Garrison closed his eyes. "Martha. What is her condition?"
"She is unconscious, Mister Breckinridge. She is being transported to Prince George's County Hospital emergency trauma center-"
"I'll be there in a few minutes."
Garrison racked the phone and hurried toward the door. He had a horrible feeling of guilt. He should have gone with her. He could have waited nearby, until she finished interviewing Flanagan....
In Hyattsville, Garrison sped off the highway 1 and drove up a hill to the Prince George's County Hospital, a red-brick structure overlooking Washington, D.C. Inside, he moved through a crowded waiting area to a long counter where he asked a nurse about Martha Breckinridge. The nurse tapped keys on a computer.
"Intensive Care Three. Down the hall and to the left."
Garrison walked briskly along corridors. The odor of hospital cleaning chemicals and the bright fluorescent lights made him recall other crises. For everyone except doctors and nurses, being in a hospital was to feel helpless. In the intensive care room, he moved close to a gurney surrounded by doctors and nurses.
Seeing Breckinridge in a hospital bed gave him a start. Her eyes were shut and she had clear, plastic tubes entering her nose, throat, and arms. Her skin was a ghastly, fishy pate. There were bloody bandages on the shiny tile floor next to the table. Garrison felt like someone had shoved a hand into his guts, into his heart.
A doctor who was treating Breckinridge looked up at him.
"How is she doing?"
"Please don't bother us now."
Garrison didn't move.
"Sir, did you hear me?" she said angrily.
Garrison backed away.
The doctor turned to a nurse who was standing nearby and told her to make a note on the chart about two broken ribs and to call the ENT and tell him that she had a patient with a ruptured sinus.
"Mr. Breckinridge?" someone whispered. Garrison turned. "I'm Detective Maxwell, Hyattsville City Police."
Maxwell cocked his head toward the door. They walked out of the room into the hallway. Maxwell was fiftyish and of medium height. Maybe it was because of his florid complexion and sagging belly that Garrison thought he looked like the quintessential police detective.
"The hit-and-run. What happened?"
"Mr. Breckinridge, at first it sounded like your wife was in some kind of a traffic argument; a road-rage thing. But one of my people just interviewed a truck driver who was a few lanes behind her when it happened. He saw a white delivery van force her car off the road - possibly a Dodge. But he said that as far as he could tell, her car and the Dodge hadn't been close enough earlier to have had a traffic dispute."
"Someone ran her off the road?"
"That's what it looks like. A Dodge truck hit her car on the right rear bumper while accelerating - sort of turned right into her. Her car hit the edge of a ditch and rolled at least three full times. It's almost like the driver of the Dodge seemed to know what he was doing. Like he was trying to kill her. Then, here's the zinger: He stops and, from what we've been able to establish, searches her car. A truck driver who stopped to help sees a guy crawling out of the car carrying a woman's purse, then get in the Dodge and speed away like a bat out of hell. He said the Dodge didn't have license plates."
Garrison felt a rush of anger. "Did the witness get a look at him?"
Maxwell cupped his chin. "Unfortunately, he wasn't able to provide more than a general description: a male wearing a baseball hat. That brings me to the million-dollar question: Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to harm your wife - to steal her purse?"
It was then that Garrison saw the suspicion in Maxwell's eyes. And why shouldn't he suspect him? Most murders involved family members. But should Garrison tell him the truth? Could he tell him that there was a conspiracy to kill the President of the United States and someone involved in the conspiracy had tried to kill Breckinridge? Because her purse had been stolen, Maxwell didn't know Breckinridge was a Secret Service agent. But he would surely find out when he ran the car registration. This would cause Maxwell to notify his superiors, who would, in turn, call Secret Service Headquarters, thus putting Breckinridge in jeopardy. Garrison cleared his throat.
"Yes."
The expression that crossed Maxwell's face was one familiar to Garrison. It was the probing, intense stare all police detectives get when an investigative lead suddenly pops into view like a well-lit road sign. Garrison reached inside his suit jacket, took out his Secret Service identification card, and handed it to Maxwell.
Maxwell's eyebrows elevated slightly.
"U.S. Secret Service?"
"Martha Breckinridge and I are special agents. I'm not her husband. She and I have been working on a sensitive federal case - an internal investigation targeting a person suspected of crimes against the U.S. I can't tell you any more than that at this point for reasons of national security."
Maxwell studied the identification card, then handed it back to him.
"Sounds like I'd better phone my captain-"
"If you do, it will hinder the investigation and endanger lives."
"This is an attempted murder. I can't sit back and do nothing because you think it's a good idea."
"Would you agree that proving a case would depend on having a victim?" Garrison asked.
Maxwell furrowed his brow. "Generally."
"In order to protect Agent Breckinridge's life, I'm asking that you hold off doing anything for the moment - except to take steps to protect her. She needs to be re-registered under an assumed name and an officer should be posted at the door of her room twenty-four hours per day."
Maxwell rubbed his chin. "Lemme see that ID again." Garrison complied. Maxwell studied it. "We all have a boss. I'm going to have to report this up the chain-"
"Did you know Charlie Meriweather when he was in your department?"
"As a matter of fact I did," Maxwell said after a moment. "We worked in the same patrol division."
"I take it you heard about what happened to him?"
"A damn shame."
"I believe the same people who ran Breckinridge's car off the road may be involved in Charlie's murder."
"Is that so," Maxwell said as a statement of fact rather than a question.
Garrison assumed that Maxwell was trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. He was using his police officer's sixth sense; the lie-detector of singular police judgment based on having listened to ten thousand lies during his career.
"I know this must all sound incredible to you, Maxwell. But it's true, so help me."
"You're asking me to protect Agent Breckinridge and to delay reporting a crime. I can't do either without risking my ass.
Frustrated, Garrison turned away from him and let out his breath angrily.
A uniformed officer joined them and asked to speak with Maxwell privately. They walked a few feet down the hall and held a short conversation. The officer turned and headed back down the hall. Maxell rejoined Garrison.
"I need your help, Maxwell."
"Why don't you have Secret Service agents protect her?"
"I can't at this point. This is an internal investigation involving one or more agents who may be working for a terrorist organization."
The way Maxwell squinted at him, as if he was in deep thought, led Garrison to believe that Maxwell was considering what he had asked. Garrison asked himself what he would do in the same circumstances, and became depressed.
The door opened. A tall, middle-aged woman in a hospital scrub gown and cap walked in the room. She had black hair streaked with gray. Garrison recognized her by her eyes. She was the doctor who had been treating Breckinridge.
"Ms. Breckinridge is stabilized," she said to Maxwell. "She's suffering from chest and head injuries, but I believe she will recover."
Relieved, Garrison audibly let out his breath.
"Thanks, Doctor," Maxwell said.
"Have you located any relatives?"
Ma
xwell turned to Garrison. Their eyes met and Garrison waited for him to speak.
"This is Mr. Breckinridge, her husband."
She nodded. "There are some hospital forms-"
"I'll take care of them," Garrison said.
"Doctor, I've established that someone was trying to kill her," Maxwell said. "I'm going to have Mrs. Breckinridge's name changed in the hospital records."
The doctor stared at Garrison. "Who would do that to her?"
"She works for a high-level government agency, Doctor," Maxwell said. "I've agreed not to say more about the situation at this time."
"I see."
"May I speak with her?" Garrison asked.
"She's not fully out of the anesthesia yet, but you can go in for a few minutes."
"Thanks, Doctor."
"I take it you're going to post a guard on her room?" the doctor asked Maxwell.
"As we speak."
"I need a cup of coffee," she said leaving the room.
Maxwell turned to Garrison.
"My story is that you and I have never met," Maxwell said. "I will stall things as long as I can. At that point I'm going to have to trace the registration and officially notify the Secret Service."
"Fair enough. In the meantime, make sure she is protected."
"Anyone coming here to look for her will never be able to find her. If they do, they'll have to face me and my men." Garrison thanked him and they shook hands. Maxwell left.
In the intensive care unit, Garrison stepped behind a draped curtain and a nurse said: "Please don't stay longer than a minute or two."
Breckinridge was frighteningly pale from loss of blood. Garrison put his hand on hers.
"Martha, can you hear me?"
Breckinridge's eyes slitted open. They were nearly swollen shut. The right side of her face was black and blue. She stirred slightly, wincing with pain. He winced along with her. She pursed her lips, struggling to speak. Her mouth opened slightly.
"Pete?" she whispered.
Garrison leaned close.
"Everything's going to be okay."
"I saw...I..."
"The driver of the car who ran you off the road?"
"Yes."
"It was Flanagan."
Garrison's stomach felt as if someone had slugged him. The anger started as a slow burn within his heart, moving up, gaining intensity, until his face was flushed and his hands trembled. He clenched his fists to stop them, then released them when he realized he was squeezing her. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths.
"Hang on, Martha," he said touching her forehead. "It's not going to be easy, but don't give up. We need you. I ... need you..."
Her head nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement. Her breathing became deep and heavy.
Garrison straightened. The blips on the electronic monitor next to the bed seemed to be measuring his life too - every heartbeat.
****
CHAPTER 27
AT THE FEDERAL station metro stop, Garrison got off the train car and walked to Lafayette Park hoping that there were no Secret Service agents around. He was across the street from the White House. He was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses he'd purchased in a drugstore. The only people in the park were two transients squatting on the grass sharing a bottle of wine. They eyed him as he walked past.
At the curb visible from the White House's Bedroom Three, Garrison feigned tying his shoe, and quickly used a piece of red chalk to draw three circles on the curb. Garrison got up and headed back toward the Metro. One of the transients, a tall man with a tom T-shirt, moved toward him.
"You got any change you can spare?"
"I was just gonna ask you the same thing."
"Very funny, motherfucker."
Garrison kept walking.
At the Watergate, Garrison took the elevator to Condominium 1303. He paced the living room, checking the window often, and wondered when Eleanor would spot his chalk signal.
The phone rang. He cautiously picked up the receiver. "Hello ... is Mr. Hollingsworth there?" Eleanor said.
"He's at work."
"Thank you."
Garrison set the receiver down on the cradle.
A few minutes later, he stared through the window down at the street as a lead car pulled to the curb followed by the First Lady's limousine. Walter Sebastian got out of the limousine and opened the rear door for Eleanor. She got out and he led her toward the entrance. A minute later, Garrison heard footsteps and conversation in the hallway. Someone knocked on the door. He crossed the room, used the peephole. She was alone. He opened the door and she came in.
"I'm on my way to a dinner in Georgetown," Eleanor said with a look of anxiety and fear on her face. "I was relieved when I saw the chalk marks. I've been worried about you."
"Did you talk with him?'
"He's convinced that you are guilty."
"That's what they want him to think."
"I can't help that."
She sat on the sofa.
"Eleanor, talk to me."
"They have evidence that you planted the bomb."
"I told you it's a lie-"
"And that you killed a Secret Service informant and another man."
He could see it in her eyes. She had doubts about him. It was understandable. He had to look at this situation from her point of view. He moved to the sofa and sat next to her.
"Someone else planted the bomb. The first man ... It was self-defense. He was an ex-convict, a hired killer. And I didn't kill the informant. So help me."
"Agents chased you from the scene of the murder."
"You're talking about Flanagan. He is in on it."
"They can't all be lying."
"Hightower was part of a conspiracy to assassinate the President and frame me. I went to the motel to interview him and found him dead-"
She furrowed her brow. "If you know about this Hightower person being involved, then you should have some idea who is behind this conspiracy. Who is it, for God's sake? What is this all about?"
"Gil Flanagan, who is Wintergreen's adjutant, showed up at Hightower's motel just after I arrived. I don't think it was a coincidence. I think he killed Hightower and he wanted to finish me there - to make it look like I killed Hightower and he found me with a smoking gun. The conspirators still need a fall guy."
"Pete, are you - are you telling me the complete truth?"
For a moment, he felt angry that she would question him. Then the anger was replaced by a sense of frustration as great as he'd felt in his entire life.
"You don't believe me?"
"The target is the President of the United States. Not to mention that he is my husband. If I am wrong, I could be killing him."
Garrison got up and walked to the window. "Everyone else in the White House believes I'm guilty. Why shouldn't you?"
"Put yourself in my place, for God's sake."
"Eleanor, as God is my witness, I am not involved in this. I'm a victim. Someone in the Secret Service is trying to kill the President, but it isn't me. You have to believe me. I need your help to save the President from them. They're not going to stop."
"I have a bad feeling about all this."
"Please believe me."
Everything that had happened so far was fully out of his personal control. Garrison wasn't sure about anything and he was worried. He felt like a bystander at some terrible, claustrophobic barroom brawl, waiting to be inevitably drawn in. She stood and walked to him.
"I'm sorry. I know in my heart that it's not you. It's just that ... so much has been happening. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff has me completely confused."
"Eleanor, I need to speak with him."
"The President?"
"In person. Alone. With none of his advisors present. I know it sounds crazy, but there is no other way-"
"You're asking him to meet with someone he believes is trying to kill him? Think about what you are saying."
"It has to be alone because I don't know who is invol
ved in all this. It could be anyone. I want to tell him what I know man-to-man. If I can convince him, he can take it from there. He'll know what to do. This can't wait. Every hour we delay puts him in greater danger. Don't you see?"
"His advisors will never go along with such a thing-"
"He's gone against them in the past-"
"They blame you. Pete. They all think you are guilty. Don't you understand what I'm saying?"
"Unless I can convince him that it's not me - that the investigation is on the wrong track - he is a sitting duck. That's what the conspirators want: for him to sit in the Oval Office thinking it's me until they can pull off a surefire assassination. And have no doubt they can get it done. For an assassin, there is nothing like working from the inside, knowing the ropes. This isn't some hallucinating screwball trying to kill him. There is someone on the inside. Someone with access to his every move."
"Helen Pierpont spent years helping her CIA pals with their dirty tricks. God knows she could be taking orders from a foreign power. For all we know, she might have seduced my husband for the sole purpose of finding out secrets."
"Flanagan has a recording of her with the President."
"You mean-?"
"He tricked Charlie Meriweather into wiring her room at the Waldorf Astoria when they were in New York for a UN social function."
She gave him a puzzled look, "Maybe she was trying to blackmail my husband. Maybe Flanagan was working for her."
"And now she wants to kill the President? It doesn't make sense."
She looked away. "Maybe you should speak with my husband," she said softly.
"What's on his schedule for the rest of the day?"
"Meetings in the House. He and I are scheduled to attend a stage play at the Kennedy Center tonight."
"Tell him it's too dangerous for him to leave the White House."
"You know how he is when it comes to public appearances. The Kennedy Center is prime-time national TV-"
"And tell him to put Wintergreen and Flanagan on the lie-detector immediately. I'm sure they'll show deception if asked about being part of a conspiracy. That will give the President enough to have them relieved of duty."
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