My King The President (26 page)

Agent Franklin led us down the corridor to an elevator, which dropped quickly to the basement, where yet another surprise waited for me. I had been in the White House many times in the past, but only into the public and pressrooms. I knew the grand old mansion had undergone more face-lifts than the Gabor sisters, and over the years, significant internal surgeries as well. Still, I was totally unprepared for the glimpse—which is all Cal and I got—of the twists and turns of the White House bowels. An electric golf cart type vehicle was waiting, and with Franklin driving, we went whizzing down one branch of several well lighted and climate controlled concrete tunnels I had never known existed. He explained, “This takes us underneath Pennsylvania Avenue to the basement of Blair House. The boss hasn’t moved into the White House yet.”

We were shown into a cheerful south side dining room where a large table was immaculately set, but only for two. Cal and I, silently glancing at each other, sat down, and allowed ourselves to be served juice and coffee, then a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs and, wouldn’t you know it, grits! Neither my father nor I have ever been shy about eating, so we dug right in, and were maybe half finished when Helene Fordham came in, first telling us not to get up, then apologizing that she wouldn’t be able to join us. Fresh dark circles showing under her eyes showed she hadn’t had much rest, if any, and she wasn’t smiling. “Seems I’ve got a little emergency on my hands this morning, boys, trying to head off a strike by the mass transit people in New York. If busses and trains stop running there, the city could be paralyzed for God knows how long, which could definitely ruin a girl’s day. Were you comfortable enough last night?”

“Absolutely,” Cal said, “And thank you, Ms. President. It was a real honor.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I have to postpone our chat. Bert Franklin will take care of you, and I’ll be back in touch as soon as possible. I will probably be back here by tonight. Meantime, is there anything you need?”

“No, ma’am. We’re fine,” I said.

“Good. Finish your breakfast, then.” Turning to leave, she produced a theatrical sigh. “It really does smell good! Anyway, I know you have a lot to catch up on, so stay here as long as you like.”

She left, but Cal and I both had lost our appetites. The blank-faced maid cleared the dishes away, leaving a pot of coffee on the table. Cal leaned forward. “You suppose it’s all right to talk here?”

I shrugged. “I can’t think of any place safer. You want to go first?”

He frowned. “They weren’t right wing militia rednecks, Jeb. Before two of them dragged me out of the cave, blindfolded me, and stuck me with a needle, a flare went off and I got a good look at them. I know camouflaged battle dress when I see it. Those guys were crack troops. Like Green Beret’s or Rangers or whatever they call elite commando forces nowadays. The stuff they shot me up with worked fast, though, and I woke up in that cell at Bragg.”

“How did you know where they had taken you?”

“I didn’t, not for a day or two. It didn’t take me long to make buddy-buddy with Sergeant Manley, first over checkers and then chess. He was pretty talkative after a while, although he didn’t have any idea who I was or why I was there. He also hinted, after I let him beat me a couple times, that there was fresh scuttlebutt of a lot of hush-hush Ranger training going on in a part of the base that had been closed off. Said that two or three of the other prisoners in the stockade were in there only because they’d asked a few out of school questions.”

“I’m sorry it took us so long to get you out.”

“How’d you manage it, anyway?”

I pulled a face. “Mostly blind luck.” I told him about my second trip to south Florida, and of the ghoulish scene on board Cancelossi’s yacht. “I don’t know how Cancellosi knew where you’d been taken. That old man has contacts you wouldn’t believe, and power to match.”

“I
would
believe it,” Cal said. “Cold-blooded little bastard, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He told me he’s dying. Doesn’t have much time left. Neither do we. I swear, Cal, I don’t know what to do next, and I’m also worried about Liz.”

I related my phone call to Lollie. Cal dropped his chin down on his chest, toying with his coffee spoon, and I knew, from past experience, to shut up then, and wait until he’d sorted out whatever thought he was wrestling with.

He didn’t speak for several minutes, then, without raising his head, said, “Son, you remember when you were working so hard on your Boy Scout stuff, before you got your Eagle Badge? Remember the memory quizzes I used to run you through?”

I remembered all too well. Cal had a unique way of teaching me awareness and perception. He’d place a number of small, trivial and unrelated items on top of the table, such as a button, a fork, a snapshot, a pencil, a piece of thread, as many as two dozen simple odds and ends. He’d allow me to look at them for ten seconds, then close my eyes and tell him what I’d seen. After many anemic tries followed up by lots of practice, I got better and better at it. That training in memory retention and recall had stood me in good stead many a time in my adult life. I wondered why he’d brought it up now. “Sure I do. Why?”

He still hadn’t raised his head. “I want you to go back to that night you had dinner at Koontz’s house. Close your eyes. Step by step, word by word, I want you to remember what you did. What you said. What he said. What you saw. Exactly what happened and when.”

“Come
on
, Cal.”

“You can do it. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Go back. Was it raining when you got there? Who was there besides the Judge? Retrace your steps. Take your time, too. We’ve got all day.”

I wished I hadn’t drunk so much coffee. Made it harder to do, but finally I slipped backwards in time and relaxed enough to gradually put myself into a kind of quasi self-hypnotic trance. After a while, I wasn’t even conscious that I was talking out loud, nor was I aware of Cal’s presence any more until he abruptly stopped me. “Wait! Back up and tell me again about the stacks of recordings. Saint Saens, Sibelius. Go from there. Slower.”

I closed my eyes again. “…Saint Saens:
Carnival of the Animals
,
Danse
Macabre
,
Organ Symphony
. Sibelius:
Finlandia
,
En Saga, Violin Concerto
,
Symphonies one through ten
. Tchaikowsky—”

“Stop! Sibelius? Symphonies one through what?”

“One through ten. Why?”

Cal stared at me hard. Then shook his head. “Try again, Pal. Sibelius only wrote
five
symphonies. What’s in those other CD cases?”

I stared back at him, remembering that something that night had bothered me, but at the time I couldn’t put my finger on it. “DAMN! Jesus H. Christ, Cal. We’ve got to get in there and find out.”

Something else was bothering Cal, too. He was biting his lip, his forehead creased like a plowed field. “Are those other people still at Camp David? Abby and Mrs. ? Abby’s twins?”

Cal jumped up, knocking his coffee cup over, spilling its cold contents all over the embroidered tablecloth. “Because that place is not guarded by the Secret Service, Jeb. They’re Marines.
Military
. Think, man. I’m sure Judge Koontz knew of my escape from Bragg not more than an hour after we were gone. And by now he probably also knows where Abby and her kids are. It wouldn’t take him long to arrange their kidnapping, and your FBI friend Frye is just one man. He couldn’t stop a platoon of commandos any more than we could at the cabin, and hostages like that are—”

I didn’t let him finish. I was already running through the hallowed old halls of Blair House, screaming at the top of my voice for Bert Franklin.

He wasn’t, thank God, very far away.

After picking up Mackenzie at the White House, Agent Franklin broke every speed law between Washington and Camp David, talking on his cell phone most of the way. By the time we reached the main gate, another light snowfall was in progress, but Franklin’s colleague was waiting there in another unmarked car, its motor running, with Abby, her twins, and Betty stuffed inside it like so many sardines. Frye was standing nonchalantly aside, smoking a cigarette and talking casually to one of the two tall Marine guards. His feet were spread apart, however, and I had the feeling he was ready to take instant action should anything out of the ordinary happen. When he saw us drive up, a distinct look of relief crossed his lean face, like a scudding cloud passing across the moon. And, it disappeared just as fast. He walked over to our car. Leaned over while Franklin rolled the window part way down. “What’s the deal, Jeb?” His voice had an iron edge. I didn’t know how much Franklin’s partner had told him, so I tried to keep my tone placid, not wishing to make the two Marine guards suspicious. “Time for everybody to go home. You can ride with us. Sarge, you can join Betty in the other car.”

During the ride back to Washington, I filled Frye in on what had happened, leaving out the part where I had left the keys and money at the stockade. “Thurmond, we have to move fast, now. We have to get into the Judge’s house, warrant or no warrant.”

Franklin puffed out his cheeks, picked up his phone and dialed a series of numbers, never taking his eyes from the road. “Sorry as hell, ma’am, but I think you’d better talk to Mr. Willard.” He handed me the phone, with a glance that said, “She’s pissed.”

She was, but her voice was quiet. Controlled. “Jeb, this had better be important. I’m up to my earrings here.”

I took a deep breath. “Ms. President, I wouldn’t do this unless it was critical. More lives are at stake. I’ll explain it all later, but can you possibly call Judge Koontz and get him to the White House for a private dinner tonight? Use any excuse you can think of.”

“Why?”

“Please, ma’am. Just do it. We’re fairly sure we know where the evidence is, but it’s critical to have him away from his house, and just as critical we know where he is. Can you manage it?”

There was a short pause. Then, “I’ll guarantee it. I’ll have him at the White House by eight. It’ll be a five-hour foreign policy meeting, but you had better be right about him, Jeb. You’re sticking me out on a long, rotten limb.”

“I know. And thanks. Is it all right to bring Abby and her kids to the Blair House? It’s the only place I know where they’ll be safe. Camp David is a trap waiting to be sprung.”

“I understand. Yes, by all means, and call me tomorrow. Bert knows how you can reach me. Be careful, Jeb, and try not to break
too
many more laws. Now let me speak to Bert again.”

I handed him the phone, heard him grunt under his breath a couple of times, then say, “Yes, Ms. President. I’ll do that.” He put the cell phone down and gave me a quick glance, exhaling loudly. “All set. Anything else?”

“Just one thing more,” I said. “May I borrow this car tonight?”

Bert Franklin rolled his eyes and shook his head, left to right, but I knew he was saying yes.

Chapter 26

Once we had everyone safely herded into Blair House, I caught Franklin by the elbow and pulled him aside. “Bert, I didn’t want to mention this in front of the others, but I really need to use that car this afternoon.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“An important personal errand. You can say no if you like, and I can take a taxi or rent a car, but if it won’t get you in trouble, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t drive nearly as fast as you do. See you later, and if anybody asks where I am, especially my father, tell ’em I’ve simply gone to get some civilian clothes.”

It had stopped snowing by the time I got to Alexandria, and when I pulled into the drive of the convent, the noon sun was shining brightly. An omen? I rang the entrance bell, praying that a caretaker,
somebody
was inside. I was not expecting it to be Sister Agnes, however, so when she opened the heavy front door herself, it took me a few seconds to recover my wits. She recognized me instantly, and spoke first, as I yanked off the hunting cap. “Mr. Willard. I’ve been expecting you. Come in, please.”

She didn’t answer right away, which made me start to feel something like budding apprehension, though I couldn’t have said why. I waited, keeping a neutral expression on my face.