I Do Solemnly Swear (13 page)

“After the president went to bed, she put the wine in the refrigerator.”

“Then what the hell happened to it?”

“I wish I knew.”

She recalled what McDermott had told her about the venom. What was Elizabeth doing while David died in agony?

“Did Elizabeth tell you what she was doing prior to discovering President Rodgers?”

“After he went to bed, she listened to Mozart on her iPod.”

That
could
explain why she hadn’t heard his cry for help. “What have you concluded, Mr. Kramer?”

“It was someone on the inside. Someone very close to the president.”

“Any suspects, Carl?”

“Not at this time, Madam President. Members of the FBI and Secret Service thoroughly interviewed over fifty staff members, including ten people who had access to President Rodgers’s private quarters. Each has been screened thoroughly, their integrity unquestionable.”

“Evidently not, Mr. Kramer.” The same ten people who had served President Rodgers now served Kate. And one of them could, in fact, be the killer. She shuddered at the thought of an assassin wandering through her quarters with carefree privileges. But if each had survived the scrutiny of the FBI and Secret Service, what could she do, fire all of them? “How do you propose we proceed?”

“I don’t want to spook you, Madam President, but the White House employs nearly five hundred staff members, and it’s likely that one of them, at the least, knows something about the assassination. Our interviews are ongoing, but it’s going to take a while to interview every one of them. In the meantime, the best we can do is to make certain you’re not in harm’s way.”

They talked for a few more minutes. She asked if there was anything he needed. He thanked her and promised he’d solve the assassination mystery within the week. Just as he reached for the doorknob, she called his name.

“Where did the president get that bottle of wine?”

He didn’t look at her. “It was a gift,” he whispered. “A rare bottle of Penfolds Shiraz.” He paused for a moment.

Kate could see stress lines on his forehead.

“Victor Ellenwood brought it back from his trip to Sydney.”

Questions flooded her mind. She almost called him as he walked out the door but decided to give the DDCI a little slack. At least for now.

Kate sat at her desk for a few minutes, reflecting on Kramer’s words. Victor Ellenwood wouldn’t be stupid enough to give the former president a bottle of poisoned wine. Not without covering his tracks. But why would
Ellenwood
want to assassinate David in the first place? How could he benefit from President Rodgers’s death? McDermott had told her that the jellyfish were found only in waters near the Philippines and off the coast of Australia. Ellenwood had recently vacationed in Australia. A coincidence? Could Ellenwood be more scheming than she’d thought? He wasn’t nicknamed the Silver Fox for nothing. Not a jury in the country would deliver a murder conviction based on circumstantial evidence. The DCI gave the president a bottle of wine. So what? Who could prove it was poisoned? Without the bottle, it
was merely speculation. Even if the bottle
were
recovered, how could it implicate
anybody
?

Kate Miles’s brain felt like a maxed-out computer. One more byte of menacing information and her hard drive would surely crash.

Emily burst through the door.

She had never charged into the Oval Office without first knocking. She dashed toward the president as if she were power walking. Under her left arm, Emily carried what appeared to be a newspaper. She laid it across Kate’s desk. Kate slipped on her reading glasses and glanced at the headlines.

Marital Trouble in the White House?

Kate looked up at Emily’s chalk-white cheeks. “Please hold my calls for a few minutes.”

Kate’s face burned. Her hard drive had just crashed.

To avoid postponing another meeting with Olivia Carter, Kate met with McDermott and Press Secretary Riley at seven a.m. She craved coffee this morning; her pounding temples warned her of an imminent migraine if she didn’t feed her caffeine addiction soon.

As if the young woman could read Kate’s mind, Emily knocked gently and peeked in the Oval Office. She walked in with a cup of coffee.

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up this morning.” She set the cup on the corner of Kate’s desk, resting it on the coaster. “Mr. McDermott and Mr. Riley are waiting to see you, Madam President.”

McDermott and Riley entered and exchanged greetings with the president. They sat opposite her. McDermott laid his briefcase across his legs, flipped it open, and removed a manila folder. Riley crossed his legs and adjusted his tie.

In spite of her stomach’s rampage, Kate sipped the piping-hot coffee, careful not to slurp.
Hazelnut. Thanks, Emily
.

The newspaper still sat on her desk. She pointed to the meddlesome headlines and fixed her stare on McDermott.

“Seen the paper?”

Riley said, “I’ve prepared a statement. Brief and to the point. It’s imperative that you contest this rumor immediately.”

McDermott opened the folder, removed a piece of paper, and handed it to the president. Kate laid it on top of the newspaper without looking at it.

“You both feel that I should refute a rumor that’s true? What does that say about my credibility?”

McDermott said, “If it had been a trashy tabloid, I’d advise you to ignore it. But people believe the
Post
.”

She picked up the one-page statement and scanned it. “Trying to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, Mr. Riley?” She crumpled it in a ball and tossed it in the pail beside her desk.

McDermott sat forward. “You haven’t done anything formal. Why not gloss it over? The public doesn’t need to know every time Peter and you have a little quarrel.”

“They don’t need to be lied to, either,” Kate insisted. “If Peter and I officially separate, I’ll make a statement. But I refuse to stand in front of two hundred and fifty million people and recite a bald-faced lie.” She
had
urged Peter to keep their separation confidential, and in a broad sense, Kate felt that she’d withheld the truth from the public. But to consciously lie to the world was quite another story. She didn’t have time or the patience to debate an issue on which her position was immutable.

“Unless there’s something else, Mr. Riley, you may be excused.”

Riley couldn’t leave the office quickly enough.

Kate stood and folded her arms across her chest. “How do you suppose the
Washington Post
got this information?”

McDermott’s ears turned scarlet red. “I have no idea, Madam President.”

“Only Peter and you had knowledge of this.”

“I can’t speak for your husband, but I did
not
breathe a word of this to anyone. I would never, under any circumstances, betray your confidence.”

“I’m sorry if my query sounds like an accusation.”

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“Don’t get all indignant with me, Charles. I merely asked a straightforward question.”

McDermott looked like a rabid dog. “If you doubt my loyalty, Madam President, perhaps I should...” He blinked nervously.

“Resign?” Her eyes studied him critically. “That’s a bit extreme, Charles. Are you going to overreact every time we have a little spat? What the hell happened to the Charles McDermott with the titanium backbone?”

“I’m afraid he’s a little stressed out.”

“What’s troubling you?”

“Frankly, Madam President, when I try to advise you, you either disregard my recommendations or bite my head off.”

For several days, Kate had not been a pillar of patience and was more aware of this than McDermott realized.

“If I’ve been a bit too ferocious lately, try to be tolerant of me, Charles. Can you possibly imagine what my life is like? David Rodgers has been murdered, Peter left, and Walter Owens is not making my transition easy. To top it off, I’m living on Excedrin and Tagamet.” Her throat knotted up, and she took a deep breath. “I’m not attacking
you
, Charles. I’m venting my frustrations, and you’re usually the closest target.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” His eyes were still burning a hole through her.

“Have I created ill feelings? We can’t have bad blood between us,” Kate said.

“Maybe I’ve been a touch sensitive myself lately.”

“If I didn’t trust you implicitly, you wouldn’t be my chief of staff.”

“I’ll accept that as a compliment.”

She shook his hand and noticed that he had difficulty looking in her eyes. “Are we OK, Charles?”

“We’re fine, Madam President.”

***

Under the name William Thompson, twenty-two-year-old Guenther Krause used his phony driver’s license and Visa card to rent a car at the airport. As instructed, he checked in at the Ambassador Hotel two miles from Georgetown University. To his delight, many students were sporting radical hairdos—some heads completely shaved—making Guenther’s buzz cut less conspicuous. He preferred wearing military attire—mid-calf black boots, fatigues, camouflage shirt—but he was dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt to blend in with other students.

After hours of pacing the floor of the cramped hotel room, Guenther sat on the bed. He could feel his body sink into the worn mattress. If it sagged any lower, he thought, his ass would touch the floor. Of all the fancy hotels in DC, why had his brothers put him up in such a second-rate joint? He glared at the telephone. Why hadn’t his Washington brothers called him with further instructions? He hated waiting. The Whopper he’d bought at the airport Burger King was cold, but he bit into it anyway to quiet his gurgling stomach. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. Having nothing to do but think, Guenther tried to envision what the capitalist-pig journalists might write about him. At first, he anticipated mass hysteria. They would call him a monster, a lunatic, proclaim him to be a crazed terrorist. But eventually they’d understand. Guenther Erich Krause would galvanize his name in history books as a great liberator of the chosen race, a man courageous enough to sacrifice his life for his beliefs. Guenther
was young and idealistic, but not naive. He knew in his heart that this was a suicide mission. But life on Earth was insignificant.

That his brothers had chosen him for this divine vocation would dignify him with the highest reward: sainthood beside his Aryan god. None of his blood brothers, not even Jakob Hoffman, would die for their beliefs. They
talked
about loyalty, honor, commitment, but Guenther would prove his patriotism in the most profound way. He’d never see his brothers again. But when they cheered his name, knelt before his photograph, praised and venerated him, Guenther Krause, exalted nationalist, would enjoy the celebration from another world. His fate had taken a higher path.

Guenther set the half-eaten burger on the bed. He looked at the picture hanging on the wall above the dresser. A white farmhouse with black shutters. A windmill. Horses grazing. A serene country setting. Familiar. His father had decided to leave Frankfurt, Germany, when Guenther was barely a toddler. Why his father had chosen to move to a backwoods town in the Alabama countryside, Guenther would never understand. But then again, when had his father ever made a decision that made sense?

His index finger traced along his belly, gently outlining the circular scars. The edges were still coarse and bumpy. When he closed his eyes, he could see the broken-down farm, the dilapidated furniture, his father’s crazed look. Guenther could almost hear his pathetic childhood screams, smell his father’s burning cigar. There was something peculiar about sizzling flesh. It didn’t smell like grilled burgers or pork chops. Human flesh had a sickening-sweet stench. It was an odor that had heaved vomit into Guenther’s throat many times. Guenther Krause was well acquainted with the vile smell of burning skin. He remembered the last time his father had played the game.

***

Guenther had just gotten home from school. He sat in the living room next to his younger brother watching Animal Planet. He’d always been fascinated with whales and dolphins. Today, he watched a special on orcas. Guenther was about to grab the last Oreo cookie and pop it in his mouth, but he could see the disappointed look on his brother’s face. Oreos were Derrick’s favorite. Guenther pointed to the plastic dish.

“Want the last one?”

The ten-year-old boy nodded vigorously, stuffed the cookie in his mouth, and gulped the last mouthful of milk.

About to run to the kitchen and see what else he could snack on, Guenther heard a car pull in the driveway, a door slam. He glanced at the wall clock above the TV. Three fifteen. Too early for either of his parents to be home from work. He peeked out the window and saw his father, obviously drunk, stumbling toward the front porch. Guenther knew exactly what his early arrival meant. In a panic, he placed his hands on top of Derrick’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” Guenther ordered. “Get your ass up to your room and hide in the closet until I come get you.”

“Why?”

“Dad’s home, and he’s drunk.”

Familiar with his father’s behavior when he overindulged, Derrick complied and disappeared up the stairway.