The President's Doctor

by David Shobin

  His palms were sweating. Jon knew he was taking an extraordinary, anxiety-provoking risk, but he didn’t see that he had much choice. Remaining on the run wasn’t an acceptable option, and besides, he had a duty to his patient. In the back of his mind, he also thought he might be able to help the first lady. Slowing the car, he looked at his watch. It was eight-fifty. In the glare of his vehicle’s headlights, the desolate approach road was starkly beautiful. The bare tree limbs glistened with frost, and the fir boughs drooped under the weight of their snowy burdens.

  Jon pulled over to the side of the road to wait. He didn’t want to arrive early.

  Once he’d reach the camp’s entrance, there was no turning back. If for some reason Saunders wasn’t at the main gate, Jon was in serious trouble. Despite his old enlisted man’s uniform and the government car, it wouldn’t take long for an alert guard to associate him with the murder suspect sought by the police. He couldn’t let that happen. If Dave weren’t in sight, he’d hang a U and pray for horsepower. He squeezed the shotgun’s grip, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. Finally, at nine, he drove on.

  The high, well-lit, metal gates at the main entrance made it clear that this was a maximum-security installation. The STOP sign on the right-hand side of the road was superfluous. As he approached, Jon saw the marine sentry straighten up. Jon tensed, tightening his grip on the weapon. But then he spotted Dave behind the sentry. Jon braked to a halt before the gate, clearly visible in the security lights. The gate opened.

  The sentry waved him on.

  Saunders came out of the guard post and pointed to where Jon should park. Inside the compound, the roads were well ploughed and relatively snow-free. Jon pulled up behind an electric golf cart and waited for Dave to get in the car. He gathered up the front seat documents and replaced them in the briefcase. Dave opened the door and settled into the passenger seat, raising his eyebrows.

  “I give up,” he said. “What’s with the uniform and the car?”

  “Some people are still looking for me, right?”

  “Yeah, but we told the TV people to back off the story.”

  “Fine. But until they do, I figure it might be safer not to wear the admiral’s uniform. Is the president here?”

  “Yes, up at Aspen.”

  At Camp David, all the rustic buildings were named after native American trees. Aspen was the presidential lodge.

  “Does he know?”

  “Not yet. I figured you’d want to tell him yourself. Where’d you get this car?”

  “It’s a loaner from someone who tried to kill me at my house.” He handed Dave the passport. “His name was Sean O’Brien.”

  At the mention of the name, Dave’s hooded lids narrowed. He slowly opened the passport and studied the photo.

  “You know him?” Jon asked.

  “Heard the name,” Dave said slowly. “An unsavory prick, an Irish tough guy who was run out of Boston. Did some sort of low-level bullshit.” He looked up. “Okay, what do you have to tell me?”

  Jon quickly related what had happened earlier. Dave shook his head, astonished. “They want you bad, man. Did he say anything before you took his head off?”

  “He knew that I was coming up here.”

  “You’re kidding.” Dave paused. “This is not good, Jon. If this O’Brien’s part of a team, then some of the camp guests must be in on it. Which means they’re expecting you, too. No, this puts a serious crimp in my plans.”

  “Who’d you tell I was coming?”

  “The president, of course. He’s the only one. But he’s been very sociable tonight, his old charming self. Now that I know he’s a little off,” Saunders said, tapping his head, “there’s no telling who else he let in on it.”

  “Who else is here?”

  “There’s about a half-dozen White House staff. A skeleton camp crew of maybe fifteen navy personnel, and the same number of White House Communications Agency. The Secret Service—”

  “Not Agent Lewis, I hope?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. And Vice President Doria, his wife, and Mr. Forbes tagged along.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” Jon reached down and opened the briefcase, removing the folder with the photos. “You might want to take a look at these.”

  As Saunders slowly leafed through the glossies, Jon switched on the overhead light. The agent’s expression went from perplexed to wide-eyed as he took in the pictures of the chief of staff and Amanda Doria. Dave slowly whistled and shook his head.

  “What do you think?” Jon asked.

  Dave whistled softly. “Some rack on this woman. I knew she had tits, but Jesus.”

  “I’m talking about motive.”

  “That, I’m not going to touch.” Saunders let the pictures fall away. “But it does explain why Mitchie and Mandy have been spending so much time together.”

  “Does Bob know?”

  “If he does, he hasn’t let on.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “I was going to bring you up to Aspen and let you talk to the president when he was by himself. That’s the key, his being alone. There’s hardly anybody in the camp, but there’s still too damn many people around.” He looked away, pensive. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Briefly, Dave explained what he had in mind. Then, leaving the shotgun in the car, Jon took the briefcase and followed Saunders into the golf cart. Jon’s thin navy pea jacket was scant protection against the steady wind. Fortunately, they weren’t going far. The whirring cart carried them north through several crossroads and wooden one-story cabins called Cedar and Rosebud, Poplar and Hickory. Except for the building that housed the White House Communications Agency, few lights were on, and the camp had a subdued appearance. The road wound past Poplar toward the presidential area of the camp.

  Jon wondered what President Meredith was doing on this cold and lonely New Year’s Eve. The Aspen cabin, the first lodge build during the Franklin Roosevelt era, was a handsome structure with extensive flagstone patios, swimming pool, and an artificial pond. Renovated numerous times, Aspen was the size of a large ranch house and currently had a kitchen, a pantry, a living room/dining room, four bedrooms, two baths, a lounge, and five fireplaces. Jon could picture Bob Meredith sitting before the large stone fireplace with the presidential seal, contentedly smoking his Godawful pipe. Yet no amount of rustic comfort could make up for the deep ache that now filled the president’s life.

  There was no one else in sight, and the roadways were deserted. Saunders pulled to a stop at a guest cabin called Birch. When he got out and unlocked the door, Jon followed him inside, carrying the briefcase.

  “Wait here,” Dave said, leaving the lights off. “I’ll see if I can drag him down here. Just keep the lights off and sit tight.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Mr. Forbes is at Aspen with the president. The vice president and his wife are in Holly.” He watched Jon reach into his pocket. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Jon removed his new cell phone. “I want to check on Mireille. It’s been a while since I spoke to her.”

  “Give me that.” Dave snatched the phone from Jon’s hand. “What’re you, nuts? There’s some of the world’s most sophisticated listening equipment right around the corner, and you’re trying to give your location away!”

  “I thought that was the reason I bought the new cell,” said Jon, confused. “So they wouldn’t be able to track me.”

  “Don’t take any chances, okay? Just stay here until I get back.”

  Saunders walked away, leaving Jon in the dark. When the agent left the cabin, there was a click as the front door was locked. Jon stood there in silence, absorbing his surroundings. His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness. Outside, a low moan was a windsong that sailed through snow-laden trees. A modest amount of moonlight came through the thin curtains of Birch’s ample windows. When Jon’s night vision was sufficient, he gingerly walked through the cabin.

  He found himself in th
e center of a large living room with a vaulted ceiling and a huge stone fireplace. He’d heard that the guest cabins had all been rebuilt, and this one was certainly handsome enough. In the midst of these forested mountains, the cabin had a relaxed, lazy informality that could cut through the tension of politics or peace talks. Yet although Jon was calm enough, he was hardly relaxed. What Dave said bothered him.

  His friend’s words sounded plausible enough, but they didn’t ring true. What was wrong with checking on Mireille? Jon was no expert on electronic eavesdropping, but he did know that such surveillance had to be conducted by orbiting satellites, not some parabolic mike a few hundred yards away. Maybe the agent was just overly cautious. And perhaps Jon had misread the furtive look in his friend’s eyes when Dave had grabbed the cell phone. Still…unconvinced, Jon crept through the cabin with a growing apprehension.

  Birch had two bedrooms and two baths, and the down-to-earth furnishings gave the cabin a warm, lived-in look. By now, Jon thought, Saunders should have reached the president in Aspen. If Bob Meredith was the friend Jon thought he was, he’d free himself up and get down there in a few minutes, if for no other reason than to confront the doctor about what was being said on the news. As the minutes passed, Jon slowly ambled through the darkness, growing more and more apprehensive. Hiding in an unlit building in one of the nation’s most secret locations was spooky enough. The fact that there were people out there who wanted him dead added to his misgivings. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers against the walls, unable to keep still. He returned to the living room and paused before the drawn curtains, slowly inching them apart.

  Outside, the snow-covered tree limbs swayed in the inconstant moonlight. Beyond the branches, a three-quarters moon played hide and seek behind fast-moving gray clouds. Sensing movement, Jon looked closer. What he saw left him as pale as the snow.

  Beyond the living room was a patio. At its edge, not twenty feet away, was the unmistakable moonlit face of Agent Lewis. Heart pounding, Jon jerked his head back before he could be seen. As his shock wore off, he cautiously looked back.

  Jon doubted the man had seen the slight rustling of the curtains. Momentarily bathed in moonlight, Lewis’ head was lowered. The agent was putting on a pair of what were unmistakably night vision goggles. He was carrying a weapon that hung from his shoulder by a sling. Most frightening of all, his footprints indicated he was heading right for the cabin.

  With his brain on fire, a thousand thoughts raced through Jon’s mind. According to Dave Saunders, Lewis wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Camp David. Yet even if he were a rogue agent, Lewis was also Secret Service on the presidential detail, which meant he could probably go anywhere the president went. But that still didn’t explain how Lewis knew Jon was at the presidential retreat, much less why he was now approaching Birch. As Jon struggled with the icy touch of betrayal, his foremost concern was what to do now.

  Just how high does this conspiracy go? he thought. Certainly, O’Brien and Agent Lewis were part of it, not to mention Johnson and Fitzpatrick. But how many others knew—and were they here, at Camp David? Mitch Forbes had to be involved in some way, and maybe Mrs. Doria. Jon was sickened by his mounting suspicion of his trusted friend Dave Saunders. Yet beyond such matters was the immediate problem of Agent Lewis, who seemed determined to enter the house and kill him.

  As he stepped back from the window, Jon’s pulse thudded in his temples. He wondered if Lewis had come alone. There might be another shooter out front. As Jon backed up, he frantically looked from side to side, scouring the room for something with which to defend himself. He still had O’Brien’s pocket pistol, but if he used it, the noise would bring others running—and he could forget about a private chat with Bob Meredith. He’d save the automatic for a last resort.

  The kitchen, he suddenly thought. There had to be knives in the kitchen. Any sort of knife was better than his bare hands. As Jon retreated, he backed into the stone hearth. There, hanging from an iron rack, was an assortment of fireplace instruments.

  Jon lifted the poker. The cast iron rod had considerable heft, and he gripped it by the handle with two hands, like a baseball bat. Raising the poker, he stood there motionless, palms moist, shallow breath coming fast in his throat. He cocked his head, straining to pluck sounds from the background wind. For a while he heard nothing. But then, from the back of the house, he heard the muffled scrape of a window being raised.

  Bastard’s not coming across the patio at all, Jon thought. Wants to creep up on me from behind, catch me on the sofa. Heart in his mouth, Jon forced himself flush with the fireplace stone. Back pressed into the wall, he carefully slid sideways toward a comer of the room, where the intersecting hall emerged from the bedroom area. His raised arms were trembling. He clutched the metal rod with such isometric tension that his muscles started to ache.

  Outside, the wind kept up its drone, making it hard for him to hear anything but the pounding of his heart. But then, from midway down the corridor, he heard the faint creak of a floorboard. He held his head sideways, eyes riveted on the hall. He felt starved for oxygen. He was now breathing so fast he was afraid Lewis would hear his respirations. And then, ever so slowly, a dark cylinder emerged from the hall.

  He recognized the stout silencer. In his years around the president, Jon had seen his share of close-quarters entry weapons. Behind the silencer was the unmistakable outline of a Heckler & Koch MP5SD submachine gun. Lewis’ gloved fingers were already inside the trigger guard. Jon tensed. When the agent’s night vision goggles came into view, Jon swung the rod with all his might.

  The heavy poker smashed into the goggle lenses with a splintering crash. As Lewis’ head snapped back, his fingers contracted on the trigger. The silencer rose toward the ceiling, and an abbreviated, muted series of staccato spits sent nine-millimeter bullets roofward. Jon yanked the poker back and leapt into the hall, poised to swing again. As Lewis thudded against the floor headfirst, the H&K slipped from his fingers. Jon hesitated. His breath came in fiery spasms, and icy beads of sweat dripped down his neck. Beneath him, the agent was motionless.

  “Don’t move a fucking muscle,” Jon said, watching closely. He reached down and snatched the firearm away. “Lewis?”

  A rasping rose up, a gurgling sound. Beneath the silencer, a small flashlight was attached to the MP5’s frame. Jon switched it on and pointed it at his assailant. What was left of Lewis’ goggles still clung to the man’s head by straps. The agent’s lower jaw was slack, and his breath rattled wetly through his open mouth. Jon slowly knelt and undid the straps. What he saw made him grit his teeth.

  The force of the blow had pulverized the facial bones around Lewis’ eyes. Blood and gore dripped from the shattered sockets. The eyes themselves were ruptured by shards of fractured goggle material driven back through the agent’s retinas. If some of the pieces had penetrated the brain, the wound would be fatal. Jon lifted the agent’s sleeve and felt for the pulse. As he did, Lewis’ whistling breath slowed.

  Jon found the beat, which was very weak. Abruptly, the pulse stopped. Jon checked closely with his fingertips, but it was gone. He slowly sank onto his haunches, taking a deep breath, staring dispassionately at the face of the man who had tried to kill him. Whatever remorse he might once have felt had vanished.

  There had been a time, long ago and far away, when he probably should have killed in anger. The fact that he hadn’t haunted him for the rest of his life. Yet today, he had killed in fear and anger not once, but twice. He didn’t feel as if he had a choice. It was Survival 101, kill or be killed. Yet what Jon found most curious was not what he’d done, but the absence of negative feelings about what he’d done. Perhaps it was a change that came with age or maturity. Screw it, he finally thought. Whatever the reason, the bastards tried to kill me.

  “Lewis, come in,” came a faint, tinny voice.

  Jon whirled, alert for someone behind him. There was nothing but the shadows dancing in the intermittent moonlight. Looking back down the hal
l, he saw only darkness. Then the voice spoke again.

  “If you’re clear, buddy, let’s hear from you.”

  The faint sound came from below him. Shining the light in that direction, Jon spotted the coiled wire and communications earpiece. Since they were dwarfed by the huge goggles, he hadn’t noticed them before. And where there was a Secret Service earpiece, he knew there had to be a mike. He searched under the agent’s lapel and found the dime-size microphone. Unpinning it, he lifted it to his lips.

  “Go on.”

  “How’s it goin’ down there? Thought you’d be done by now.”

  Jon wasn’t sure he recognized the voice. “Just finished.”

  “Okay, we’ll be down soon.”

  In the ensuing silence, Jon untwisted the communications wires from the agent’s clothing. Then he put on the earpiece and attached the mike to his pea coat, all the while wondering who “we” was. He certainly wasn’t going to hang around to find out. He might have lucked out with one opponent, but he was no match for a tag team. If the president wouldn’t come to him, he had no problem with the idea of going to the president. He picked up the submachine gun and went to the living room to retrieve the briefcase.

  It was time to do what he had come for.

  CHAPTER 25

  Keeping the flashlight off, Jon left the cabin by the patio entrance. Outside, the cold wind continued to sing. The presidential cabin wasn’t far. Yet walking straight up the cleared roads was not a good idea. Jon preferred the welcome shelter of the woods, where the thick trunks and dark shadows were an ally. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing snow boots. In places, the drifts were a foot thick, and the going was treacherous. But there was enough moonlight to guide the way. At length, the outline of Aspen came into view, floodlit by security lamps.

  The main entrance to the residence was from the northeast. There was always a guard outside, usually a Secret Service agent. Jon didn’t think he could get past the man peacefully, and his weapon was a certain invitation to confrontation. He’d have to enter Aspen from another direction. Jon knew that Meredith was a peripatetic politician whose surplus energy left him always on the move. When Jon had last visited Camp David, the president was constantly going in and out of the cabin through various doors. Hopefully, this would still be the case.