by David Shobin
And then they would kill him.
CHAPTER 23
“This is superb, Chef Courtois,” Forbes said, cutting another piece of the entree. “What did you call it again?”
“Galantine de canard, monsieur.”
“That’s duck to you,” said Vice President Doria.
“Thank you, Tony. That nearly escaped me. What do you think, Mr. President? Is this great, or what?”
“Hmmm.”
The president’s noncommittal grunt did not go unnoticed by Mireille, who was there for main course presentation. The president, vice president, and chief of staff were having an early working dinner in the study off the bedroom. For informal meals, especially when Roxanne had been around, small presidential groups often dined here rather than in the dining room. On most of those occasions, the president had been in good spirits.
Mireille thought he had changed considerably in a relatively short time. Gone was his spark, and his personality seemed flat, lusterless. Mireille could tell he was distracted, preoccupied with his wife’s prolonged coma. But for the first time she also noticed that he had some of the same physical quirks that afflicted the late Mr. Phillips. The tremor in his hand was pronounced. He was drinking bourbon steadily, and whenever he lifted his glass, some of the liquor spilled. His muscular movements lacked fluidity. The slightest gestures looked spastic and uncoordinated. Mireille thought the jerky mannerisms inescapable. But if the other guests noticed, they were either unusually polite or else so accustomed to the change that they overlooked it.
She also detected emotional changes. Fidgety and impatient, President Meredith looked distracted. He didn’t appear to pay that much attention to what the others were saying. He gave the impression of not caring as much as he used to. Also, there was an undertone of annoyance to his squirming, as if, he was going to snap at someone at any minute.
So, this is mercury, she thought.
“Is there a problem with the duck, Monsieur le President?”
“Duck?” He looked at her oddly, as if not understanding. “No, no problem. Not hungry, that’s all.” He pushed his plate away.
“Can I refresh your drink?”
He drained the glass and handed it to her. “Thank you.”
This was exactly what Mireille had been hoping for. Ever since she’d wheeled the food cart into the study, Mireille had been looking for an opportunity to get a sample of presidential tobacco. The president didn’t use a pouch. Rather, he filled his pipe directly from the humidor. The masculine, custom made box, crafted of mahogany and leather, lay atop the liquor cabinet next to several bottles of whiskey and an ice bucket.
She’d needed a pretense to approach the cabinet. Since there were five other people in the room—the three politicians, a kitchen helper, and a Secret Service agent—she couldn’t simply waltz over and help herself. Refilling the president’s glass was the perfect excuse. But she was startled when the kitchen helper moved to take the glass.
“I can get that, ma’am.”
“Refill the water glasses, please,” she quickly whispered. “I’ll take care of this.”
She approached the liquor cabinet before anything else could interfere. She remembered what Jon had told her about Lewis, and she didn’t know if the Secret Service agent was one of his men. Hazarding a glance over her shoulder, Mireille was relieved to see that the agent was watching the dinner table. At the liquor cabinet, she put down the glass, which she’d been carrying in a linen napkin. The ice bucket was next to the humidor. Mireille removed the bucket’s lid and used tongs to place three large ice cubes in the president’s glass. Then, as she reached for the bottle of bourbon, she knocked over the glass.
She made no fuss about it. To the casual observer, she wanted it to appear like one of those little mishaps that merits no attention. Mireille’s back was to the room, shielding her from view. Working quickly, she wiped away the ice with the napkin. As she did, she casually mopped away imaginary spill stains that soiled the humidor. When she dabbed its sides, she nonchalantly lifted its top and squeezed a pinch of tobacco with her fingers. She casually deposited her catch in the napkin. Then, after successfully refreshing the president’s drink, she slid the napkin into her pocket.
Before she brought the meal to the study, she had only Jon’s word that her sleight- of-hand was required. For her, that was all that was necessary. But half an hour later, as she left the room with the serving tray, Mireille was convinced Jon was right. President Meredith was a sick man. Physically and emotionally wounded, he desperately needed help.
“Disturbing news, Mr. President,” said Forbes.
It was nine p.m., well after the last vestiges of the meal had been cleared away and the guests departed. The president had remained in the study to review campaign paperwork. There were dozens of advance reports, projections, and pages that needed his signature. He had changed into his pajamas and was sitting in a recliner, puffing away on his pipe, when Forbes knocked and entered.
“What’s disturbing?”
“It’s about Dr. Townsend.”
“Jon? Did something happen to him?”
Forbes paused, making a steeple of his fingers. “This is a difficult subject. Let me start by saying that the Secret Service has been keeping an eye on him for a while—”
“Watching Jon Townsend? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Please, Mr. President, let me finish. This is complicated. Not long ago, Dr. Townsend reported that someone tried to murder him in his own home using cyanide gas. There was some evidence of that, but a few of the investigators thought the report a little farfetched. Basically, our in-house intelligence concluded that Townsend may have rigged the whole thing himself to look like an attempted murder.”
Meredith exhaled a plume of smoke. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t tell me you actually believe it.”
“I hear you, sir, but there’s more to it than that. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that Townsend’s actions have always been hard to predict, going back to when he was under your command in Vietnam.”
“That was thirty years ago, for God’s sake. He was a young kid.”
“I realize that, Mr. President,” Forbes patiently continued. “All I’m suggesting is that not everyone changes with time. Just assume for a minute that what I’m saying is true. It has to do with Roxanne.”
A flash of anger tempered Meredith’s curiosity, but he kept silent.
“You may not be aware of it,” Forbes went on, “but on the night of the first lady’s shooting, Dr. Townsend was supposed to have accompanied her to Baltimore. He was a last-minute no-show—”
“I’m sure he had a good excuse,” Meredith said, although his tone didn’t have quite the conviction as before.
“He had an excuse,” Forbes agreed with a nod, “though the Agency thought it might be a little too convenient.”
“I presume you’re getting to the point.”
“Just this, Mr. President. Since your wife’s shooting, the intelligence services are leaving no stone unturned. Everyone who knew the first lady has been under suspicion, and that includes Dr. Townsend. Recently, his activities have been more and more bizarre. This morning, two FBI agents went to his home to question him.” He paused. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but they were found dead in their car a short distance away.”
Meredith’s whiskey-reddened eyes widened with incredulity. For a long moment he stared intently at his chief of staff. “You’re a good man, Mitch. I don’t doubt your intentions. But you don’t know Jon Townsend like I do. Sure, I remember what happened in Vietnam. And I’m telling you, the man is incapable of murder.”
“Mr. President, no one questions your allegiance. It’s one of the reasons your staff is so loyal. And again, I’m sorry to tell you the bad news, but it gets worse. Dr. Townsend has disappeared, sir. The Justice Department issued a search warrant for his home. I’m afraid they found evidence directly linking him to the
death of Mahmoud Al-Abed.”
“You’re joking,” Meredith said. “They found the gun in his house?”
“Not the gun, sir. They found the ammunition.”
Slightly pale, Meredith got up and started to pace. “I’d like to see this so-called evidence myself.”
“You will, Mr. President, just as soon as they—”
“Shut up, Goddammit, and let me finish. I couldn’t ask for a better chief of staff than you, Mitch. But I know Jon Townsend, and what you’re suggesting is totally out of character. He’s always been there for me, and God knows Rocky trusted him like a brother. Still, I suppose stranger things have happened. So, if the spooks have done their jobs properly, let the chips fall where they may. If a court finds he’s guilty of something, so be it. But until then, I want him given the benefit of the doubt. Extend him every courtesy, and trust him like an officer and a gentleman. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“God knows he’s earned it.”
In luxury high-rises, less expensive ground floor apartments were usually scorned because of their inferior views. Mireille agreed with that premise, but when she came to town, it was all she could afford in her price range. Nonetheless, the building’s rear grounds gently sloped down toward the Potomac, and low as her apartment was, it still had a delightful river view. When she moved in, it never occurred to her that the ground floor might have unexpected benefits.
Earlier, when Mireille met Jon at the mall, one of the things they discussed was how to safely meet again. Jon knew his luck couldn’t hold out forever. He was a hunted man just one step ahead of his pursuers. Although he thought the conspiracy was limited, it stood to reason that the plotters’ manpower assets were considerable. There were doubtless people scouring the city for him, talking with informants, watching the areas he frequented. In addition to his home and office, another place was undoubtedly Mireille’s apartment. Therefore, Jon and Mireille agreed that he would avoid the front entrance.
He called her at home from a pay phone. They spoke simply and avoided using each other’s names. Mireille indicated she couldn’t spot any surveillance. Thus reassured, Jon took a cab down Wisconsin Avenue, getting off at the intersection with K Street. Mireille’s building was several blocks to the west. Walking with an easy if furtive stride, Jon headed away from the streetlights and toward the river, a few hundred yards away. Combined with the recent snowfall, the chill wind off the Potomac kept passersby away. Soon he was directly behind her building.
The high-rise’s designers had tastefully landscaped the grounds approaching the river. Tall plantings and trees provide good concealment, and Jon used the natural cover as he approached the building. Nearly there, he had to cross a fifty-foot open area bathed in security lights. Undaunted, he sprinted through the untouched snow and soon vaulted the railing to Mireille’s narrow patio porch.
The interior blinds were closed. Looking behind him, Jon detected no threats. He rapped softly on the sliding glass door. Almost immediately, Mireille separated the blinds, spotted him, and unlocked the door. She was wearing a long robe. Jon slipped into the apartment and was in her arms at once.
“I was so worried!” she said, hugging him tight. “Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so. I was pretty careful, but the tracks in the snow are pretty obvious. They lead right to your door. I doubt anyone will notice tonight, but it’ll be a different story tomorrow. I’d better not stay too long. So? How’d you make out with the tobacco?”
“Perfect. It was just sitting there, begging me to take it. So, I did.” She pulled away. “You feel so cold. Are these clothes warm enough?”
“Barely. But it’s not their thinness that bothers me, it’s their appearance. If someone spotted me, they might have given out my description.”
“Then you should change into something else.”
“And where, pray, am I supposed to find the apparel?”
Smiling, Mireille raised her eyebrows. “Remember Jean Claude?”
“Your brother, the Air France co-pilot?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “He has some clothes here, even a winter coat. I’m sure they’ll fit.” She took his hand and led him toward the bedroom. While he sat on the bed, she rummaged through her closet and removed a pair of jeans, undergarments, and a designer shirt. She handed them to Jon to try on.
He looked them over. The fabric was expensive, the labels European. But the sizes looked right. “Perfect. And even if there is no Jean Claude, I’m grateful.”
“I guess you’ll have to stick around long enough to find out,” she said lightly.
“Go ahead, put them on.”
“Now?”
“Now. Need help?”
Jon stood up and removed his shirt. “I think I can manage.”
He expected her to walk away. Instead, Mireille stood there watching him, arms akimbo, a devilish smile on her face. She was staring into his eyes, amused by his uneasiness. As he removed his belt and pants, he periodically hesitated.
“Does this make you uncomfortable, Jon?”
“This? No. Been undressing all my life.”
“You don’t mind if I watch, do you?”
“Hell no. Watch away.” But as his thumbs hooked the elastic of his boxers, he paused and sighed. “You’re just going to stand there, is that it?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know why?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Because I love your body. I always have. Maybe if I look closely, I can see why it turns me on so much.”
“Okay.” He pulled down his shorts, stepped out of them, and stood there. “All right, look closely.”
She did, slowly eyeing him up and down. Mireille untied the sash of her robe, slid the cloth off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. Underneath, she was naked. “You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”
“It’s not safe to stay too long.”
Mireille took slow, provocative steps his way, stopping inches from him. She could see the gooseflesh on his skin. As she reached up to touch his face, her nipples grazed his upper abdomen. “Five minutes isn’t very long, is it?”
Half an hour later, as they lay in one another’s arms, they both knew the time had come for him to go. Mireille snuggled up closely.
“You feel much warmer now.”
“I am, thank you.”
“What are we going to do with the tobacco?”
Jon propped himself up on an elbow. “We’ve got to get it to the lab. The head technician, Chris Leadbetter, is an old friend of mine. Despite what he may have heard by now, I think I can trust him. He’s the one who clued me in on the president’s mercury level.”
“Are you going to take the samples over there?”
“I’d like to, but one of the first places they’ll be looking for me is where I work. Think you could do it for me?”
“I thought you said they’ll be watching me, too.”
“I’m sure they are, but all they’ll do is watch and report. They wouldn’t dare arrest you, especially when they’re not sure what you’re up to.”
“Exactly what do you want me to do?” she asked.
After he told her, Jon left the same way he’d arrived. Retracing his tracks through the snow, he made his way along the riverbank and then, eventually, through Georgetown proper. There was still no one following him. In Georgetown’s narrow streets, there were several all-night cafes to choose from. Jon selected the least conspicuous and walked in.
Back in her apartment, still savoring the warm afterglow of their lovemaking, Mireille thought about Jon. She knew she loved him deeply and would do anything to help him. What he asked of her should be simple enough. In the atrium near his office in the outpatient building, she was to leave both tobacco samples. She would tape them to the underside of a table and leave. After she was gone, Jon’s friend Chris would do the rest. Mireille didn’t think it would prove too difficult.
&n
bsp; Unable to sleep, she rolled over and used the remote to switch on the TV. As the indistinct image sharpened, Mireille’s heart started to pound, and she sat up. The sheet fell away as she turned up the volume.
“To repeat our breaking story,” said the newscaster, “Washington police and the FBI are searching for Admiral Jon Townsend, noted Bethesda doctor and personal physician to President Meredith. Dr. Townsend is wanted for questioning in the murder of Mahmoud Al-Abed, who is alleged to be the attempted assassin of first lady Roxanne Meredith. He is also accused of complicity in the first lady’s shooting. In addition, police hint at his involvement in the deaths of two FBI agents whose bodies were found this morning after they had gone to arrest Dr. Townsend at his home. Late this afternoon, a joint strike force executed a search warrant on Townsend’s Bethesda home and discovered thirty-two caliber shell casings that are ballistically linked to the Al-Abed murder weapon. Dr. Townsend should be considered armed and dangerous. Authorities are asking anyone with information on the suspect’s whereabouts to contact—”
Dumbstruck, Mireille switched off the TV. She felt cold, and utterly alone. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. The allegations were so outrageous that she felt incapable of responding. She got out of bed, put on her robe, and began to pace. She doubted Jon heard about the story, although he would, soon enough. She wished she could protect him, or at least warn him, but that wasn’t possible. He told her not to dare risk contacting him. And so, she just paced, a victim of her own fears, helpless and terrified.
In the cafe, despite the late hour, Jon wore sunglasses and kept his ski hat pulled low over his forehead. The few other patrons were too absorbed in their own activities to pay him any attention. Jon quietly went online and composed his e-mail.
“Dear Chris,” he typed. “I’m sorry to have to reach out to you electronically rather than in person, but the fact is, I’m in trouble. By the time you read this, you may have heard some disturbing rumors about me. Let me reassure you that they are absolutely untrue. I’ve become dragged into something I don’t really understand, but it’s dead serious. All I can say is that it involves the president’s health. I’ll explain everything when I can, hopefully in person, once I fully understand it. But for now, I need your help. I’m going to rely on your trust and friendship for a big favor.”