The Sentinel

by Gerald Petievich

She glared at him. "Why?"

  "My job isn't to help him make up his schedule. It's to protect his life in any and every situation. He has approved the Kennedy Center visit and it would be inappropriate for me to get involved in such matters.

  Pierpont studied him for a moment.

  "Thanks for stopping by," she said coldly, her eyes riveted to his.

  Walking out of the office, Wintergreen felt a rush. He was in the middle of the most important day of his life and the first half had gone well. His careful steps along the path had taken him nearly all the way, and his time had finally arrived.

  At the Kennedy Center, Wintergreen swerved off the road onto a long driveway leading into the underground parking lot.

  The Center was a sterile, conservative block of white stone with flags at the entrance; a building that belied its history, built with funds donated by American blue-bloods, the elite of Boston and New York and Washington, D.C. He parked his Secret Service sedan in an open parking space among a line of police sedans, K-9 sports utility vehicles, and Secret Service cars. He adjusted the rearview mirror and straightened his necktie, an original Armani silk he'd purchased recently. He climbed out and took a zippered leather briefcase from the trunk.

  Carrying it under his arm, he walked to the employees' entrance.

  "Afternoon, Mr. Director," said the Secret Service uniformed officer posted at the door.

  Mr. Director. Wintergreen had always liked the sound of the words. The years of playing politics had been worth it to him. Soon, he would be rich.

  "Where are the bomb dogs working?" he asked a uniformed officer at the entrance.

  "They've finished here. They're in the main hall upstairs."

  He took the elevator to the main floor.

  "Find the advance agent and tell him I want to see him," Wintergreen said to a Secret Service uniformed officer whose hair was reaching his collar.

  To Wintergreen, untrimmed hair was a sign of innate weakness and sloth.

  "Yes, sir."

  Wintergreen ambled inside the lobby, where dozens of plainclothes agents and uniformed officers were going about the business of carrying out the security plans for the Presidential visit that evening.

  He walked across the lobby, passing through an open doorway into the main auditorium. Below, four bomb-detection teams comprised of one military officer with a bomb-sniffing dog were moving from row to row in a crossway pattern, examining every seat for explosive material. Once the auditorium and stage had been thoroughly searched, agents would be posted at every entrance and exit, sealing the room. Later, when guests began arriving, they would be required to pass through magnetometers to insure that they were carrying neither weapons nor explosives. Only then would they be allowed to take make their way to assigned seats.

  "You wanted to see me, Mr. Wintergreen?"

  Wintergreen turned. Ronan Squires was one of his best advance agents.

  "Run it down for me, Ronan."

  "The bomb types have already finished with the holding room, the parking area, and the hallways. I have agents posted. We'll be done in here in a few minutes, including the dressing rooms and the backstage area. The staff advance man tried to set up a photo opportunity outside and I talked him out of it. Once I lock it down, we're ready for the Man. I'll have full security in effect two hours before the President arrives. The magnetometers are in place. All guests will have to go through. When the Man is in the Presidential box, I have agents on either side of him and a look-back."

  The look-back agent was designated to squat at the edge of the balcony or bandstand during the performance, keeping his eye on the people in the rows behind the President in the event an assassin popped up.

  "As someone once said, if the President were to be saved from assassination, it would be by an advance agent rather than the White House Detail working shift," Wintergreen said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'd like to inspect the posts."

  "Follow me."

  They walked along the route the President would take when he arrived. Squires pointed out the post locations, and Wintergreen noted that the agent whose duty was to guard the holding room area was down the hall, away from the holding room.

  "What do we have worked out in case of bomb threats?"

  "With the area already secured, telephonic bomb threats will be nothing more than a nuisance. The President will be entering a bomb-free, assassin-free Kennedy Center."

  "Very good, Ronan."

  Wintergreen stopped and looked up at the Presidential box.

  "Any significant intelligence information I should know about?"

  "Nothing other than the Garrison thing," Squires said somberly, lowering his voice.

  Wintergreen raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

  "Ronan, may we speak in confidence?"

  "Of course, Mr. Director."

  "I realize that you and the others consider Garrison to be a friend and colleague. It may be hard to believe what he's done, but I don't want that to get in the way of what we may have to do here. Garrison killed Walter Sebastian in cold blood."

  "I'm aware. Every agent has been briefed."

  "Garrison knows this game, Ronan."

  "I've taken that into account. I've doubled the security posts. Hell, I have half the Washington Field Office augmenting the detail."

  "I'm certainly not implying that you aren't on top of this. But I can't emphasize enough that Garrison is coming for us. For whatever reason, he's turned into a killer. Make sure every agent knows he or she will be backed up from the top if anything goes down. I believe we owe Garrison a bullet in the brain. If he shows up here, I don't want him to leave alive. Let the word go out that the sonofabitch Garrison is free game."

  "Yes, sir."

  "By the way. I'd like to see the holding room."

  "Sure."

  Squires led him down a corridor lined with doorways and into a comfortably-furnished holding room that was furnished with two sofas, an entertainment center, and a desk on which were two White House telephones, a red Pentagon radio-telephone, and a portable computer. At every location the President visited, a holding room was designated for him. Wintergreen knew that part of the job of protecting him was shielding him from potential embarrassment. The President could not be forced by circumstances to stand in a hallway or be confronted by members of the general public. And security considerations required that the President be near White House communications at all times. Whether the President was at a baseball stadium, a military airport hangar, or a convention hall, he had a place where he could make telephone calls in private, confer with aides without being disturbed or overheard, or simply kill time.

  "The President will spend some time here before he goes to his assigned box, and then will return here during the first intermission. The First Lady has to make some international calls."

  "Fine," Wintergreen said. "The bomb dogs have been through here?"

  "Over an hour ago. The agent posted at the end of the corridor has secured this room."

  "Sounds to me like you're on top of this advance, Ronan."

  "Without a doubt, Mr. Director."

  They left the holding room and walked down the hall. Squires got a call on his radio, and told Wintergreen that he had to go to the other side of the center to meet with some police officials.

  Wintergreen slapped Squires on the shoulder.

  "Go get 'em, tiger."

  "Let me know if you see anything you want changed, Mr. Wintergreen."

  "Ronan?"

  He turned.

  "The uniform at the front door needs a haircut," Wintergreen said tapping the back of his neck.

  "Yes, sir."

  Wintergreen gave Squires a wink. Squires turned and headed toward the theater. Wintergreen watched a dog handler for a minute or so. He could feel tension at the back of his brain. His lips were numb. Detaching himself from thoughts of failure, he returned to the holding room, went inside, and locked the door. He had to move fast.r />
  He opening his zippered briefcase and took out a pair of white surgical gloves. His hands shook as he slipped them on. He took a deep breath. Climbing onto the table, he reached up and carefully removed one of the fiberboard panels from the ceiling. He climbed off the table and placed the panel on it. Then he took out a sheet of plastic seven inches by seven and one half inches in size. The sheet was reinforced with thin steel mesh and was curved in two places, like the hull of a boat. Affixed to its middle was a putty-like chunk of military-grade C-4 explosive that looked like flattened, yellowish clay. Over it was stapled three pieces of cheesecloth bristling with roofing nails. Flanagan had built the bomb using Aryan Disciples bomb-building techniques as described in a forensic briefing book, taking care to insure that there was nothing about it that would make anyone think that it wasn't an Aryan Disciples device.

  He carefully inserted a blasting cap into the center of the C-4. A small radio receiver and a timer switch had been taped down next to it, which consisted of two AA batteries connected by wires and a small digital clock with its alarm set for 9:15 P.M. He then took a piece of rubber sheeting from the briefcase and pulled it tight around the surface of the entire device. The construction allowed the nails to spread out in post-detonation flight in a planned pattern, downward and out, killing everyone in the holding room. He attached the bomb to the unfinished side of the fiberboard. Climbing back onto the table, he picked up the fiberboard and shoved it back into place in the ceiling. He got down, removed his gloves, and shoved them back into the briefcase. Done.

  Wintergreen felt perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. Using a handkerchief, he wiped his face, then the table. After looking around to make sure everything was back in place, he closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Before leaving the room, he shot one last glance at the ceiling panel.

  "Go, baby, go," he said softly.

  Wintergreen smiled and nodded at the agents who made eye contact with him as he departed the Kennedy Center, but his mind was on the future. He pictured himself on the prow of a yacht, sailing in clear, blue water.

  ****

  CHAPTER 32

  GARRISON STARED GLUMLY out the window of Watergate Condominium 1303 as Eleanor's limousine pulled to the curb. Agent Steve Paulk got out of the limousine and opened the right rear door.

  As Eleanor climbed out, rage stirred in Garrison's gut. He wondered if she'd been able to detect the seething anger that he'd tried to keep out of his voice when he'd called her a few minutes earlier and told her they had to talk, that she needed to come to the Watergate.

  A minute later, there was a knock on the front door. He opened it and she came in.

  He closed the door.

  "Did you speak with the President?" he asked.

  She stared at him, her brow furrowed with concern.

  "Yes. But he wouldn't listen. Pete, what's wrong?"

  "It's you."

  "Pardon me?"

  "You're the one behind the assassination."

  "Pete, do you feel okay?"

  "You can stop the con-game act. You're trying to kill your husband."

  "Surely you can't believe that-"

  "What I believe? That is the question, isn't it? What do I believe? Well, let me tell you. I believe you hired Larry Wintergreen to kill the President. You offered him millions, including a load of dough for his bun-boy Flanagan. And, although it's difficult for even someone as cynical as me to comprehend, Wintergreen actually went along with what you wanted."

  "Pete-"

  The look that crossed her face was one of hurt and compassionate sincerity; an expression she must have developed growing up with the rich and powerful. It was the countenance of deep perturbation people had when dealing with the immediate family at funerals or when offering a shoulder to someone whom had unexpectedly broken into tears - sympathy - the merciful hand of friendship and understanding. But he could tell the expression was false. It was the practiced facial cast of a manipulator.

  "It all started when you asked Wintergreen to find out about the President and Helen Pierpont. Wintergreen coerced Meriweather into bugging Pierpont's room when in New York because you asked him to. You were checking up on your husband. When Meriweather figured out he was being used and threatened to go to the President, you and Wintergreen decided to silence him. You couldn't afford to have him telling tales. Flanagan took care of that little job for you. Then you needed a fall guy to blame for the assassination. You knew that, afterwards, it would be obvious that a White House insider was involved. I was chosen because I had experience on the bomb detail."

  "Pete, I swear I know nothing about any of this-"

  "Flanagan recruited Hightower to drop some phony information to me about an Aryan Disciples assassination plot. And you? You got next to me for only one reason: to gain my confidence. So you could manipulate me. I was your fall guy, your scapegoat-"

  "Someone has steered you wrong. Please believe-"

  "After you were convinced you could talk me into conducting an unofficial investigation for you, Wintergreen had Flanagan plant the phony blackmail letter. That was to get me on FBI videotape near an Aryan Disciples drop-off point. He knew the FBI had it under surveillance. Yes, Eleanor, if the President hadn't chosen to drive back from Camp David and had taken the chopper as originally scheduled, you and Wintergreen would have gotten the job done. But something went wrong. That's when you started having some problems."

  "Pete, what can I do to convince you I am not involved? Please tell me. I can see that you are completely off base and-"

  Garrison walked to the entertainment center. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the cassette tape he'd found in Flanagan's house. He pressed POWER, and then shoved the tape into the port.

  "And you are sure that the money is no problem?"

  "She's worth hundreds of millions. Her father owned half of San Francisco. She'll just go on the Internet and transfer money from one account to another. No one will ever know. You pick up the money when you want...”

  He pressed OFF.

  "Flanagan made that tape as an insurance policy. He figured that if he got caught, he would be able to make a deal by handing up Wintergreen and the First Lady. He was thinking ahead."

  "Tapes can be doctored."

  "You know, Eleanor, somehow I figured that's what you were going to say."

  She moved to him. There was an unusual rosiness high on her cheeks. Her hands grasped his waist.

  "Please believe me," she said looking him in the eye. Her hands touched his cheeks. "You have it all wrong. I swear."

  She kissed him, and he felt her tongue touch his. But he didn't move. She stopped. Realizing she was having no effect on him, she stepped back.

  "You almost got away with it, didn't you?" he said.

  "A tape isn't enough to convict me," she coldly said after a silence.

  "Federal prisons are filled with people who've said that."

  "You can try. But you will fail."

  "I hope you're not banking on Wintergreen. He'll cut a deal behind your back."

  She glared at him. "No jury will believe him over me. And my husband won't listen to you. I'll tell him you came on to me - that you've been acting strange."

  "Go ahead. And I'll go straight to the press. I'll tell Joe Kretchvane everything I know and he'll call the biggest press conference that's ever hit this town. Let the games begin."

  She nervously smoothed her skirt, and then glanced at her Baume Mercier.

  "What do you want, Pete?"

  "Now we're getting down to it."

  "I can make you rich. Richer than you ever dreamed. You name the amount. There is a whole new life out there for you. I can bring you out of the wilderness. I can show you what it is like to be powerful-to have no worries. You'll be able to drive a Rolls-Royce."

  "Why, Eleanor? Why did you do this?"

  There was a long silence and she walked to the sofa and sat.

  "Russell was nothing but a second-rate
political drone when we met. He'd still be fishing for votes in San Francisco without me. I gave him everything. I carried him. He wouldn't have gotten off first base without my help - much less make it to the White House. I paid his bills. I cleaned up his goddamn messes just like I did for my first sonofabitch of a husband. And what did I get for it? That low-class bitch Helen Pierpont making a fool of me...everybody knowing about it, making comments behind my back, treating me like I was some second-rate house-frau. Oh, I could have handled the fact that Russell was running around on me. I'd accepted that. But when I found he was planning to divorce me the moment we leave office, I decided I wasn't going to stand for it. All the years I gave him to end up tossed away. Don't you see what the bastard is doing to me? He's humiliating me, like my father did to my mother. It's evil and it's rotten."

  "So that's what Meriweather learned by the bugging. He learned about the divorce plans. That's what got the ball rolling. You confronted the President and he had to admit it-"

  "I'm sorry about what happened to others. I didn't mean any of that. But my husband deserves to die-"

  "Eleanor, you're sick."

  "At least Jackie Kennedy could hold her head up. No one pushed her out the door like some goddamn one-night stand. Some two-bit, 14th Street whore."

  She got up and walked to him. They were standing close and he could smell the perfume - the roses scent - and Garrison thought about the night they'd been together. Her smell had been on him.

  "Please don't go against me. You and I can be together. I love you. I know you don't believe that, but I really do."

  Garrison's chagrin and guilt had turned to anger, seething, cold anger that seeped from every pore in his body and consumed his thoughts.

  "You provided me with this condo to keep me alive long enough to fulfill my role as scapegoat. I can see the clerk downstairs testifying how I impersonated your cousin to get in here. You make a great undercover agent, Eleanor. Class A. You also turn my stomach."

  "Do you really think you can take down the First Lady of the United States? Do you believe you can pull it off?"

  "Watch me."

  "Think about what you are saying. Experts will testify that the tape is doctored. My lawyers will turn it all against you. In the end, no one will believe you." She took a long look at him, as if she wanted to say something - as if she might know some magic words that would fix everything, make the past dissolve away like some ethereal image. "Don't you see? I'm giving you a chance. This could all be over and you and I can be together. I don't want anything to happen to you. What we had can be real."