I Do Solemnly Swear (30 page)

She clutched his forearm and smiled. “By the way, Albert, I owe you a long-overdue apology.”

He shook his head and looked at her with curious eyes. “For what?”

“For acting like a madwoman the morning I thought I’d been poisoned.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, Madam President. Under the circumstances, I think you maintained your composure quite admirably.”

“It may have been understandable, but it was inexcusable. I’m sorry.”

***

To retrieve the Colt .45 he’d hidden in the toilet reservoir and to secure an aisle seat so he’d get an unobstructed shot at the president, Guenther arrived at the auditorium ninety minutes before the speech was scheduled to begin. Hopping up the front steps of Saint Thomas Hall two at a time, Guenther was surprised at the number of people waiting to go through security. It looked like Kennedy Airport on Christmas Eve. He adjusted his cap and straightened his prized sweatshirt. He yanked open the door and
waited for his turn. After what seemed like an eternity, a uniformed security guard motioned for him to step forward. Two men in dark suits stood adjacent to the black security guard.

Ebony boys are everywhere
, Guenther thought.

“May I see your identification, please?”

Guenther reached in his back pocket and handed the man his student ID. The security guard studied the laminated card, looked Guenther up and down, then fixed his eyes on the baseball cap.

“A Skins fan, huh?”

“Always been my team.”

“Been to any games?”

“A couple.”

“How’d you get tickets? Every game was sold-out during preseason.”

Guenther’s palms began to sweat. “My uncle’s got connections.”

“Lucky you.” He returned the ID and handed Guenther a plastic container. “Would you empty your pockets of any loose change, keys, anything metal, remove your cap and shoes, and walk through the archway.”

He followed the instructions and stepped through the metal detector. He tried not to get distracted, but when Guenther caught a hint of Ivory’s scent still on the sweatshirt, he smiled. He wondered if the security guard could smell her.

The security guard gave Guenther a once-over. “May I have your admittance ticket, please, Mr. Thompson?”

He reached into his back pocket and handed him the ticket. The security guard tore it in half, scribbled something on the stub, and gave it to Guenther. “Show this to the security guard at the entrance to the auditorium. And enjoy the lecture.”

“I’m sure I will.”

As Guenther approached the auditorium, he could see a funnel of frenzied people—many more than he’d anticipated—crowded around the main entrance. He’d gotten past the first security check without delay, but for some reason, a terrible bottleneck had developed. The muscles along the back of his neck tightened. Would he have enough time to recover the gun and secure an aisle seat? He had no idea how many people had already entered. As he anxiously waited, Guenther’s stomach rode a nauseating roller coaster.

***

At seven thirty-two p.m., the executive limousines pulled up to the west entrance of Saint Thomas Hall. Four Secret Service agents filed out of the lead vehicle and waited by the steps. The other four agents remained posted around the president’s limo.

Cranston looked at his watch. “It’s going to be about a fifteenminute wait, Madam President. Four agents and I will go inside and check things out. I’ll leave you with Charles and return when it’s time for you to go in.” Cranston stepped out of the car, and the agents followed him into the building.

“Would you like me to help you fine-tune your speech?” McDermott offered.

“I’ve never been good at reciting speeches verbatim. They flow much better when I follow a loose outline and improvise as I go.”

Kate could not think of anything to talk about, and it appeared to her that the COS was lost in his own private thoughts. She picked specks of lint off her skirt. Peter, she remembered, loved the way she looked in this suit. Not even during the Middle East crisis had he called. Things had eroded so far beyond any chance of a reconciliation perhaps a permanent remedy was the only thing that made sense. And the truth was that she did not really
miss him. It was just a matter of time before some nosy journalist, trying to get inducted into the reporters’ hall of fame, rekindled the rumors about her separation from Peter.

McDermott’s voice thundered into her deep thoughts. “Madam President, I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with you one on one, but I wanted you to know that I admired your courage during the Middle East crisis. I must be honest, though. I, like most of the world, did not endorse your resolutions without tremendous reservations. But, as the saying goes, ‘all’s well that ends well.’”

“I hardly think that anything has ended. But thank you, Charles. I appreciate your candor.”

Again, there was silence.

This was not the most ideal time for a delicate discussion, but Kate had been avoiding this conversation far too long. “Charles, while we have a few minutes, we need to talk about Adelina Menendez.”

His face filled with blood. “We all have our little vices, Madam President.”

“She’s a vice you’ll have to do without. If you don’t remedy the situation, both Adelina and you will be placing yourselves in a very precarious situation.”

“I’ve been trying to handle it, but—”

“She’s married, Charles, and it’s inappropriate.”

He looked like a whipped puppy. “I’ll handle it, Madam President.”

***

As he hustled down the auditorium aisle, Guenther elbowed his way through the unruly crowd. Most of the aisle seats had already been taken. He jogged to the men’s room as quickly as he could without causing unnecessary suspicion. He shoved the door open
with clenched fists, stomped over to the last stall, and pushed his palms against the door. From the other side of the metal door, Guenther heard an irritated voice.

“This one’s occupied, buddy.”

He went to the sink, removed his cap, turned on the faucet, and doused his flushed face with cold water. Guenther cranked two feet of brown paper towel, wiped his hands, and blotted his face. His eyes focused on his reflection.

Time to separate the
soldats
from the
huhns
, Guenther
.

A chill crawled through his body. Standing behind him, he could see a blurry image of the Grim Reaper. Honing his sickle, his lipless smile and lifeless eyes heckled him. But as Guenther studied the mirage more closely, his father’s twisted face was superimposed over the skull. Was his
vater
trying to warn him? He gripped the sink with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut to avoid looking at his father’s mocking grin. Failure was no longer his nemesis. The enigma of death was what horrified him most. Guenther Krause was ill-prepared to meet his Aryan god. And not until this moment did he fully comprehend this.

The toilet flushed. A belt buckle rattled.

For a fleeting moment, Guenther considered defecting. But where would he hide? The Disciples would hunt him down and kill him slowly. Painfully. He’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, unable to trust anyone. And even if he could evade his comrades, where could he hide from his god? Was it not better to die a quick death as a hero? Guenther Krause had come too far to betray God, his brothers, or himself.

An older man, Yul Brenner–bald, came out of the stall. With casual style, he moseyed to the sink, seemingly unaware of Guenther, and scrubbed his hands thoroughly enough to perform brain surgery. Guenther could not risk entering the same stall with the
old man still hanging around. Wouldn’t he wonder why Guenther hadn’t used one of the other seven stalls? In no particular hurry, the man shook the water off his hands, pumped the lever on the paper towel dispenser, and meticulously dried his hands.

The bathroom door opened.

Two young men walked in. The short one, tugging at his zipper, hustled to the urinals. The other made a beeline for the last stall. Guenther wanted to tackle the son of a bitch but stopped himself. He gritted his teeth so fiercely that his jawbone ached. If not for the imperative nature of his mission, he’d kick the door in, grab the porcelain cover off the toilet reservoir, and crush the asshole’s fucking skull. He heard the man’s stream of urine splash into the toilet bowl.

Flush.

The man stepped out of the stall.

Without washing their hands, the young men left the bathroom. Yul Brenner followed them out the door. Without delay, Guenther dashed for the stall, closed the door, and turned the thumb lock. Carefully, he removed the reservoir cover and straddled it across the toilet bowl.

He heard someone enter the bathroom. Heavy footsteps. Two, perhaps three people were talking. Somebody stepped into the stall next to Guenther. He heard him fumbling with his belt.

Zip.

He plopped onto the toilet seat.

Quietly, Guenther tried to yank the duct tape loose, but it was stuck to the porcelain. He pulled harder. The plastic bag ripped open and the gun tumbled out of the bag and sank to the bottom of the tank with a clunk.

“Are you OK, pal?” the stranger in the next stall asked.

“I’m fine.”
Mind your own fucking business!

Guenther pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, reached in, pulled the gun out of the cold water, and hurriedly wiped it dry on the front of his sweatshirt. Would cold water adversely affect the ammunition? Guenther imagined the horror he’d feel if he pointed the gun at the president, pulled the trigger, and heard the quiet click of the hammer. He did not have enough time to remove the bullets from the magazine and wipe them dry.

He carefully replaced the reservoir cover, gently pulled back the slide on the Colt, loaded a round into the chamber, locked the safety, stuffed the gun into the front of his pants, and covered it with the sweatshirt. He rushed out the door, brushed past a young man, and hurried to the west aisle.

The auditorium was buzzing with activity; people flocked to vacant seats as if it were a game of musical chairs and the top prize was one million dollars. Guenther bolted down the west aisle and checked every seat on both sides. Not one end seat was available. Reluctantly, he sprinted to the east aisle. He did not believe that he could endure her speech without vomiting, and by sitting in the east aisle, he would be forced to wait until she exited the auditorium before he’d get a clear shot. What other choice did he have? He searched every row, craning his neck, frantically looking for an end seat.

No aisle seat.

Desperate and fraught with anxiety, Guenther pulled out a wad of money from his front pocket. He peeled a fifty-dollar bill off the roll and fought his way back to the west aisle. Surely he could find a starving student who could use fifty bucks. For a moment, he stopped and tried to imagine whether it would be more advantageous to shoot her as soon as she walked in or just before she reached the stage.

People stampeded by him like startled cattle.

Guenther figured that by the time the president reached the stage—shaking hands and greeting people as she walked—the Secret Service agents would be less alert. He’d have a better chance of surprising them when the president was closer to the front of the auditorium. Guenther spotted a young woman sitting on an end seat in the sixth row. He genuflected on the floor beside her and smiled. With his fingertips, he held the fifty-dollar bill and flashed it in front of her face.

“Wanna sell your seat, miss?”

***

Albert Cranston opened the limousine door. “It’s time, Madam President.”

Kate, McDermott, Cranston, and four Secret Service agents marched into Saint Thomas Hall. Their heavy footsteps clicked on the marble floors and echoed in the air. With the exception of armed security guards posted at all three exits, the main lobby leading to the auditorium was unoccupied. Until this moment, Kate hadn’t felt nervous. But when Cranston opened the double doors at the back of the auditorium, and Kate heard the thunderous applause, whistles, and enthusiastic cheers over the hum of the college band playing their rendition of “Hail to the Chief,” her heart hammered against her rib cage.

Two agents led the way, two followed Kate, and McDermott lagged slightly behind. Cranston remained at the back of the auditorium, waving his arms, pointing toward the stage, yelling orders into his headset. Displaying her warmest smile, the president began her promenade down the aisle. Hands reached out to her as if she were the Messiah.

***

Guenther recognized the swine immediately. It made him ill, but he forced himself to applaud. He stood on his tiptoes and strained
his neck trying to see the number of Secret Service agents. He counted five.

Two additional agents stood shoulder to shoulder at the front of the aisle, their eyes meticulously examining the crowd. Guenther’s plan was to wait for the last agent to pass him, so he was out of the agent’s line of vision, and then shoot the president in the back of her head. But there was a problem. The two agents waiting for her at the front of the aisle would surely see him draw his weapon; they were less than ten feet away. How could he initiate this plan without one of the agents spotting him?

The president meandered down the aisle, shaking hands and exchanging salutations with all she passed. While he anxiously waited, Guenther noticed a young man several rows back wearing a Redskins baseball cap. He reached up to adjust his own cap and realized he’d left it in the men’s room.

I’m gonna save a bullet for you, you thieving bastard!

He did not hold a sentimental attachment to the baseball cap, of course, but Guenther, as part of a sacred ritual, had shaved his head completely bald this morning, exposing his prized swastika tattoo. It had been a risky, perhaps foolish move, making him more vulnerable. But nothing was more important than the pride he held in his membership to the brotherhood, and to expose the swastika to the world exemplified and venerated that pride. As long as his head remained erect, Guenther believed, few people were tall enough to see it. But really, did he need another concern to compromise his concentration?