The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  Wisely, Jennie changed tacks, and put the onus on Kinney. She smiled pleasantly and said, “Uh...well, look, I’m shooting in the dark here. Help me get to know Jason.”

  “Get to— Wait a minute. Is he suspected of something?”

  Clearly, Agent Kinney knew this wasn’t a friendly session, and clearly he knew Jason Barnes was possibly a big problem for him. He was Barnes’s boss, and if his trusted subordinate had helped whack the man and wife they were guarding, in addition to four of his comrades-in-arms, Agent Kinney was going to have an ugly notation on his next evaluation.

  Also I thought Kinney was probably a decent guy and even a good leader. Displaying loyalty down is always an admirable trait in a boss—except now.

  So I lied. “We need to ask everybody if they saw anything suspicious over the past few days. Maybe if we knew a little about Barnes it would help us track him down.”

  Kinney looked at Jennie, then at me. He said, “Check his file.”

  “It’s on the way over,” Jennie replied. “But we’re in a bit of a hurry here. Give us a shortcut.”

  I thought, for a brief moment, that Kinney was going to mumble into his cuff link, “Agent in peril...send help.”

  Instead he said, “All right. For starters, he’s incredibly bright. Grew up in Richmond. Father’s a judge...I think, a federal judge. Jason’s a VMI grad, and he spent three years as a Marine infantry lieutenant. Excellent record as a Marine. Excellent record as an agent. Personally and professionally, the guy’s clean as a whistle.”

  In fact, Mr. Kinney’s brief biography exposed more about Jason Barnes than he probably knew or possibly intended. As an Army brat and as a soldier, I had several times lived or been stationed in the South. When I get tired, my childhood drawl sometimes slips through, and I still pick politely at corn bread and pecan pie, which I hate, but you don’t insult the natives.

  Broadly speaking, the South of my childhood produced two types of white southern male. First was the shitkicker, product of an agrarian culture, pickup trucks, and Waylon Jennings; if they learned how to add and spell, they aspired to attend Ole Miss, or Bear Bryant U, where pigskin, beer tasting, and frat partying were regarded as serious, taxing majors.

  And second, the southern aristocracy and pretenders thereof, who sent their kids to old-line, top-drawer schools like UVA, Duke, William and Mary, and VMI, to be followed by at least a few years of military service, which they were expected to regard as part privilege and part obligation. I had worked with and for a number of these southern gentlemen turned officers, and it appeared Jason Barnes fell into this more exalted category.

  Anyway, Jennie said to Agent Kinney, “Thank you. That’s helpful. How long have you known him?”

  “Since he entered the Service. Two years.”

  “Hobbies...personal habits...?”

  “Church, gym...that’s about it. He doesn’t smoke, drink, gamble, or swear. I’m nearly positive he’s still a virgin. I’m telling you, he’s a Boy Scout.”

  “So you consider him...incorruptible?”

  “Yeah—I suppose I do.”

  “Money problems?”

  “Not likely. His family’s well-to-do, and Jason’s frugal. Also, I don’t think money means much to him...He’s really into this spiritual thing.”

  “Uh-huh. Career problems?”

  “Promoted just last month. A year ahead of his peers.”

  “Peer problems?”

  Bingo. Agent Kinney stared at the table a moment, then said, with evident discomfort, “He’s...he’s awkward socially. Okay? A little stiff and intense, I guess. He’s very detail-oriented and by-the-book. It gets on some people’s nerves.”

  Jennie said, “Describe socially awkward.”

  Kinney took a moment, I think searching for a charitable way to couch this. He said, “Like a lot of incredibly bright people, he’s not particularly good at relating. I just don’t think he finds most people interesting.” He looked at Jennie, and pointedly not at me. “You know how some bright people can be, right?”

  Jennie did not respond to his question, but instead asked, “Mental stability?”

  “As sane as you or me.” Apparently he realized this was a statement loaded with weird possibilities, because after a moment he added, “But ignore my personal view. We all undergo a psych screen before we’re even accepted to the Service.”

  “I’m aware of it,” Jennie replied. “Have you seen the results of Jason’s screening?”

  “As his supervisor, I was allowed to view it.”

  “Please recall for us what it said.”

  “I told you he’s bright. About a 160 IQ. No abnormality, no mental disorders. A footnote from the psychologist referred to what he termed Jason’s mental rigidity. It wasn’t a criticism, though. In fact, he predicted that Jason would be unusually diligent and dedicated.”

  “That was all?”

  “A few father-son ego issues. Nothing abnormal.”

  I asked, “And how does Jason Barnes feel toward his Commander in Chief?”

  He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Secret Service agents have no personal feelings toward the President, Mr. Drummond.”

  This was the proper response, of course—blind loyalty to the position, not the man—and it was bullshit.

  I didn’t want to upset Agent Margold’s interrogatory game plan, but the clock was ticking, and thus far this guy was jerking us off. So I said, “Bullshit.” He stared back at me. “You described Barnes as a Bible thumper, moral and righteous. And a genius. He’s judgmental, isn’t he?”

  “All right.” After a moment, he smiled and replied, “You asked, so I’ll tell you. This President—he owned Jason the instant he had that first White House prayer breakfast. We’d all take a bullet to protect the guy, because that’s our job. Jason would throw his own mother in front of this President.” Only later would we learn how true that was, but after a moment he suggested smugly, “But that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?”

  Jennie and I exchanged glances. We had gone through our checklist of sins, vices, and human flaws, and nothing Kinney had said made our senses tingle. She turned back to Kinney and asked, “Well...how do you account for his disappearance?”

  “I can’t.” He looked at me, and then at her. “Hey, I know what happened at the Hawk’s house this morning. And you think there was a leak or inside help, and maybe you suspect Jason was the source. Wrong. Jason Barnes is one of the most dedicated agents and purest souls I’ve ever encountered. I’d stake my career on it.”

  He already had bet his career on it. In fact, it seemed like the appropriate moment to reinforce that point, time to give him the metaphorical knee in the balls. I informed him, “If it turns out you’re wrong, and you’ve given us no indications as to how or why, the Director of the CIA will forward a letter to the President citing you as both an idiot and a danger to his personal health.”

  He stared back at me.

  Jennie had also concluded that her kindler, gentler side had failed to foster a spirit of genial openness. She seconded my threat, and then one-upped it: “Lying to or misleading a federal officer is punishable under code 1001. If I discover you withheld, I’ll charge you with aiding and abetting a felon.” She added, more sweetly, “Now take a moment to consider whether you want to add or correct the record.”

  The cockiness drained from Agent Kinney’s face and although, as I said, he was struggling to be a good leader, the loyalty-down thing suddenly became a heavy cross to bear.

  Eventually he insisted, “I told you the truth.” After another moment of reflection he added, “There was a time...six or seven months ago...when Jason was experiencing a bad time.”

  “Meaning what?” Jennie asked.

  “He became...emotional...moody.”

  I asked, “Why?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  True to her trade, Jennie leaned forward and said, “Describe moody.”

  “Just...Look, I don’t know—distan
t, bothered, impatient...a little emotionally unstable.”

  “And did you ask him what it was about?”

  “Yeah, I asked. But Jason’s an increbibly private person. I gave him a month off to relax. He came back fine.”

  Jennie thought about this a moment. She asked, “Had anything happened at work?”

  “No, nothing to do with the job. It was something personal.”

  Jennie looked at me as she asked Kinney, “Anything else?”

  “Nothing.”

  I said, “Thank you. You may go. But if you think of anything you missed, call us or we’ll have your balls.”

  The second he was out the door, Jennie asked me, “Well...what do you think?”

  “I think Agent Jason Barnes sounds like the ideal bodyguard for your national leader, your bank, or your virginal daughter. A religious zealot, pure of heart, devoted to God and country, probably never had an impure or ribald thought in his life.”

  “You’re right. He doesn’t sound like a suspect.”

  When I did not comment on this observation, she added, “Among my duties, I’m the FBI liaison to the Secret Service. I work with them all the time. I coordinate our joint operations and my office processes their background checks. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, they’re an extraordinary group. But they’re not all angels.” She added, “Barnes does sound like a model agent.”

  “Sure does. Put an APB on him and get a search warrant.”

  “Get— I’m sorry?”

  “Nobody’s that perfect, Jennie. He’s hiding something.”

  “I haven’t got a clue where you’re coming from.”

  “Think about what his boss just told us.”

  “His boss just told us he’s a golden boy. And I know for a fact he passed a number of very rigorous background checks.”

  “So did I. And so did you.” I looked at her and added, “I know what I hid. Would you care to confess what you forgot to tell the background checkers?”

  She thought about this a moment and then she replied, “Are you forgetting probable cause?”

  “He’s on the security detail and he’s missing.”

  She shook her head. “I could maybe twist that logic to justify an APB on the basis of a threat to his security. A search warrant has to be vetted by Justice, though. I’ll be laughed out of the building.”

  “Good point.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Be sure to mention the very alarming phone tip you just got from the anonymous caller.”

  “We don’t play it that way, Sean. This is the FBI.”

  “Wow...the FBI. After the President’s dead, be sure to put that on your résumé.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “Nor is there a need for excessive moralism. Play this one any way that works, Jennie.”

  “If one of the murder weapons turns up in his home, we’d be...in fact, the whole case would be—”

  I reminded her, “You don’t have a case to protect. A team of possibly professional killers is hunting the President of the United States—focus on the problem at hand.”

  In response to her still hesitant expression, I added, “These people aren’t playing by the rules. These people know no rules. In this game, color outside the lines, or you lose.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JENNIE PLAYED IT THE WAY THAT WORKED, AND THE POWERS THAT BE GAVE us the search warrant for Jason Barnes’s home in Springfield.

  Springfield was a mere eight miles away, but it was rush hour, Washington traffic, and speed was critical. Jennie therefore ordered a helicopter, and voilà, one dropped into the parking lot, we climbed aboard, and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The pilot followed I-95 South to the Springfield exit, turned right, and we flew at low altitude over the endless patchwork of red-brick townhouse communities that is Springfield.

  I haven’t got a clue how the pilot picked the right complex, but he obviously did, judging by the several dark sedans that had cordoned off a landing pad and the agent who approached Jennie and me as we alit on the tarmac.

  It turned out he was Special Agent Mark Butterman, the case officer, mid-fifties, long and thin, salt-and-pepper hair, leathery face, a suburbanized Marlboro man in a gray suit. He walked and spoke with a confidence I hoped wasn’t misplaced, was too old to be wet behind the ears, and I recalled Jennie mentioned that he was handpicked because he was one of the Bureau’s best and brightest, so somebody had a head on their shoulders. This was not the right opportunity for some youthful, overeager, promising stud to show he could cut it (or not). But it happens.

  Jennie introduced us, and we shook. I knew Butterman was having a particularly crappy day, though he remained friendly and appeared unperturbed by the pressure.

  Anyway, Agent Butterman knew time was precious, and he launched immediately into a fast-paced update on the progress of the investigation. To wit—hundreds of samples and particles had been vacuumed and collected from the Belknaps’ house, and forensics was concentrating all its resources on that haul, though there had been no significant breakthroughs. Nor, from his tone did he expect any.

  It turned out Mrs. Belknap was a big la-di-da in the D.C. social circuit, and her home was an endless gathering place for the rich and pompous—book clubs, political fund-raisers, and what have you. Throw into that mix some fifteen Secret Service agents who roamed freely around the home, two maids, three yard people, repairmen, and whoever, and enough fingerprints, hair samples, fiber samples, and DNA traces had been lifted to populate New Jersey.

  On a more upbeat note, my tip regarding the disturbances in the garden had panned out; they were footprints, three different shoe sizes and types, two male, and one that appeared to belong to a tiny-footed, narrow-shoed female.

  Also the preliminary ballistics tests were wrapped up, indicating that four different, though identical, caliber pistols were used, implying either a quartet of killers or a remarkably talented duo of ambidextrous shooters. Which landed us at the present.

  Regarding the here and now, he informed Jennie and me, “The super let us in. Seven agents are inside right now. It’s small. Barnes lives alone. Shouldn’t take long.”

  The clock was ticking, and he led us to, and then inside the townhouse, a modest two-floored, brick-fronted, faux colonial job. I wandered around for a moment.

  Butterman was correct; the place was small, though not cramped, and for a bachelor pad, almost comically neat and tidy. The furniture was a sort of mix of modern and traditional, with colors and patterns that seemed to match the curtains, that matched the wall colors and the carpet, and so forth. Actually, there were no colors or patterns—everything was pure white. I said to Jennie, “What’s that smell?”

  “Lemon Pledge.”

  “Lemon what?”

  “Scented furniture pol— Oh...you’re kidding.”

  Right. Also I was making a point. Regular guys don’t live like this, if you know what I mean. Jason’s furniture didn’t look cheap or expensive, and the art pieces were framed posters—a European cityscape I couldn’t identify, an old movie poster I also didn’t recognize—that indicated nothing about the tastes of the inhabitant, beyond a serious preference for Wal-Mart. Jennie noted, “He doesn’t seem to live above his means.”

  Butterman concurred with her assessment and informed us, “He rents. Nine hundred and twenty a month, according to the super. Cheap for this area. He drives a used Mazda 323 he bought two years ago for eight grand.”

  I suggested, “But how he lives today might not be how he wants to live tomorrow.”

  “The ambition of every criminal mind,” Butterman agreed. He added, “No liquor in the house, not even a Bud in the fridge. A teetotaler. No porn, no old magazines or even newspapers. He doesn’t even have a TV. And if he keeps weapons here, they’re gone. The guy lives like a monk.”

  Actually, as we wandered around, I was starting to wonder if anybody actually did live here. The place was clean as a whistle, so sterile
and pristine I expected a Realtor to pop up from behind a couch. To the right was a tiny living room, connected to an even tinier dining area, and what is termed an efficiency kitchen—ordinarily an oxymoron, though in Jason’s case it proved to be a stunning understatement. The counters were clean, bare, and scrubbed, and I detected no clutter, no dirty dishes, not even watermarks in the sink. I peeked inside his fridge and everything was dress-right-dress, a perfectly linear parade ground of milk cartons, yogurts, salad dressings, a cornucopia of low-cal, low-fat, and low-flavor goodies. I felt guilty in the midst of all this order, cleanliness, and health consciousness.

  Four guys and gals in blue windbreakers were milling around the ground floor, not aimlessly, though clearly nobody appeared to be sure what they were searching for. This was my bright idea and I didn’t have a clue what to look for. There would be something, though. Jason Barnes was not the benighted saint his boss thought he was. I was sure of it. Maybe.

  Jennie said to me, “Upstairs.”

  So up we went, and at the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway that twisted to the right, and three doors. We opened the first door and it was a tiny bathroom that smelled like a pine forest, with precisely folded, freshly laundered towels, a spotless mirror, and a toilet you could eat off, were one inclined to do such a stupid thing. Did anybody actually live in this house?

  I stepped inside and looked around a moment. A narrow closet was hidden behind the door, and it struck me that this would be the perfect hidey-hole for Jason’s darkest secrets and filthiest habits. I swung it open and peeked inside, expecting a blow-up doll to fall out, a corpse, something. There were six shelves, and not a square inch of free space. Laid out on the shelves was a veritable armory of medicines, nasal sprays, antibacterial soaps and shampoos, skin care ointments, and various medical salves, balms, preventatives and devices, from enemas to ear wax cleaning solvents. There must’ve been three hundred bottles and vials and tubes, all neatly arranged, a harem of things to make sure you smelled good, slew galaxies of germs, and never experienced a constipated moment, or even ringworm.