Finally, Powers stood up from the bench and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue. At the Georgetown Arms Apartments, he knocked on the manager's door. From inside came the sound of a TV commercial jingle. Mrs. Hammerstrom let him in. Her hair was wrapped in a dye-spotted towel. She was barefoot and wearing a tattered pink housecoat. He greeted her and asked for his mail and the key to a vacant apartment.
Without saying anything, she plodded to a Formica-topped dinette table in the middle of her living room. Keeping her eyes on the television so she wouldn't miss any of the show, she dug into a cardboard box and took out a four-inch stack of letters fastened with a rubber band. Then, from a small board on top of the television, she lifted a set of keys. She handed the items to Powers, and he thanked her.
"I still have your application and your deposit from the last time," she said, hypnotized by a couple kissing on the television screen. "You're in four-twelve. It's the only vacancy."
He took the elevator to the cluttered basement. He found a Safeway grocery cart in the corner near the furnace and loaded his footlockers in it. And, figuring the apartment would need cleaning, like the others he'd rented at the Georgetown Arms over the years, he set the apartment house's upright vacuum on the bottom rack of the cart. Then he rolled the cart to apartment 412.
Unlike the other apartments he'd had, which had a view of the street, all that could be seen from the window of 412 was the pigeon-stained roof of the three-story apartment house next door. And the place was filthy: the brown wall-to-wall carpet was dotted with dust-balls, which for some reason had been missed by the apartment cleaning crew Mrs. Hammerstrom hired to clean vacant apartments. On the other hand, he was pleased the walls and the bathroom and kitchen sinks had been washed down adequately.
Having carefully vacuumed the entire apartment, Powers arranged his toilet articles on the bathroom sink and unpacked his belongings. By 5 P.M., he'd returned the shopping cart and vacuum to the basement and was fully moved in.
He dug a bottle of Chivas Regal scotch whisky from a footlocker. The bottle had been a gift to each member of the Secret Service protective detail from the Prime Minister of Canada after a three-day DC stay. At the kitchen sink, he rinsed out one of the six glasses he owned and poured himself a stiff drink. Then he walked to the window and stood there for a long time, sipping scotch and opening his mail-all advertisements-and stared anxiously at the roof next door.
He couldn't get Marilyn out of his mind.
Leaving the apartment an hour or so later, he headed for Blackie's.
There, Powers moved through the restaurant portion of the establishment, a few cramped booths with red-checkered tablecloths, to the entrance of a dimly lit, red-leather-upholstered barroom indistinguishable from a million other bars in DC. If the lights were ever to be turned on so that one could inspect, Powers imagined the furniture and carpeting in both the restaurant and the bar would be filthy.
At the end of the bar, Capizzi was leaning across the bar kissing Tiffany Kilgore, a peroxide-blond bartender known to be Blackie Horowitz's private stock.
Powers turned to leave, but he was too late. Capizzi had already seen him.
"Hey, Jackie boy," Capizzi said. "I thought you were on vacation. "
"Just got back."
"Where were you, Bangladesh?" he said, winking at Tiffany.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. "
Rather than giving Capizzi the satisfaction of running him off, Powers climbed on a bar stool. He would have one drink and leave.
Tiffany slid a cocktail napkin in front of him. He ordered a drink and she mixed his usual: scotch on the rocks, which, because Tiffany was making it, was mostly rocks. Though Tiffany was unable to make a decent drink for the life of her, her oversized breasts and outgoing personality kept agents-and the few neighborhood customers whose business supported the place when the detail was traveling with the President-from complaining.
Predictably, Capizzi left his stool and sat down next to Powers.
Tiffany moved farther down the bar to wash dishes.
Powers sipped his drink.
"Santa Monica was great," Capizzi said. "You missed a good trip. "
Powers nodded. He would finish his drink quickly and leave.
"A Santa Monica police officer was waiting in the command post when we arrived. Louise Fisher, I think her name was. She asked about you."
"Is that right."
"She looked disappointed when I told her you were on vacation. "
"Nice person, Louise.
"Heard the rumor?" Capizzi said, changing the subject.
Powers shook his head.
"The man is gonna bounce Fogarty and move Sullivan in as Director. That means promotions right up the chain."
"Don't you ever get tired of trying to figure out who's gonna get promoted?" Powers said.
"If Landry gets bumped up to Assistant Director, I see you as the logical one to take his place."
"That's because Lenore Shoequist told you she saw me in Sullivan's office the day before I went on vacation."
"Did he offer you a promotion?" Capizzi said hungrily. "You can tell me. I swear I'll never tell anyone."
Powers looked Capizzi in the eye. "No," he said coldly.
Capizzi smiled. "Then why'd he call you in?"
"Just some campaign paperwork."
Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere, Capizzi slid off his stool. "The beach was great," he said, moving down the bar to Tiffany. "I got in a lot of exercise."
Landry came in a few minutes after 4 P.M., the end of the day shift. Ignoring Capizzi, he joined Powers.
"Sullivan told me about what happened. It's not your fault," he said, keeping his voice down.
"Yes, it is," Powers said gloomily.
"On a surveillance, there's only so much a man can do working alone. You shouldn't blame yourself."
"Is the lid still on everything?" Powers said, being careful to lower his voice so Capizzi couldn't overhear.
"As far as I know. But I don't know what to make of Miller getting killed."
"He could have surprised a burglar, but what the hell was he doing at the Breakwater in the first place?"
"Nosing around."
"We'll never know now, that's for sure."
"The man has been having some late-night meetings in the Oval Office."
"With who?"
"Morgan. And when we were on the West Coast, he had dinner with the Three Musketeers-a long session."
"Maybe he's talking to them about ... this mess."
Landry finished his drink. "He doesn't trust anybody enough to tell 'em that,"
Powers rubbed his eyes. He was tired.
Landry waved at Tiffany.
"What are you drinking?"
For the thousandth time, Landry told her he drank rum and Coke and Powers told her he drank scotch on the rocks. Tiffany scooped ice into glasses.
"By the way, when we were in Santa Monica, Capizzi hit on your girlfriend, Louise Fisher," Landry said. "He invited her to go jogging and ended up fucking her on the beach ... or at least that's what he told everyone who'd listen to him. "
"Figures."
Landry laughed. "The man threw you a cock-block."
Powers shrugged.
Tiffany served their drinks. Landry sipped, then held up his glass. "I said rum, not bourbon, Tiff."
Tiffany took the glass. "Picky picky picky," she said, moving to the other end of the bar.
Powers arrived at his apartment shortly after midnight. Though he hadn't eaten all day and had consumed probably eight or nine scotches at Blackie's over the course of the late afternoon and evening, he felt simply depressed rather than drunk.
The telephone rang.
He picked up the receiver. It was Sullivan.
"I've been trying to call you all evening," Sullivan said balefully.
"I was at Blackie's."
"Meet me at Twelfth and Constitution i
n fifteen minutes."
"I'll be there."
As Powers's taxi pulled up at Twelfth and Constitution Avenue, Sullivan was standing on the corner. The humidity was oppressive and the air was rich with the smell of new-mown grass. Because of the hour, the wide sidewalks lining Constitution were deserted and eerie.
Sullivan, looking ill at ease even from a distance, was wearing a wrinkled suit jacket and a dress shirt open at the collar. In his right hand he was holding a thin black attaché case.
It was the first time in years Powers had seen him without a necktie.
Powers paid the taxi driver, a black man with dreadlocks, and climbed out of the taxi. Without saying anything, Sullivan began walking. Powers fell into step next to him. To the right, the Museum of Natural History, an urban mountain, loomed darkly. The building's well-lit glass-front entrance framed, almost like one of the modern paintings Powers had seen at the art show in Kassel, an unmoving black uniformed guard sitting behind a small desk.
"I ran into Capizzi tonight. He knew about my visit to your office already," Powers said.
"Lenore Shoequist shooting off her mouth as usual," Sullivan said.
They continued to walk. Other than intermittent traffic noise, there was only the sound of their footsteps. Powers could tell Sullivan had something important to tell him.
"Back when you and I were in Secret Service School," Sullivan said, "there were no two young men more idealistic. Not naive by any means--we could see through the smoke and mirrors--but we really believed in what we were doing: protecting the life of the President of the United States. Uncle Sam was lucky to have people like us. I really believe that."
Powers suddenly had a sinking feeling. It wasn't so much what Sullivan was saying but the tone of finality in his voice.
"Through the years you and I have watched the politicians come and go," Sullivan continued. "The staff men, the sharpies, the bag men, the political pimps. We outlast them because we're better than them, Jack. We didn't come to this town for the power. And we've never been government leeches like Senator Eastland-or Capizzi, for that matter. We came here as true believers." His voice cracked. "I'd tell anyone that." He stopped walking.
"You talked to the President."
Sullivan stared at the sidewalk. "Yes."
"What did he say?"
Sullivan continued to stare. "He was interested in the details of your surveillance in Germany. I gave them to him ... being evasive about the last day, of course."
"Did you-"
"The President isn't a dumb man, Jack. It became obvious to me that he smelled a rat. Finally, he looked me in the eye and asked the direct question."
"About Marilyn and me?"
Sullivan nodded.
"Shit."
"You said you couldn't lie to the man. Well, when it came right down to it, neither could I. Funny, isn't it? Every politician, every power broker, every fucking lobbyist and lawyer and strap hanger in this town cultivates the art of lying, and you and I bite our tongues even when it comes to ... survival." He looked up.
"What did he-?" Powers said.
"He didn't take it well, Jack."
Powers felt perspiration at his temples and under his arms. He wished there were a bench nearby so he could sit down. But there wasn't. "Go ahead, say it."
"The President doesn't want you in the White House ever again."
Powers suddenly felt lightheaded.
"I explained to him that you were second in seniority on the Detail and it would cause disruption to transfer you," Sullivan said flatly. "But he said if I didn't remove you he'd go straight to Director Fogarty. You and I both know what would happen when Fogarty got a request from the President for an agent to be removed from the White House Detail. He'd be doing somersaults to please him."
"I don't want a transfer," Powers said.
"Even if you were willing to take a transfer from the White House Detail, it wouldn't end there. Fogarty would put you on the wheel: Fresno today, Detroit tomorrow, Newark next week. He's done this to every agent who leaves under a cloud. He'd hammer you within civil service guidelines."
"I don't understand."
"The President is well aware of how Fogarty overdoes things. He told me he didn't want to see this happen."
"You're telling me I'm...?" Powers said.
Sullivan cleared his throat sharply. "The President asked about your eligibility for retirement."
Powers felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed. "When it came right down to the wire, you bailed out on me, Pete. You hung me out to dry."
"If you were to request retirement, it's within my purview to approve-"
"No."
"Let me finish, Jack. Please. I can get David Crumpmaster or one of the President's other big money supporters to give you a good job in private industry, paying more than your government salary. Taking a higher paying job would stop speculation about why you left."
Powers felt weak in the knees.
"Hell, in the long run you'd be better off," Sullivan said. "You could buy a condo. I'm sorry. Goddam, I'm sorry..." Sullivan's voice trailed off.
A taxi, grinding its gears, sped past. Powers followed it with his eyes as it hurtled down Constitution Avenue. "Would it do any good now if I talked with the President?" he said.
"You know how the man is once he's made a decision," Sullivan said. "This whole thing is all my fault. I got you in, and now I can't get you out."
Powers's career was ended. He'd seen it happen before: agents who'd been injured on duty and were no longer able to meet the stringent physical requirements of the Secret Service, or who'd been involved in scandal of one kind or another and had displeased some member of the White House staff or the First Family: the few alcoholics, the two agents who got into a fistfight in the Lincoln Room over a bet on a Redskins game, the agent who came to believe his wristwatch was ordering him to do strange things and was committed to St. Elizabeth's in a straitjacket. Now it was his turn.
"I have no one to blame but myself," Powers said under his breath.
Sullivan unzipped the attaché case and took out a piece of paper. He set it on the flat side of the case and handed it to Powers. "This is a Form 1094 retirement request. I'll let it be known this was the reason you came to my office before you took the vacation days-you'd had a big offer from a private firm and wanted to keep it quiet." He was avoiding eye contact. "You'll be on salary for the next three months until your annual leave time is used up."
From his shirt pocket, he took out a pen and offered it to Powers.
Powers stood there, feeling slightly nauseated. "She just didn't seem like a spy," he said.
"I understand, Jack."
Powers accepted the pen. Using the attach6 case to support the printed form, he signed his name.
"You know I'd give anything to be able to change this," Sullivan said, shoving the document back into the attach6 case.
"I don't want to go to the House and lie to everyone about why I'm leaving."
"No need. I'll tell Landry. Just send him a note that you want to double your salary and had to take the position when it was offered. No one will question it."
Powers nodded.
They stood there for a moment in uncomfortable silence.
"Do you-uh-want to go have a drink?" Sullivan said weakly.
Powers shook his head. "No, thanks."
"I'll let you know tomorrow about the new job."
Powers nodded.
Sullivan suddenly reached out and gave Powers an abrazo. "I'm sorry, Jack. Sorry about everything." He picked up the case and walked across the street to his car.
Powers, overwhelmed by a feeling of profound guilt and loss, walked aimlessly for what must have been an hour or more. He'd often wondered about how the others who'd been forced to leave the spotlight of the White House had felt, and now he knew. The loss was personal: the death of self-image. Humiliation was the word-and a sense of twisted awe, perhaps, that all the years of long hours, of missi
ng meals and standing post in the rain and snow and waiting in the follow-up car and changing shifts at midnight and working sick and dragging his suitcase all over the world to be somewhere on time ... of standing for long periods in back yards and front yards and service entrances and alleys and outside ten thousand doors in ten thousand hotel hallways throughout the world, had been for nothing. No longer, working as a team with the other members of the shift, would he lead the President through a thousand crowds made up of a million faces hoping to live if he had to take a bullet for the man. At the next inauguration a President would be in the presidential limousine, and the President's follow-up car would be manned in the running-board position, with his pals alert and ready to leap into danger, to fire accurately to save the President.
But he wouldn't be there.
His years of slogging up and down the stairs in the White House had been ended forever by one mistake. The invisible Secret Service wash-line had been stretched tight, and it was Jack Powers's turn to dangle in the wind.
****
SIXTEEN
At his apartment, Powers went to the closet and took out an empty shoebox. He placed his Secret Service badge and credential, his holstered revolver and handcuffs, and his secret identification pins into it. At the kitchen table, he wrote the following letter on government stationery:
Special-Agent-in-Charge Kenneth Landry
White House Detail, USSS
The White House
Dear Ken: I'm sorry I didn't have time to stop by the House before I left, but by now, I'm sure Sullivan has told you about the job offer I accepted. Forgive the abrupt departure, but I have a lot of things to take care of before I assume the new position and I really don't feel like going through either a retirement party or an endless round of goodbyes. You know how it is. Nevertheless, please give my best to everyone on the detail--except Capizzi, of course.
I'll drop you a line soon and fill you in on the details of my new job.
Paramour Page 15