear the name; they crossed the room to greet her. The woman was attractive, late thirties, brunette, pretty cheeks and mouth, a blue-and-white print dress with matching jacket, and two fine strands of pearls.
“I’ve told Mr. Starring. We are so pleased to have you with us. The president is on his way down by helicopter from Camp David. I understand you’ve just arrived by helicopter.” The hostess gave a long smile of greeting, her eyes examining the young woman’s Divequest outfit with practiced interest. “We have your exhibits in the Map Room just next door. I know the president is so looking forward to seeing you and learning about your work. Would you like a glass of iced tea, iced coffee, a refreshment?”
“No thank you. I would like to sit down.”
“Of course.” The hostess led the way to a row of straight-backed yellow silk chairs and love seats lining the oval room and took a seat beside her. Starring studied the exhibits. Minutes ticked by. She popped up in response to his voice.
“The Oval Office, the president’s office, isn’t just above us, is it?”
“No. This is one of three oval rooms, one on top of the other here in the residence. The Oval Office is a relatively new addition dating back to President Theodore Roosevelt’s time. It is in the West Wing of the White House . . . your architectural instincts are very good.”
Starring admired the finely detailed wallpaper lining the entire room. “Hudson River, the Palisades?”
“Yes.”
“And this?” He approached the portrait over the mantle, studied the gaunt, craggy face, the tousled white hair.
“Andrew Jackson?”
“Yes. An excellent portrait, in my opinion, by Ralph Earl. If you would like to see the arrival of the helicopter, we should move back out to the drive.” She led the way, Leslie almost at her side, measuring her steps to avoid the hand she knew Starring would attempt to place on her.
The twin-turbined helicopter had turned from over the Potomac and made its first appearance out of the south, to the right of the Washington Monument. The approach down across the Mall, Ellipse, and the South Grounds was swift and precise. The pilot brought the big machine, nose slightly high, to a near-hover and eased toward the landing site on the lawn. No more than one hundred feet from the entrance, he held the helicopter in a hover and swung the tail, revealing the craft’s port side, dark-green lower body, American flag painted on the white topside, the presidential seal on the door just aft of the cockpit. The roaring downwash of wind and engine exhaust blasted across the lawn, generating a loud clatter among the heavy olive-green leaves of the ancient magnolia trees bordering the mansion.
The pilot braked the main rotor and cut the engines. Leslie took the count; six more agents had deployed on the lawn, uniformed agents everywhere in the distance. The gleaming, waxed front door of the helicopter dropped open, forming a set of gold carpeted stairs bordered with chrome stanchions and cable railing. The marine crew chief trotted down the steps and snapped to attention.
The president, tanned, in tennis sweater and shorts, ducked slightly as he cleared the doorway. He touched his forehead with two fingers in casual return salute, nodding his appreciation to the marine sergeant.
“Tommie!” He recognized the white head of hair. They met at the edge of the grass. The president took his hand and arm with both hands. “How very, very good to see you—Tommie Starring on the Fourth of July, makes it all official. Hello Jennie. Hello—”
“Mr. President, may I introduce Miss Leslie Renfro, the very important young star in our expedition in the Chesapeake.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I am delighted to meet you, Miss Renfro.” He took her hand. She could only stare back at this powerful, handsome presence she h
ad so reviled. She heard the words “Thank you,” her voice. He had moved on toward the mansion, Starring close at his side, gents and aides fanning out in front of them. Once inside, he excused himself for a few minutes, then returned.
“This is the Map Room, Tommie, no longer used as such. The name harkens back to FDR’s days. You may know the story. When Winston Churchill visited Roosevelt at the outset of World War II, the British were already heavily engaged in battle. The prime minister brought along a case of war charts, which he pored over during his stay. FDR was impressed, emulated the practice.”
“You’ve taken it a long way since then, haven’t you, Mr. President, your Situation Room, and—”
“Quite a ways, Tommie, but not as far as I would like.” The president moved toward the Towerpoint display. “The more instantaneous the communications, the more complete the global reach, the more glaring are the gaps in the information required for any well-reasoned decision. We tend to swamp ourselves with the current information, to the neglect of thought and analysis. It is a constant battle for me.”
He held out his hand to the young woman, inviting her to join him. “I’ve always liked the Map Room, a convenient place to have a visitor drop by for a talk without the glare and pressures of publicity”—he laughed—“not that I’m trying to keep you two under wraps. Now, tell me Miss Renfro, what am I seeing here?”
She spoke quietly, mechanically, guiding the president through the exhibit she herself was seeing for the first time. The three-dimensional scale model included the Towerpoint Octagon on the surface, the habitat and two work chariots on the bay floor, multicolored lines running from the habitat out across the bay floor and up into the blue-green plastic plane depicting the water, each of the lines keyed to a legend summarizing the principal Divequest experiments.
“Your work is a great credit to you, so important, international research. I know we’ll benefit. Tommie has a reputation as a good boss. I hope that’s still the case.” He turned to Starring. “Tell me, Darcy is interested in this, isn’t he?”
“He is, indeed, Mr. President, and he has been a great help to me. In fact, he was on that ship for our press conference last week.” Starring touched the catamaran.
“And this”—the president had moved on to the next display—“this is your Sea Star?”
“It is, sir.”
“What an incredible achievement. I don’t know as much as I should. It’s almost a mile across, isn’t it?”
“Closer to a mile and one half, Mr. President.
“Incredible!”
“It tends to test my patience at times—still blueprints and bankers, Mr. President, but we’re almost ready to begin construction.” The two men made their way around the eight-foot model, with Starring firing off highlights of the oceanic air and seaport.
“Tommie, if we had another ten like you, this country would surge ahead to stay, like Citation. Your drive and accomplishments are staggering. Keep it up. . . . ‘With firmness in the right, as God gives us the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in. . . .’ Lincoln’s words, his Second Inaugural.
“This has been fascinating. Thank you both so very much for having taken the time from your holiday to give me this personal appreciation of all you are doing. I understand that you will not be able to stay on for this evening’s party and fireworks. I’m told we’re expecting more than half a million down there tonight. I’ve invited the Cabinet and their families.” The president pressed a buzzer tucked beneath the edge of a sideboard. An aide appeared and received instructions to retrieve the briefcase from the president’s flight.
“Please do have a seat. Before you go . . .” The president held his words while he opened the case and withdrew one of a dozen slender folders. “. . . I mentioned to you, Tommie, the other evening, that I thought there had been important developments in Connie’s case.”
The moment Leslie heard the name, the dark, wet streets of Geneva came flooding back. Her eyes darted down, looking for the fine pink scars on her forearm covered by the sleeve. She watched the president draw his chair closer to Starring’s, his voice lower, grave.
“I asked Ernie Lancaster, my DCI, to pull these notes together for you. His report arrived at Camp David last night. I wanted you to have a look yourself, without my attempting to interpret.” The president handed Starring the double sheet, waited in silence, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together while the brother of his slain lover read. The text ran only one-quarter of the second page. Starring returned the file, blinked, still absorbing the information.
“Ernie’s a cautious man, Tommie. We’re not there yet”—the president measured a narrow gap with thumb and forefinger—“but he’s certain it’s only a matter of days—”
“A woman? He says there was a woman—and two or three of them, either British or American? That’s a surprise, an entirely different direction, isn’t it, Mr. President?”
Her breath stopped. The president hesitated, struck by her intense stare. “Mr. Starring’s sister, Ambassador Burdette, Miss Renfro—a brutal murder.”
Her eyes engaged his, the easy smile she had offered earlier to the agent returned to her lips. “May I?” she asked, glancing at the folder.
The president bent forward as she spoke, raised the briefcase lip, and tossed the file inside. It carried a high classification, marked for his eyes only. He had already stretched one of his strictest rules having shown it at all. He covered his action by returning to Starring’s question. “No, you’re right, Tommie. Ernie still expects the main break to come from Italy. I’ll continue to keep you posted. God rest her soul. My God, how I do miss her—dearest Connie—I had such hopes.”
They both rose with the president. The Continental was at the end of the canopy, a cab drawn up behind. Starring stopped inside the entrance. “Mr. President, I blasted the networks, sent telegrams to all three a couple of weeks ago, over the unfair play they’re giving your programs.”
The president laughed a full laugh, clenched his fist, and tapped him on the shoulder. “We can’t let those boys get us down. We’re sitting pretty for the midterm elections, Tommie. They’re bored, trying to stir things up a bit, make better news. But, thank you! Keep after them. Now then, you’re heading just down the street, aren’t you?”
“I am. You were just lamenting the lack of time these days for thought, analysis. I’m prescribing my own remedy, an evening to myself at the Octagon mansion. I’ve left strict instructions, no calls, no interruptions. I am to be left alone, sir. How it does rankle a staff—our annual stockholders meeting is coming up, and I’m going to see if I can’t go beyond the usual boilerplate, try to place Towerpoint International in perspective, give fresh meaning to our philosophy, our principles, our future direction.”
“Oh, I envy you your night with James and Dolley. They were a good pair, Tommie—Madison a good president in a difficult time. His problems were enormous. With firmness in the right, Tommie. Keep up the spectacular work. You and Towerpoint are the heartwood of America.”
The president and his protective envelope of agents had already returned inside when the convertible and battered black-and-orange cab began to roll slowly down the White House drive. The cab, with the two women, turned north on Seventeenth Street. The Continental continued straight ahead for another block before rounding the corner and parking in the back courtyard of the Octagon mansion. The deep-red-brown bricks of the Federal period structure formed a unique architectural achievement, rounding in a curve above the steep front steps and pillared entrance, continuing from this frontal bow along straight sides in a set of faces to shape the octagonal shell housing an elegant, intricate collection of circular, triangular, and rectangular rooms in three main stories. It was 4:00 P.M. The gates closed behind the convertible.
The excitement of Starring’s meeting with the president was far from Tooms’s mind in mid-afternoon as he rode the sling of the overhead crane down to the surface and plunged into the water on his
dive to the habitat. Those bastards! Those bastards! He pulled hard against the guideline, working his way deeper, repeating the curse again and again. He was furious. He had called each of their cabins, no answer. He had checked with the ship’s watch only to learn they were already below. His anger continued to build. The guideline markers bumped through his fingers.
He could make out the glow of the access trunk, the dark outline of the habitat. With no breathing gear on, his lungs were already hurting. He kicked hard, came level with the submersible platform. The chariot . . . one still topside, the other gone . . . where the hell were they? He twisted his heavy body into the diver’s final approach to the trunk, painfully banging a knee. Inside, he struggled to his feet, bracing for the confrontation.
The habitat, full of strewn gear, was at the same time eerie in its emptiness. He blotted at the water streaming into his eyes, flung the towel in frustration at one of the dead cameras. Damn it to hell!
His mind raced. . . . Bring the second chariot down, get out there and herd them back. His air tanks clanked against the hull as he snatched them from their rack. He cursed the jumble of equipment, wrestled halfway into his scuba gear before he decided against the plan.
Running across the other submersible out there in that soup would be sheer chance. If he missed . . . he had to take control. They’d be back, damn it to hell. He’d wait them out. He made his way to the far end of the deck where one of the Renfro research cylinders lay open. What the hell? He kicked the side. Packing shifted, strips of rubber fabric that had compressed into a streamlined cushion tapering back to a smooth semicircular hollow with a mate in the facing side. His breath still came heavily. The bay water on his brow had turned to sweat. He gave his face another wipe, knelt down, rubbed a forefinger along the erased metal plate on the interior of the cylinder. A double game . . . what kind of game? He had seen or read every piece of oceanographic gear ever built, give or take a few, even the unsuccessful prototypes. This jury-rigged casing didn’t ring a bell, looked more like military gear from the impression it had left in the packing. A bomb? . . . military gear . . . driving that damned chariot around out in the bay . . . planting some sort of gear on the bay floor. The bastards were saboteurs; they were going to sabotage the habitat or the Octagon . . . but that didn’t square . . . they were already aboard, didn’t need a submersible to do the job.
A Death in Geneva Page 24