By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

“Then they’re carrying coals to Newcastle,” said Atherton. “I’m about to lose my mind.”

  “They’re also doing what we’re doing,” Shawcross said. “They’re trying to draw out the president, hoping to get some handle on what’s going on.”

  “I hate every Communist who ever lived,” Atherton said. “I hate every one of Bushy Ambrose’s ancestors who ever lived.”

  Neil Howard rushed into the room. “Larry! Mr. Vice President. The president is on television! On the news!”

  Charley Dresden’s evening meal was precisely the same as his lunch—three boneless chicken dinners eaten from a napkin on the bar of the Tiburcio Saloon and Grocery. He washed them down with bourbon and water, as throughout the afternoon he had washed his thoughts. As soon as the first in the late-afternoon, early-evening cycle of news broadcasts began, he instructed, not requested, Cooper to turn on the television set. He then instructed Cooper to keep it on until instructed otherwise. He was compelled to expend nearly all the capital of his local prestige, influence, friendship, foul temper, and dangerous reputation to enforce that command as locals and visitors were not giving a damn about television, news, or the president of the United States and sought instead to entertain themselves with the jukebox, or merely to speak loudly within Charley’s hearing. At one point Cooper asked for his gun, in a practiced, friendly-angry manner—to be returned only when Charley was ready to leave the bar.

  His hands began to go numb, a consequence of drinking he’d not experienced in years. He had Cooper stop the bourbon and bring him coffee until feeling was restored. He went to the men’s room, had another cup of coffee upon returning, and then asked for the procession of bourbons to resume.

  The presence of the president’s speaking face on local and network television news did not surprise him in the least, especially when the first anchorman informed his audience that the footage was a tape provided by the White House and not a live broadcast or even a network recording. Dresden had expected something on videotape almost as soon as he had heard the president’s voice on his car radio. This was a television age, not a radio one. And more things were possible on television than the people who had rattled steel sheets for rain sounds and fired pistol blanks next to microphones in the 1930s and 1940s for radio had ever imagined.

  It took two broadcasts of the videotape for him to notice a small shaving cut on the president’s left cheek—which had not been visible in the assassination-attempt footage. Something to be expected of a badly injured man perhaps, but not one who was regularly shaved by his own barber. Dimly, Dresden recalled noticing such a shaving cut on Hampton’s face months—indeed, more than a year—before. He’d seen it just once, and as his memory stirred it came to him that it was also on an occasion when the president was incapacitated by injury.

  The third run revealed to him the fact that the president’s hair had grown detectably longer and fuller in only about a week’s time. There was also a somewhat bloodshot right eye and a twitch to the left. These were also, perhaps, to be expected. What was not were the cutaway shots of the videotape camera or cameras—one to the presidential seal, one to a map of the western hemisphere, and another to a glimpse of the American flag flying over the grounds of Camp David—a sure sign of editing. What need of editing a four-minute prepared remark by a practiced politician and speaker? Even with the hoarseness, the voice came forth evenly and strongly.

  It also struck Dresden that the lip movements might be out of sync, but that he conceded to himself was an inexact and very subjective judgment. His overall assessment was very firm and clear, however. The tape was phony. It was not the president’s voice he was actually hearing. Though the content of Hampton’s remarks was as disingenuous, vague, meaningless, and convincingly crafted as always, nothing diminished Dresden’s conviction. It made him feel very bitter. When Danny Hill finally entered the bar, having worked overtime, Charley was speaking grimly.

  “‘There exists an obvious fact that seems utterly moral: namely, that a man is always a prey to his truths,’” said Dresden, as Danny Hill dropped heavily onto the stool next to him.

  “Come on, mate, no poetry,” said Hill. “Not another night of Edgar Allan Poe. Not even Robert W. Service.” He ordered two hard-boiled eggs for himself, and a cold bottle of Hamm’s beer.

  “That’s not poetry,” said Dresden, sipping his whiskey. “Not Poe. It’s Albert Camus. ‘The Myth of Sisyphus.’”

  “The dumb son of a bitch who kept rolling the rock up the mountain?”

  “He wasn’t dumb. He was doomed to it. The experience defines doom. Oddly, Camus found that he must logically be happy.”

  Hill bit into one of his eggs, and looked along the bar.

  “I’ve been repeating that line over and over,” Dresden continued. “For several days now I’ve been rolling that rock up the mountain and it keeps rolling back down on me. But it’s the truth. I’m right. I know it. But I am victim to being right. I am prey to my truth. My truth is rolling that rock back down on me. And I keep coming back at it like an idiot, an imbecile.”

  “You’re not an idiot. You’re so smart you sometimes scare the hell out of me. You’re also just a little crazy. And tanked to the gills.”

  “I am crazy because I pursue the truth. If I accept the lie, I am sane and normal.”

  “Look, Charley. I’m not in the mood, okay? I got heavy problems. I’m five months behind in my alimony and my wife’s family is getting nasty about it. I think her brothers are fixing to come down here again. It’s not the money. They’ve got three grocery stores in the valley. It’s a point of honor. They’re Portuguese.”

  “The Portuguese are an eminently civilized people. I’ve had their wine.”

  “Last time they beat the shit out of me. Charley, if they show up, can I crash at your place?”

  “As I’ve always told you, Daniel, you are welcome to stay at my place anytime, for any reason. Even if my place is just a ditch by the side of the road.”

  “You read too much Steinbeck.”

  “He’s why I moved here. It’s Albert Camus who’s making me think about other places.”

  Hill belched, though he covered the indiscretion with his hand.

  “I’ve got a problem, too, Danny. I ripped the MG apart on a guardrail last night. I’ve got to get the old Hawk started.”

  “That battery’s too old for a jump. It’ll take a push. Will Coop loan us his pickup?”

  “He will if you drive. Sure.”

  “Are you sober enough?”

  “Sure. You bet.”

  “Oh oh,” said Hill, as some people entered the saloon.

  “What is it?” said Charley, looking into a new bourbon. “Your ex-in-laws?”

  “No. It’s your lady. Zack. With a gentleman friend.”

  The man was tall, very well dressed, and handsome. Charlene glanced along the bar, greeted Dresden with a faint, worried smile, and then took the intruder over to a table. Only then did she come to Charley’s side. Their relationship had rules, and to Charley’s mind, she had just broken one. The main one.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

  “That’s a fine question coming from someone who’s disappeared for nearly forty-eight hours. You didn’t call. You didn’t return my calls.”

  “Had an accident on the way back from the city. Had to spend the night with a friend.”

  He had spent a fair portion of the day struggling with the problem of reconciling the fact of Charlene and their mutual residence with a now-consuming passion for Madeleine Anderson. The mental effort, little assisted by whiskey, had produced only frustration and guilt. Now he had the solution. Ritghteousness, and—in his current state of recklessness—cruelty.

  “Who’s the stud?” he asked, lifting his glass.

  At first she was silent, scaring him. He avoided her eye. When she leaned close he almost flinched.

  “Look you son of a bitch,” she said, her voice lowered, but not enough. “That gentleman is a c
lient.”

  “Ah yes. ‘Client.’ The perfect word.”

  She leaned closer still. “If he weren’t here I’d smash your face, Charley Dresden. He’s a developer. From Texas. He’s opening a shopping mall in Santa Cruz in the spring. He’s already interested in hiring me for the publicity on the grand opening and I brought him down here because he said he’d heard about Tiburcio and wanted to see the place and because I convinced him that you were the best person in Santa Linda to talk to about advertising.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Look, you stuck-up, arrogant, Eastern college boy looney-tune jerk. I wouldn’t let him talk to you now about directions the hell out of here. You’re drunk. You’re unshaven. Your clothes are filthy. You look terrible. You smell terrible. You are terrible! I hate you! You wreck everything!”

  Conversation along the bar and in much of the room had stopped. Domestic disputes were great sport in Tiburcio, and one coupled with the prospect of violence between two large males—one with a reputation for gunplay—made this a major event.

  But Charlene put an end to it. Pausing to restrain tears and regain her composure, she returned to her somewhat startled guest and spoke a few quiet words. They quickly left.

  “I think maybe I’d better not spend the night at your place,” Hill said, “in-laws or no.”

  “Why not?” Dresden said. “I’m going to have the house to myself.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “You don’t think she’s going to bed down in Santa Linda with that big Texas bankroll?”

  “You know if I ever said something like that, Charley, you’d kill me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you ought to have figured out by now that that woman is in love with you—more in love with you than anyone would deserve, but especially you. I’m not the best person to speak on the subject of holy matrimony, but it seems to me you’re screwing up the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Dresden said nothing.

  “Anyway,” Hill said. “I’m sure you’re going to find her home, in the bedroom, alone, with the door locked.”

  “In that case, you can have the living room couch. I’ll sleep on the floor, or on the bar. I’m so tired I could sleep in the toilet.”

  “You look like you have. There are times, mate, when it’s hard to remember you’re supposed to be the town gentleman. Come on, let’s get that car of yours started.”

  10

  Walt Kreski had walked the halls of Congress countless times before, but always with something of a sense of guardianship and proprietorship, notwithstanding his lack of day-to-day jurisdiction. On occasions when the president or a foreign head of government addressed a joint session, he was the Capitol’s absolute master. No one moved through its labyrinth without the approval and authority of his agency. The president moved only as he was instructed.

  Now Kreski felt a prisoner of the Congress, himself constrained to follow direction, an accused person heading with little relish to a place of judgment, a person summoned.

  Hammond walked quietly at his side. Three other agents, bearing files and briefcases, followed. Kreski had last testified on the Hill on behalf of a bill strengthening a counterfeiting statute, and had been treated with much deference. Now he was tantamount to culprit. The White House congressional liaison office had told him he could count on the fairness and objectivity of perhaps half the committee investigating the Gettysburg shootings, but no friendship. From the rest of them, he could expect only hostility and grandstand plays to the public.

  But, as he kept reminding himself, he had no complaint. The president had, in fact, been shot and those people killed. He ran the agency whose sacred mission it was to prevent that. He had allowed Schultz and too many others to put in too much time during the election campaign. He had read the advance field reports and not asked whether there was a crawl space in the observation tower. He had approved the security plan for the Gettysburg event, almost routinely. Hampton went regularly to Civil War battlefields.

  If he had assigned a man to the Slocum statue, if he had made a more careful study of the tower’s structure, if he had for once insisted that the president accept more bodyguards in and around his car, this might not have happened.

  But he could not have prevented Schultz’s tragic action. The man had been returned to a normal schedule after the election and should have had a normal night’s sleep. Tests had found no trace of alcohol or drugs aside from some medication for a minor allergy. It was simply and starkly a gruesome accident. The man’s sense of urgency combined disastrously with a slip of the foot on wet metal. How could he have foreseen that? How could his conduct of the operations of his office have prevented that?

  Increasing noise ahead warned of what awaited him around the next corner of the hall. As he turned it, he was assaulted by glaring batteries of television cameras and lights arrayed along one wall like the bizarre weaponry in the recently popular science fiction war movies. Along the other side was a long line of ghoulish public and congressional staff, waiting their turns for a seat in the hearing room. From some of their expressions, he might as well have been Lee Harvey Oswald.

  The chamber itself was jammed and even more oppressive—and ominous. The press were crowded around a long side table looking much like what they were: a jury. The committee members sat in two raised, curving banks as might stern judges, their staff aides and counsels positioned behind them like so many bailiffs and officers of the court. There were more television cameras. Several were aimed at an easel bearing a stack of enlarged, mounted photographs just to the side of the witness table. The front one was of the fallen bodies of the dead and wounded at Gettysburg, Bonnie Greer’s the most prominent. He was in for about as comfortable a time as the French Protestants on St. Bartholomew’s Day.

  The first question came from a pleasant-looking, bald, bespectacled congressional veteran who smiled, glanced down at his notes, and then said: “Mr. Kreski, can you give us one single reason why you should be retained as director of the United States Secret Service?”

  Kreski reddened and stared down at the microphone on the green tabletop before him. It was, save the ceiling, about the only focal point in the room that spared him from having to look at another human face. He could not remember when he had experienced such a naked moment. He could not understand why some more just and reasonable member of the committee did not at once intercede on his behalf. If this lout felt justified in such flagrant political posturing and personal abuse, was the silence of the others a reflection of the depth of the public’s outrage over what had happened? Much of Washington was oblivious to the national mood, but seldom the Congress, not when that mood was angry or fearful.

  “Sir, I serve at the pleasure of the president of the United States and the secretary of the treasury. Neither gentleman has asked me to resign or called my conduct of my office into question.”

  “That dead young woman would call your conduct into question!” shouted the now-livid inquisitor, half rising from his seat and thrusting his arm out at the easel.

  Finally, someone came to Kreski’s rescue.

  “Mr. Chairman,” said another member. “If we could dispense with these pointless theatrics, I’d like to ask the director to explain his defiance of our subpoena and refusal to appear at yesterday’s hearing.”

  “Sir,” said Kreski. “I sent Mr. Hammond in my place. He’s as knowledgeable on the matters that concern you as I am. As I believe he made clear, I was out of town yesterday, in New York and Pennsylvania, working on the investigation.”

  “So Mr. Hammond explained, but is it not correct that this is essentially an FBI case?”

  “The Bureau has principal jurisdiction over investigation of the federal crimes committed in the attack on the president. There are state and local charges involved also. The Secret Service has a number of responsibilities. We’ve also been asked personally by the White House chief of staff and Director Copley to assist, and we have our own internal investigat
ion to pursue.”

  “Did you find anything so important as to risk a contempt of Congress citation?”

  “Sir, I would hope that the Congress might be reasonable and responsible enough to withhold its contempt for the time being. We have just experienced a major assault upon the government of the United States. What we accomplish in the next few hours, days, and weeks is crucial. We’ve made progress, a lot of progress, including yesterday.”

  “Have you established the Nicaraguan connection?” demanded a member from the left of the back row of committee seats, but the extreme right of the political spectrum.

  “Sir, we have no evidence of the involvement of any foreign government.”

  “You mean as yet.”

  “Sir, I mean no evidence. We have, however, learned a great deal more about the apparent assassin, Manuel Huerta, and about how …”

  “What about the second gun?!”

  “… and about how the crime was committed. I must remind you gentlemen that this is, in fact, a criminal investigation. There is no more important criminal investigation underway in this country. If you don’t wish to prejudice this case, I would respectfully suggest that if you have any further questions concerning evidence that you close this hearing from the press and public and proceed in executive session.”

  That happening, of course, was very far from many if not most of the minds of the committee members.

  His initial inquisitor was now on his feet, however, reddened bald head awash in perspiration. Kreski realized how much he himself was sweating.

  “We don’t need to be in executive session to demand an explanation for what happened to these poor innocent bystanders!” thundered the man. “Look upon that woman’s brutalized body and face, Mr. Kreski. Is there an answer to that that can be hidden by executive privilege!”

  “Sir, I said executive session, not executive privilege. That is something only the president can invoke, and he has not.”

  “Yes, well. Anyway, look at her!”

  The questions got no worse, but few were much better. They trailed off, however, as the television camera lights began to go out and the press pens slowed and stopped. At length, the chairman asked Kreski the most responsible and reasonable, fair and objective question he’d been posed that morning. It was also the one he’d dreaded most.