Paramour

by Gerald Petievich

  The unwritten code inculcated in young Secret Service agents from the first day they came on duty was to listen a lot and say very little. In violation of civil service regulations, talkers, egotists, and braggarts were quietly transferred out of the White House to field duties in order to preserve the integrity of the detail: secrets within secrets protected by the secret keepers. But even on the scale of White House secrets, a presidential affair was a definite ten. Powers had never heard so much as a word about Marilyn Kasindorf or, for that matter, even any idle speculations about a presidential paramour. In fact, the President was known among the jaded detail agents as "Pa Kettle" because of his preference for family life over flashy social functions. Powers couldn't remember him even telling an off-color joke. A private man more similar in personality to Nixon and Carter than, for instance, to Reagan or Bush, the President bored easily and was in the habit of leaving official functions early, a trait that pleased Powers and the other members of the White House Detail. They could count on getting off on time.

  "Where?"

  "Camp David."

  How could the President manage an affair when all cars entering Camp David, including those of cabinet members, were inspected by the shift agent posted at the front gate? "I've never even seen her."

  "David Morgan gives me a time and I arrange to be at the Camp David front gate when his limousine arrives. I wave him through. Even though the agent posted there is supposed to search all vehicles entering, he isn't going to countermand the Deputy Director."

  Powers felt cold. "And she's behind smoked windows."

  Sullivan nodded. "Right in the back seat. Morgan has used me to arrange meetings between the President and this woman since shortly after the inauguration."

  Powers's palms felt sweaty. He took a deep breath and let it out.

  "Presidents can withstand rumors about their personal life, but balling a spy at Camp David? Jesus. Watergate and Iran-gate would be nothing compared to that," Sullivan said glumly. "We're talking resignation or impeachment. Aces and eights. The sewer. An absolute presidential tits up." Sullivan was staring at him. "We need to put the lid on this, Jack. Lid on and screwed down tight. But at the same time we need to investigate--determine whether or not this woman is a spy. That'll be your job."

  "How'd she meet the President?"

  Sullivan sat back in his chair. "Morgan never told me, but I assume they've known each other since he was Director of the CIA," he said regretfully. "As you can imagine, I didn't grill Morgan as to the details of how the man and his girlfriend began their affair." He ran his hands through his hair.

  "CIA employees are hidden in official records," Powers said. "If I conduct even routine records checks on her the word will get back."

  "I don't want you to do any records checks."

  "How can I investigate her without doing background-"

  Sullivan interrupted. "Surveillance. I want you to surveil her. It's not going to be easy to do alone, but this matter is too sensitive to bring in anyone else."

  "And if I prove she's a spy, what then?"

  Sullivan swallowed. "The President himself will have to make that decision."

  Powers allowed his eyes to shut for a moment. He imagined himself saying, Pete, with all due respect, I'm afraid I have to decline this assignment after all. It's a hot potato, and the risk of getting embroiled in a political adventure and ending up sitting in front of some hostile congressional investigating committee outweighs the lure of promotion. You can trust me not to say a word, but I'll just have to pass on this.

  "Jack, I can tell by the look on your face this isn't an assignment you relish. I know the responsibility you must feel."

  "Now that you mention it-"

  Sullivan left the desk, adjusted the combination dial on the safe, and opened the heavy drawer. He took out a business-sized envelope and handed it to Powers. "Here's five thousand dollars to cover expenses. This is headquarters confidential fund money, so you don't have to keep receipts. If you need more, let me know."

  Powers slipped the envelope into his inside jacket pocket. It felt heavy. "I've never seen this woman. How-?"

  "When the man wants to see her, he goes through Morgan. I'll have him set up a meeting and then cancel at the last minute. You can initiate the surveillance at that point. It won't alarm her. He's had to do this before when the President had a last-minute change in schedule. I'll phone you tomorrow at your apartment with the details."

  "This whole thing could blow up in our faces, Pete," Powers said.

  "We're not going to let that happen."

  After the meeting, Powers took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out onto G Street. The air was oppressive. Standing there on the crowded sidewalk, his mind racing with what Sullivan had told him, he wished he could have asked more questions. But Sullivan had told him exactly what David Morgan had authorized him to say and no more.

  As he stood perspiring in the humidity, Powers considered going back up to Sullivan's office and begging off the assignment. Then he took out a clean handkerchief, wiped his brow and neck, and headed down the street to his car.

  ****

  SIX

  Landry finished writing a duty roster for the following week and reviewing the stack of teletypes concerning security arrangements for the President's trip to California. There were long passages listing motorcade routes and hotel arrangements, police liaison problems, and the simple logistics of just getting off-duty shifts of agents from airport to hotels and from hotels to God knows where before the President arrived. Each Teletype had been written by a different member of the Secret Service advance team. Landry could tell each agent was copying from the format of the previous presidential trip to Los Angeles and simply filling in the names of the different streets and locations. At the end of each Teletype was the phrase POLICE LIAISON IS BEING MAINTAINED. Dozens of people were spending hundreds of man-hours making sure that manhole covers were welded shut and post office collection boxes were locked, that every room in every building the President was to visit would be checked by bomb experts, that all foods and beverages destined for his lips were analyzed beforehand by the Secret Service chemist (known as Dr. Death), that all service employees in hotels and restaurants, airports, and every other location the President would visit would have their names checked against the master threat list on file in the Secret Service protective intelligence computer.

  Since it appeared that the advance team had done its job properly and was ready to keep the President safe while he visited Los Angeles, Landry locked the paperwork in the W-16 safe. He hated paperwork, actually. Though attention to paperwork and the ability to write slick memos often helped agents get ahead in the Secret Service, he considered 90 percent of it totally unnecessary. Hell, years ago one good advance man would have done the work of today's entire advance team, with all their lap-top computers and endless teletypes. But in the old days, he told himself, a black man would never have been promoted to Agent-in-Charge of the White House Detail.

  Having spun the dial on the safe, he signed off on the supervisor's tog. He found Bob Tomsic, the on-duty shift leader, in the hallway briefing a new agent and told him he was leaving for the day. Heading toward the EOB exit, Landry stopped for a moment. Something had been at the back of his mind all day. Though because of work he hadn't spent much time with his wife and kids lately, he now took time to move to a phone on a small table a few feet away and dial a number.

  "Homicide."

  Landry asked to speak with Lyons. The phone clicked and Lyons gave his name.

  "Landry here. I thought I'd stop by and pick up a copy of the Stryker report."

  "I was just heading for the Grille. Feel like a drink?"

  "Sounds good," Landry said, though he seldom drank alcoholic beverages.

  "I'll run off a copy and bring it with me."

  The English Grille in Georgetown was like a lot of other cop bars. Located near the university on a busy street lined with restaurant
s and shops, it had a small parking lot in back where detectives drinking on duty could hide their official cars from the view of passing police supervisors. Over the front door was a vertical neon sign with a martini-glass logo and the word ENGLISH illuminated. The GRILLE part of the sign had never worked.

  Inside, the fifteen bar stools and six booths in the dimly lit bar were filled with men in suits-mostly white men but a few blacks-and a couple of women who looked like police secretaries. There was a crude oil painting of a reclining Victorian nude above the bar. The bartender, a blotchy, red-faced man with a black toupee and dyed mustache, was busily pouring drinks.

  Art Lyons waved at Landry from the end of the bar. He'd saved a stool. Landry joined him and Lyons introduced him to the bartender and some of the regulars.

  Landry shook hands a couple of times and ordered a light beer.

  Lyons reached inside his jacket and gave Landry a folded police report. "You'll need this," he said, also handing him a small flashlight. Landry said thanks. The bartender set down a beer.

  The homicide report, which listed Stryker's name and physical description, gave no address for the deceased. In the location box Lyons had written Location #I-see Chief of Police log of this date to hide the fact that the body was discovered in the White House. Landry read further. "It says there was evidence of tattooing."

  Lyons touched his temple. "Right inside the hairline near the wound. The pathologist noticed it during the autopsy. A little gunpowder embedded in the skin."

  "What do you make of this, my man?"

  Lyons twisted his wrist and demonstrated as if aiming a gun at himself. "It's possible to shoot yourself like this. Uncommon, but certainly possible. See, most suicides have a contact wound. You touch the barrel right to the skin. This way he fires while holding the piece a few inches away." He picked up his drink and took a sip. "It's possible that he was ready to do it, then just sort of halfway chickened out, pulling his hand away as he pulled the trigger. Only the Big Kahoona knows for sure."

  Landry completed reading the report. There was nothing else in it that differed from what he had learned when Lyons had conducted his investigation in the Special Projects office. He shoved the report in his inside coat pocket. "I'd like to ask you a hypothetical question."

  "Shoot."

  "Is it possible this could be a murder?"

  "Anything is possible. The astronauts went to the moon."

  "If this suicide was in fact a murder-and just pretend it was, for the time being-how could it have been done?"

  "Someone would have to take Stryker's gun, shoot Stryker in the temple from close range, then find someone to forge Stryker's signature on a suicide note. Ridiculous."

  Landry shook his head. "You said it was uncommon for a man to shoot himself while standing up."

  "It is. Truthfully, that's the only thing I find out of the ordinary about the damn case. Other than the fact that you didn't have a hint of Stryker being depressed. A man doesn't kill himself on impulse. He thinks about it first. And to even consider the possibility, there has to be something in his life making him believe he's up shit creek without a paddle."

  "Ray Stryker worked for me. He wasn't the suicidal type."

  "I once worked with a guy in Vice who told me over and over again how happy he was his wife had left him. How overjoyed he was to finally get rid of the bitch. One night he went to her apartment, kicked the door down, and ate his lead right in front of the ex-wife and her boyfriend. You just never know."

  "I wouldn't have a man working for me in the White House if I thought he had suicidal tendencies."

  "You can't take this personal-"

  "I want you to test-fire the gun," Landry interrupted.

  Lyons finished his drink and spit some ice back into the glass. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll take it down to the lab and have it done tomorrow morning."

  In the morning Powers rose early. He'd experienced a fitful night's sleep and felt as tired as he had when he'd climbed into bed. While showering and dressing he still couldn't get the events of the previous day out of his mind.

  There was nothing in the refrigerator to eat for breakfast, but rather than make a trip to the supermarket and chance missing Sullivan's call, he found a Weight Watchers manicotti TV dinner in the back of the freezer compartment and warmed it in the microwave for breakfast.

  To kill time, he filled in some Secret Service daily report forms, a stack of which he kept in a kitchen drawer. Every Secret Service agent was required to complete a report for each day's work. After filling in the top section, which listed his name, date of birth, social security number, shift status, rank, and address of permanent record, he filled in the narrative portion under DAILY ACTIVITY. On each, he wrote Protective duties-POTUS. POTUS, of course, was the Secret Service abbreviation for President of the United States. All special agents assigned to the White House Detail wrote the same vague phrase on their daily reports. Though filling in such meaningless memoranda had been a constant source of irritation to Powers for years, he had finally accepted the ritual as part of the job. As Landry always advised, where else but in government service could one get paid to waste time filling in the same worthless form each day? In fact, recalled Powers, it was Ray Stryker who had used a calculator to figure that, during a thirty-year career, the average agent would spend two years and eleven months just filling in daily report forms.

  By 5:30 P.M., Powers had not only caught up on the two months' worth of reports he was behind but had completed enough reports for the next six months-which he would hand in, one each day, as required.

  The phone rang.

  He picked up the receiver. It was Sullivan.

  "Do you know La Serre? The French restaurant?"

  "Twenty-first and K Street?"

  "That's the one. She'll be there at seven ... at the counter. She's expecting Morgan to pick her up and drive her to meet the man, but he'll phone her at the last minute and cancel. She's yours from there on out."

  The phone clicked.

  Dressed casually, Powers left the apartment and took the Metro to the corner of 21st and K Street.

  The restaurant faced north on K Street, raised from the sidewalk by about ten steps covered by a red awning on which was painted LA SERRE. He ambled along the sidewalks in the area for a while, checking entrances and exits to the place as well as any nearby Metro stops and parking garages Marilyn might use. In a surveillance, such things could take on great importance, Then he checked his Rolex, inserted his flesh-colored Secret Service hearing-aid-style radio receiver into his ear, plugged it into the HL-20 radio attached to his belt under his sport coat, adjusted the volume, and trudged up the steps. He was early, but arriving early was the custom in Secret Service work. Whether it was getting to the location of a presidential visit or going on surveillance, arriving late was considered an inexcusable mistake, one of the few infractions that could cause an agent to be transferred from the White House Detail. "The President of the United States," as the legendary Special Agent Clint Hill of the Kennedy Detail used to say, "doesn't like to wait."

  Powers entered the restaurant. Inside were about twenty-five wooden tables, with checkered tablecloths and cane-backed chairs, and a butcher-block counter he guessed would seat ten or twelve. Less than half the tables and only three of the counter seats were occupied. The college-age waiters and waitresses wore white aprons and black pants. A chalkboard on the wall noted the daily specials: Algerian couscous and fruits de mer. Powers imagined the pseudo-cosmopolitan atmosphere would be popular with yuppies who'd once backpacked around Europe for a summer.

  Powers chose his own table to get a good view of the door and sat down without waiting to be seated. A few minutes later a young waiter with a short greasy ponytail and fair features came over to the table. Telling himself that eating in a restaurant on a surveillance was the best way to appear inconspicuous, Powers ordered couscous. Then, recalling that Sullivan wasn't requiring him to furnish receipts for his expen
ditures, he also ordered the fruits de mer and a small bottle of wine.

  With his earpiece receiver discreetly monitoring routine radio transmissions on the White House frequency, Powers finished his seashell of fruits de mer and set the plate on top of the empty couscous bowl. He still wasn't full. Because of nervous tension, he had an urge to smoke a cigarette, but he had quit three years earlier after reading an article in Readers Digest citing the fact that virtually all men suffering impotency were heavy smokers. He was determined to never smoke again.

  He glanced at his wristwatch for what must have been the tenth time. It was 6:51 P.M., was she going to be late?

  A few moments later, the waiter finished a long conversation he'd been having with a waitress about backgammon and finally took the dirty dishes from his table.

  Just then a woman came in the door.

  She was in her thirties, willowy, and had long chestnut hair parted on the side. Her cheekbones were high, and she had full, sensuous lips, satiny red with a recent application of lipstick. Her eyes were brown, deep-set, and implied sophistication and perhaps even a certain world-weariness. She wore a maroon crocheted cardigan with wide sleeves, a black knit top, and tight-fitting black pants. Slung over her right shoulder was a large geometric-print leather bag.

  Though Powers still thought it unfathomable that the President had risked his place in history by allowing himself to be compromised, now he understood: the strikingly attractive Marilyn Kasindorf was a woman no man could ignore. In a Secret Service hangout like Blackie's, agents would fight over her.

  Marilyn set her bag on a chair at the counter and casually looked about. Powers pretended to review his bill to avoid eye contact with her.