by David Shobin
Jon skirted the property outside of the lights’ glare. He came in from the north. Stealing across the snow-covered golf green, he moved counterclockwise, circumventing the west-side pond. Circling south, he eventually came to the southwestern edge of the large swimming pool built by President Nixon. Lower and upper patios surrounded the pool area, and several cabin doors abutted the patios. Keeping to a crouch, briefcase in one hand and submachine gun in the other, Jon carefully mounted the patio steps. Now illuminated by the security lights, he was just past the guard’s peripheral vision.
Beyond the upper patio, the cabin’s rooms were dark, and the interior shades were drawn. Jon slid along the wall until he came to a door. He cautiously tried it. To his relief, it was unlocked. He carefully let himself inside and listened. From across the house, he heard faint voices and music. Ever so slowly, he crept in that direction.
He didn’t recognize the voices. But as he tiptoed through the lodge, he realized the sounds were coming from the lounge. The Aspen lounge had motion picture capabilities, and current feature films were the usual fare. As he drew nearer, Jon caught his first whiff of lethal presidential tobacco. He nervously approached the lounge door and chanced a look around the doorframe.
The lights were off, and the room’s occupants faced away from him, toward the large projection screen. Horizontal layers of tobacco smoke wafted upward in the projector’s beam. Jon could make out the president, Mrs. Doria, and Mitchell Forbes, all seated with their backs toward him. He wondered about the others. Ever so slowly, he walked into the lounge.
Intent on their movie, no one saw him enter. The H&K was in Jon’s right hand, and his finger rested outside the trigger guard. He walked over to the projector, switched it off, and flipped on the lights.
“What the hell?” said Bob Meredith, with a rising inflection.
The first to turn around was Forbes. When he saw Jon, he blanched, and his voice was a faint drone. “Jesus Christ.”
From Amanda Doria, a startled gasp.
The president was the last to spot him. Meredith’s expression bespoke confusion. “Godalmighty, son, what are you doing here? And will you put that thing down?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, no can do. I need this for my own protection.”
“Bullshit,” said Forbes, “you came to kill us, didn’t you? And what do you think’s going to happen then? There’s Secret Service all over this place!”
“I’m not here to kill anyone, and you know it. If I was, you’d already be dead.”
“He’s got a point there, Mitch.”
“Mr. President, I was told you knew I was coming up here tonight.”
Meredith shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Jon’s feeling of betrayal rose. “I came here to save your life, Bob.”
“Oh, please,” said Forbes. “Carrying a machine gun with a silencer? What medical school did you learn that in?”
Jon ignored the taunt. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Who?” Meredith asked.
Jon turned to Amanda Doria. “Your husband, for one.”
“He went for a walk a little while ago.”
“By himself?”
“No, with Agent Saunders.”
“Really?” said Jon, demoralized. “Then I’d better say what I have to. Take a look at this, Mr. President.”
He gently tossed the briefcase underhanded. Meredith’s reflexes had deteriorated to the point he couldn’t catch it, and the case fell to the floor at his feet. He picked it up and opened the latch. “Exactly what do you want me to look at?”
“There’s a manila folder with pictures inside.”
Meredith’s hand shook, more from his poisoning than the uninvited guest. He removed the folder, placed it on his lap, and opened it to the first photo. He looked at it long and hard, then glanced at Forbes and Amanda. Returning his gaze to the pictures, he slowly studied the next one, then the print beneath it. As he did, a sly grin curled his lips. “I’d heard rumors,” he said. “But until now, I never gave it much thought.”
“Let me see that,” Forbes insisted, reaching out.
Meredith snapped the folder closed. “Keep your pants on,” he said sharply. “At least, tonight.” To Jon, “Okay, I’ve looked. We’re all adults here, Jon. Things like this happen. Am I supposed to make something out of this?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me, sir. All I know is that it’s part of a bigger picture, and I need help in figuring it out.”
Forbes rolled his eyes. “This is such monumental crap.”
“I’m listening,” said Meredith.
“For starters, Mr. President, I didn’t shoot your wife, and—”
“He’s full of shit, Bob,” Forbes interrupted. “We’ve already gone over this. The evidence is just too solid.”
Meredith looked at Jon. “What about that, Doc?”
“I can’t say, Mr. President. All I can say is that I didn’t do it. But I can tell you this: that I have some new information about your medical exam. I didn’t give you all the test results, Mitch, because there were one or two tests I overlooked. But the results are in now, Mr. President, and they’re a matter of record in the hospital lab.”
Meredith’s shakes were pronounced. “And?” he asked.
“You have mercury poisoning, sir. The mercury levels in your blood are highly toxic and have been for months.”
“Did you say mercury?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Two months ago, your wife came to me. We spoke confidentially about certain symptoms you were having. Things like irritability, memory loss, personality change. I know you, Bob. You’re a proud man, and at first I think you didn’t want to admit there was a problem.”
At the mention of Roxanne, Meredith’s eyes clouded over. “Well, maybe I didn’t. But she was right.” He paused, staring at his shaking hands. “She’s always right.”
“And she can keep being right,” Jon continued. “If you’re still open to the idea of something experimental, I think I’ve found a way to help her. But as far as your health’s concerned,” Jon went on, “I now know that of your symptoms come from mercury. It’s what chronic ingestion of mercury does to the brain. It can make you seem like some doddering old fool who can’t get his act together. The sad part is, your wife knew there was something wrong. She kept pressing me to look into it. And in the end, her insistence led to her shooting.”
“Bob,” Amanda said sharply, “this is ridiculous!”
“I thought so too, sir,” Jon went on. “In the beginning, I couldn’t see any connection. But when I finally did what she wanted and began looking for answers, funny things started happening to me, too. First it was cyanide, then a couple of FBI guys named Johnson and Fitzpatrick. I’m sure you’ve heard of them by now. They were followed by two other boys with toys, one a Secret Service agent named Lewis.” He lifted the H&K. “This belonged to him.”
“Bob,” said an exasperated Forbes, “he’s delusional. You don’t have to keep humoring this idiot.”
“For once in your life,” Meredith said to his chief of staff, “just shut the hell up!” He turned to Jon. “For Rocky’s sake, I hope there’s at least some truth in what you’re saying. But why would wanting to learn what’s wrong with me get make someone want to kill her?”
“That’s what we need to figure out. Let’s start with how you’re getting sick. A lot of ordinary people suffer from mercury intoxication, Mr. President. Usually through eating it, or from inhaling fumes in factories. But no one, to my knowledge, has ever gotten it through smoking.”
Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Do you remember Mr. Phillips, the old White House usher?” Off the president’s nod, Jon continued. “He had exactly the same problem you do. The shakes, memory loss, irritability. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in as good a shape as you. He used to roll his own cigarettes, and guess what he smoked? Your pipe tobacco.”
Until then, Meredith had bee
n holding his pipe by the bowl. Ever so slowly, he looked at it and placed it in the ashtray. “I gave it to him, you know. He loved the aroma, so I let him have some.” He paused. “My God, you’re saying he was poisoned, too?”
Jon nodded.
“So, my pipe tobacco….” He didn’t finish, instead casting a long look at Amanda Doria.
Forbes got to his feet. “This is such a load of crap! I—”
“Sit down!” Meredith shouted, his anger apparent. He thrust the folder into Forbes’ hands. “Maybe this will shut you up a while. So, you’re suggesting, Dr. Townsend, that my Virginia burley’s contaminated with mercury?”
“Yes, sir. And when you smoke it, the toxic mercury vapors enter your body through your lungs.”
Forbes glanced at the first photo. “Oh, my God,” he softly mouthed.
“My memory’s not too good any more, but I think you’re also suggesting,” the president continued, “that if the mercury got into my humidor intentionally, somebody might be guilty of a federal crime.”
“Yes, sir, I am. There’s an antidote for your condition, Mr. President. It’ll work if given now. But in another year or so, you’d be dead.”
“I see.” The president arose unsteadily and slowly began to pace, walking as he thought, as was his custom. “So, if Rocky had never turned you on to this, and if you hadn’t checked me out—well, that would have been it for me.”
“That’s how I see it, yes.”
“And maybe some old boy might have stood to gain by my death.”
“I hadn’t gotten that far, sir.”
Amanda Doria, who had walked over to look past Forbes’ shoulder at the folder, emitted a stifled cry. Then she pivoted and looked away.
“Now, who might that have been?” Meredith continued. “You mentioned the big picture before, Jon, and I’m starting to get a glimmer. Damn, talk about the night they drove Dixie down. Owing to my memory, you don’t mind if I talk this out while I think, do you?”
“That was the general idea, sir. I need help with this.”
“You see, Jon, until this very second, I never really understood the Arab connection.”
“Before you go on,” Jon interrupted, “you might want to check out the smaller folder in there.”
Meredith reached into the briefcase and removed the Raskin documents, slowly looking them over. “This is the researcher that got killed, that Southern Cross thing. I don’t get what this has to do with me.”
“That briefcase belonged to a man named Sean O’Brien. He was the Southern Cross leader who took orders from someone very high up, probably in the Administration. He tried to kill me today. And unless I’ve figured everything wrong, he was the one who killed the man who shot your wife. It seems to me that the Southern Cross people were actually behind Mrs. Meredith’s assassination attempt.”
“You’re not denying that the Palestinian shot Rocky, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m just saying that it’s very complicated, and things aren’t what they seem.”
“But let’s stick with the Arab piece a second,” the president slowly said. “Now, this whole Mideast thing—sending our boys in as peacekeepers, for starters—is taking a beating these days. Ever since Rocky was shot, most of our fellow citizens want us out of that area. Give the desert back to the camel jockeys. Down with OPEC. Let ’em keep the damn oil, we’ll use our own. You see where I’m going with this?”
Jon wasn’t sure. “It’s a little confusing, Mr. President.”
“All right, then let me clear it up for you. Maybe the Palestinian was set up like you say, but he did shoot the first lady. Do the Palestinians want us in the Golan and Gaza as peacekeepers? Hell, no. They’d rather push the Israelis back into the Med. But even someone as cynical as me doesn’t think they’re crazy enough to send an assassin to Washington.”
“What about the other countries in that region?”
“You’ve always had a quick mind, Jon. I was just getting to that. But whatever those countries might say, the answer to your question is no. They don’t want American troops there any more than the Palestinians, because our presence keeps oil prices low. But I seriously doubt any Middle Eastern leader would be so rash as to go after Roxanne and me. The price they’d pay is just too great. So, getting back to what I asked before, if it’s not the Arabs, who stands to gain by my death?”
“The same people who hired Mahmoud Al-Abed?”
“You got it,” Meredith nodded. “That’s where I’d put my money. Maybe it was these Southern Cross boys. But that begs the question.”
Jon just stared back in silence.
“Look at it this way. If America retrenches and we pull out of the Middle East, and oil prices rise, what people in this country benefit?’
“Domestic oil producers, I guess.”
“That’s a given. But who else? No takers?” Meredith’s cheeks twitched grotesquely from the mercury. Voice rising, he turned to his side. “Care to venture a guess, Mandy dearest?”
Jon spoke up. “Probably the same people who put the mercury in your tobacco.”
“Precisely!” said Meredith, thrusting a shaking finger in the air. “And besides oil men, there are the oil man’s enemies. The folks who make fuel cells, hydropower, flywheels. In a word, alternative energy.”
Peering at Jon, the president hesitated, letting his words sink in. All at once, the spark of recognition flared in Jon’s eyes, and he had a sinking, sickening feeling. He stared at Amanda Doria’s turned back. He was so flabbergasted that when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. A wry, tortured smile twisted the president’s mouth, and he slowly approached the physician.
“You see it now, don’t you? How it all comes together so nicely? How the man who has the most to gain—the most influential voice in alternative energy policy in this hemisphere—is also the man who gave me a gift of choice pipe tobacco early last summer?”
Jon’s hoarse voice felt stuck in his throat. “Vice President Doria?”
Meredith clapped him on the shoulder. “You got it, son.”
“Bob, please!” Forbes cried, getting to his feet once more. “I swear to God, I had no idea!”
“If that’s so,” Meredith calmly replied, “how come you’re messing around with Tony’s wife?”
“It’s not what you think,” Forbes murmured, crestfallen. “Amanda and I, we…. There was actually something between us.”
“How touching.” Meredith turned to Mrs. Doria. “That right, sugar?”
“With that horse’s ass?” She sniffed derisively. “What a joke.”
Forbes gasped, dumbstruck. Seeing this, Meredith chuckled. “Looks like you’ve been had, old friend. I’m sure a special prosecutor will be able to straighten this all out. But in the meantime, tell me. I know this couldn’t have been a one-way street. Just what did you do for this little lady in exchange for her favors?”
“Not enough, that’s obvious,” said Mrs. Doria.
“Mr. President,” Forbes pleaded, “you’ve got to believe me! I had no idea it would turn out like this!”
“You don’t say? You had nothing to do with Rocky, or with the sweetener in my pipe tobacco?”
“On my mother’s grave, I swear it!”
“So, what did you tell her?”
“Little things,” Forbes said sheepishly. “Schedules, timing. It seemed so inconsequential that….” he gave his head a forlorn shake. “I honestly had no idea.”
“The village idiot,” Jon said.
But no sooner had Jon uttered the words than the back of his head seemed to explode. Everything went dark. Jon’s knees gave way, and he pitched forward onto the floor. Lying there semiconscious, he was unable to move, but he could hear everything being said. Footsteps came up behind him. A hand reached down to retrieve the H&K.
“That’s an active mike, Jon,” said Dave Saunders from above him. “Guess you didn’t know about that, but we could hear everything you said in here.”
Jon’s head was pounding, and he could feel blood trickling down to his ear. He forced his eyes open and turned his head painfully to one side. Dave was holding a Government Issue nine-millimeter Beretta to which a long silencer was attached, a silencer he’d used to club Jon. He pressed the tip of his shoe into Jon’s back.
“Sit tight, my friend.”
My friend, Jon thought. Despite the throbbing in his head, his mind was completely lucid. Had he ever been Dave Saunders’ friend at all? Fishing buddies…pals who shared a laugh and a beer together. If so, the laugh was on him. Was it all a ruse? Had Dave simply been using him as a conduit for information about the president?
Back in college, his fraternity brothers issued an annual “wedge” award for the person considered to be the simplest tool. That’s how Jon felt now: used and dirty, like a simple tool. As he lay there, he wondered how long it took to truly get to know someone. To rely on them, to trust them, to know their every thought. As the months and years went by, you grew more and more comfortable in their presence, until finally, at some point, you say, Yes, I really know this person. And the hardest part is when you discover that it’s all an illusion.
“Christ almighty, it took you long enough,” said Amanda. She rushed across the room to her husband, who stood beside Agent Saunders.
“Amanda!” Forbes cried, obviously wounded. “I don’t understand. How could you?”
“That’s easy,” said Tony Doria. “She’s a pragmatist, fella. My wife wants to be first lady, and she knows you sometimes have to do distasteful things to get what you want.”
“Distasteful?” Hurt and irony twisted Forbes’ face. “Good God, you knew we were being photographed?”
“Of course I knew,” she casually replied. “Does that hurt your sensibilities, Mitch? What’s wrong, never fucked before an audience? I didn’t think so. We figured that if you ever found out what was going on, the pictures would convince you to keep your mouth shut.”