HANGOUTS: Paris Cocktail bars in Pigalle and Belleville quarter, Montreal: Chez Alain, in U.S.: The Scene and The Corral Club in Bakersfield, California
ASSOCIATES: Unknown
RELATIVES: None living
MARITAL STATUS: Divorced from Helene Lorraine
PROPENSITY FOR VIOLENCE: Alexander is a former sergeant in the French Foreign Legion. He has contacts with neo-fascist groups in Canada and the U.S., including the Aryan Disciples of the U.S. He may have been involved in the plans to bomb the Chicago Federal Building and the Montreal City Hall. Unsubstantiated information from various Spanish government sources has it that Alexander may have acted as a hit man for the Basque Separatist Organization (BSO) on two separate occasions. Alexander is wanted for murder in Sierra Leone as a result of a barroom fight, but because of his dual Canadian and French citizenship cannot be extradited. Alexander is familiar with weapons and should be considered armed and dangerous.
ASSOCIATES: Leroy P. Vincent AKA Spike Vincent. Vincent served time with Alexander in prison in Spain. Vincent and he were involved in collecting debts for a seller of illegal weapons in France. As of January of this year, Vincent was released from prison and is residing in Bakersfield. He frequents the Corral Club in Bakersfield, a known hangout for ex-convicts and right-wing extremists.
SOURCE OF ABOVE INFO: Reliable informants, sister agencies, INTERPOL SECRETARIAT GENERAL, ST. CLOUD, FRANCE.
Garrison was disappointed. The information in the file was too general to be of any real use, except for the information on Alexander's American associate, Leroy Vincent of Bakersfield, California. Bakersfield was a hotbed of Aryan Disciples activities, and if the information in the file was up-to-date and reliable, it was possible that Vincent could be the connection between Alexander and the Aryan Disciples.
Garrison sorted through the issues in his mind. He had to investigate Alexander and find out who hired him. But first, he had to convince the President that he, Garrison, was innocent-that someone else in the Secret Service was betraying him. Garrison decided to talk to Eleanor. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was too dangerous to try to reach her by telephone. He recalled her schedule, which he'd recently reviewed. If he remembered correctly, this evening she would be having dinner at the Chez Doucette restaurant on K Street.
Garrison stopped at a small hardware store on I Street, where he purchased a screwdriver, then walked briskly to the corner of K and 14th Streets. The First Lady's motorcade was parked in front of the Chez Doucette, at the corner on the ground floor of a three-story office building. He couldn't approach along the sidewalk because the agents outside on K Street would spot him.
Garrison knew the standard Secret Service security plan for the Chez Doucette from having done advance security duties there in the past. The plan included a police car parked in the alley at the rear of the restaurant and an agent posted at the front door, inside. He assumed Walter Sebastian would probably be posted there. Because the alley at the right of the entrance was blocked off at either end, no agent would be posted there.
When the President visited the restaurant, agents were positioned on all the nearby rooftops. But unless there was specific information concerning a threat to the First Lady's safety, the Secret Service protective manual did not require the same elaborate security precautions for her. Unless something had changed, Eleanor would be seated in the restaurant's private dining room, reserved for members of the First Family and a few other White House insiders. Chez Doucette catered to the rich and famous, and its private dining room had one entrance and no windows. There were private washrooms for VIPs in the basement down a short flight of stairs from the private dining room.
Garrison walked into an office building down the block from the Chez Doucette and took an elevator to the penthouse floor. Exiting the elevator, he found a stairway leading to the roof. The door was locked. He used his screwdriver to jimmy the lock. On the roof, he walked to the edge and gauged the distance to the adjacent building. After some quick calculations, he moved to the middle of the roof. He took a deep breath and let it out. Breaking into a full sprint, he traversed the roof to build up speed and leaped across the chasm, landing on the roof of the adjacent building and breaking the fall with his hands.
****
CHAPTER 20
HE MADE TWO more such leaps, moving from rooftop to rooftop to reach the roof of the Chez Doucette building. He stopped there to catch his breath and brush off his hands and trousers. His palms stung. He walked to the edge of the roof and peeked below. A police car and what he figured was a Secret Service sedan were parked in the alley behind the restaurant - the standard "security package" as it was called in Service argot. His problem: He had to get to the main floor of the restaurant without being seen.
Catty-corner from where he was standing was a rooftop hatch. Using the screwdriver, he pried it open. Climbing down a ladder into a utility closet, he opened the door that led to a hallway, and walked quietly down the hall to a stairwell. Descending the steps to the second floor, he followed a hall to an office with a VACANCY sign on the door. Using the screwdriver on the lock for what must have been two full minutes, he managed to get in. He hurried to the window. Hoisting his leg over the sill, he crawled down a drainpipe to the window below. Hanging on with one hand, he used the screwdriver to shim the lock. With some difficulty, he crawled inside a room whose walls were lined with wide shelves from floor to ceiling. He was in the kitchen pantry of Chez Doucette. Being careful to not make noise, he closed the window and walked to the door.
He heard footsteps. He wanted to hide, to run, but there was nowhere to go. A young man in a white uniform opened the door and was startled.
"Sorry to alarm you," Garrison said pulling his badge from his pocket and flipping open the leather case. "U.S. Secret Service. Just conducting a security check. The First Lady is downstairs." His mouth felt dry as he stood there, unsure whether the man was going to call for help or accept the story.
The man shrugged. "They told us you guys would be everywhere."
"The First Lady has had some threats recently."
"I guess you can't be too careful," the man said grabbing two boxes from a shelf.
Garrison followed him out the door into the kitchen. The chef was busy at the stove. Garrison introduced himself as Agent Flanagan.
"Weren't you here with the President a few months ago?" the chef asked.
"Yes. The President was here with Helen Pierpont and some Russian diplomats."
"I'm having sandwiches made up for the agents outside."
"Thanks."
Garrison walked across the kitchen and through a doorway leading to an elegant, frescoed dining room filled with customers. The walls were lined with oil portraits of Washington power brokers, including Clark Clifford and Henry Kissinger. Praying that neither Sebastian nor the other agents had changed the usual procedure and decided to come inside to eat, Garrison walked across a floral carpet past the door of the private dining room where a young waiter stood. Garrison hurried down a flight of nearby stairs to a plushly carpeted basement hall where there was a pay telephone and private rest room facilities reserved solely for the use of private dining room guests. He entered the men's room, and held the door open about an inch to keep an eye on the stairs, waiting for Eleanor to come downstairs to check her makeup before leaving, as was her habit. If she chose not to do so, all of his trouble would have been for nothing. The other question in his mind was what he would do if she panicked when she saw him. For all he knew, someone might have convinced her that he was an assassin. If so, agents would come rushing down the steps to arrest or shoot him. As time passed, he glanced at his wristwatch repeatedly.
He heard footsteps. Eleanor descended the steps looking polished and elegant in a beige business suit, designer scarf, and high heels. He needed her now to survive. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door and pulled her inside.
"Pete - what are you doing here?"
Gar
rison touched a finger to his lips. "What did they tell you about me?"
"Wintergreen told me they found evidence in your apartment," she whispered anxiously.
"It was planted there. What else?"
She stared into his eyes, and he wondered what he would think if he were she. "Your bank account-"
"There are ways to transfer money from an offshore bank and cover up the source of the funds. People do it by opening an account, transferring the money, then closing the account and paying off the bank to destroy the records. I am being framed.
"You believe me, don't you?"
"I don't know what to think," she said looking down.
"You know me, for God's sake. I would never do anything like that. You have to believe me."
"I started to think about our ... uh . . . relationship."
"That has nothing to do with all this-"
"I wondered if maybe you thought that I wanted to be free of him-"
"Eleanor, think about what you are saying. I haven't changed. I'm not some raving lunatic."
"Then I wondered if the blackmail thing had spooked you. I wondered if you'd lost your judgment and were so afraid of losing everything that you'd ... uh ... lost your mind."
"Do I look crazy?"
She looked into his eyes. "Maybe all this makes sense to you," she said "But I am confused and frightened. I don't know what the hell to think about all this."
"Please listen to me. I don't know what is going on. I don't know who is behind this. But I swear to you that I am not involved." He took her hand. "We don't have much time, Eleanor. I need your help. There is a plot to kill the President involving one or more Secret Service agents, and they have gone to a lot of trouble to frame me for the helicopter bombing. They needed a scapegoat to steer the investigation away from them. It's obviously part of their plan. You have to believe me."
"I have to protect to my husband. No matter what our differences-"
"If I meant him any harm, why would I be here?"
She stared at him, and he could see the fear in her eyes.
"You would never have come here like this, would you?" she said, as if thinking out loud.
"I'm here because I am trying to save his life. And because someone has put me in the middle."
She nodded and looked away. "If you were culpable, there would be no reason for you to come to me."
"Exactly."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Tell the President he needs to replace the entire Secret Service White House Detail immediately. Tell him not to waste any time."
"What about Director Wintergreen? Can't he be trusted?"
"I don't know who to point a finger at. That's the problem. The Secret Service security system is useless with a turncoat inside. But the President is in danger from within and something has to be done. Now. I want you to tell him to bring in the military to take over his protection until this is resolved. And he needs to appoint outsiders to investigate the bombing. You can trust Sebastian. No matter what happens, keep him with you. He's not involved in any conspiracy."
"Have you talked to him?"
Garrison shook his head. "No. I don't want to force him to side with me and put his career on the line. There's nothing he can do to help at this point."
"Okay."
"Eleanor, the President's life is in danger. You are in danger. I am in danger."
"He thinks it's you-"
"This is a sophisticated conspiracy involving someone in the Service and possibly a terrorist connection or a foreign power."
"What am I to say?"
"Tell him I contacted you. Don't tell him I was here because it will frighten him. Tell him that I managed to get through to you on a White House phone - that I impersonated some official contact to get through your secretary. Tell him what I said. You have to try. Will you do that for me?"
She nervously fingered her scarf.
"Pete, this is a plot to take over the government, isn't it? A coup d'état?"
"I don't know."
"Please don't take this the wrong way, but ... do you ... do you have anything that would tend to prove your innocence?"
"No. And I know the President may not take my word. I know the evidence is stacked up against me. But you have to try or we are all done for. Look, you'd better go back to your guests before people start to worry."
"I'm afraid, Pete. I'm afraid for my husband and I'm afraid for you."
"You have to calm down. We have to keep our wits about us."
"I know."
"I once had a premonition that when Russell was elected to a second term, I wouldn't survive it."
"Don't worry. I'm going to get to the bottom of all this."
"How?"
"There are some things I have to investigate."
"They're after you, Pete."
"I know. But I'll be all right."
"Where will you stay?"
"I'll find somewhere."
She thought for a moment, and then said, "I can arrange for a room at the Watergate for you. I'll call the management office and tell them my cousin Jonathan Hollingsworth will be staying there. The name will be familiar to them. He was scheduled to use the place a couple of months ago, but couldn't make it and had to cancel. They will give you a key. Do you need money?"
"I'm sure that by now they have placed stops on my checking account and credit cards."
She opened her purse, took out her wallet, and handed him all the money in it, at least twenty hundred-dollar bills.
"Take this."
"I don't need this much-"
"Take it," she insisted. "I want you to call me the moment you learn something."
"From here on, the phone is too dangerous. So are pagers. Everything can be traced. You'll have to be very careful with the White House phone. If you need to speak with me, call the apartment and ask for Jonathan. If I say he is at work, that means it's okay to come over. If I say anything else, just hang up. If I need to speak with you, I'll leave a red chalk mark on the curb directly across the street at Lafayette Park: three circles. You'll be able to see them from Bedroom Three. If you see my signal, tell the agents that you are going over to your cousin's place. When you get there, insist that the agents remain at the first-floor elevator bank. Tell them that your cousin doesn't like seeing agents around. They won't like it, but they'll go along because it's an unannounced visit and they will believe you are safe." Garrison knew that agents were aware of the difference between a risky, public First Family visit and one that was unexpected. The unannounced visit neutralized the greatest danger to a protectee ... the assassin lying in wait.
"I understand. Be careful."
"Sure."
He watched anxiously as she hurried upstairs. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps and conversation at the top of the stairs as Eleanor and her guests exited the private dining room and walked to the front door. He waited until he was sure she had departed, then walked up the stairs and peeked into the main dining area. He crossed the room to the kitchen and moved toward a side door.
"Sir?"
Garrison stopped and turned. A waiter was standing behind him with a brown paper bag.
"Did you get a sandwich? The chef made some up."
"Thanks, but I've already eaten."
Outside, Garrison looked both ways, then crossed between buildings and began walking up the street praying no one would spot him. His mind was short-circuiting and he wouldn't allow himself to feel what was going on. He was in the middle of a whirlpool with no time to mull over options and he was reacting from an inner place in the back of his brain. He neared the middle of the block as a Mercury sedan pulled around the corner and parked at the curb, facing in his direction. The driver turned off the headlights. Because of the darkness, Garrison couldn't make out the faces of the two people in the front seat. He glanced behind him.
At the other end of the block, another Mercury sedan pulled to the curb. Its headlights went out.
Garris
on felt a chill. Could the Chez Doucette chef have recognized him and mentioned his name to one of the other agents? Or maybe Flanagan had ordered PRD teams to keep an eye out for him at every location on the President and the First Lady's itineraries. Could Eleanor have betrayed him? Garrison quickly surveyed the situation. He knew the alley to his left was a dead end.
He ran across the street and darted down another darkened alley. Frantically, he tried a door on his left. It was locked. He continued running. At the end of the alley was a large industrial trash container. He jumped atop it and struggled to crawl over an adjacent fence.
Shots rang out from the mouth of the alley and red tracer fire, the standard Secret Service-issue ammunition, ricocheted off the trash container. Garrison stopped, pulled his gun, and fired twice in the air, hoping his pursuers would believe they were under fire and would deploy rather than run headlong into the passageway, giving him time to get away. God knows he didn't want to kill an agent who was simply carrying out orders. But they were trying to kill him and he wasn't going to allow anyone to shoot him down in the street. He reholstered the gun, dove over the fence, ran to his left, then turned right, running along a narrow passageway between buildings. He sprinted across the street and a sedan barely avoided hitting him, its brakes squealing. Reaching the sidewalk, he ran right, then left at the corner.
At a Metro stop, he glanced behind him, and then ran down the steps. A large crowd was waiting on the platform. He walked into the middle of the group, keeping his eyes on the stairs leading from the street as he waited for a train to arrive. He was breathing so hard that people were looking at him. Finally, he heard a train approaching. He turned. Two agents were standing at the top of the escalator. Garrison remained in the middle of the crowd until a train pulled into the station. Then he hurried inside a car, looking back only after the doors closed. The train pulled away from the station. He felt confused and angry. His mind flashed back to years earlier in Munich, Germany, when, half-asleep after working all night, he'd boarded the wrong train. Realizing his mistake only as the train pulled out of the station, he hadn't known where he was going and had no idea how to get back.
The Sentinel Page 15