Paramour (37 page)
Authors: Gerald Petievich
"Thanks, Herb. I appreciate the help."
"By the way," Kugler said. "I know of cases where the CIA has obtained weapons using methods that would throw suspicion on other intelligence services. They're into all that sleight-of-hand Yale-and-Harvard crapola."
Powers nodded.
"Can I give you two a ride somewhere?"
"No, thanks, Herb."
"You know where to reach me," Kugler said. He told Susan it was nice to meet her and walked away into the crowd.
Powers dropped change into a pay phone and dialed.
"White House Signal," the operator said,
"This is Jack Powers. Please connect me with Deputy Director Sullivan."
"He's at the White House. I'll connect you." The line clicked twice.
The line clicked three times and Sullivan came on the line. "We need to talk," Powers said.
"What is it, Jack?" Sullivan said warily.
"I want you to meet someone. That's all I can say over the phone." There was a pause.
"I can't get away for an hour. Say eight P.M. at the Rustic Inn?"
"See you there," Powers said. He set the receiver down.
"Where are we going?" Susan asked.
"To rent a car and meet Sullivan."
"Who's Sullivan?"
"The Deputy Director of the Secret Service."
About fifteen minutes out of Washington, near Great Falls Park, Powers pulled off Highway 190 onto a wooded road following the Potomac River. After a half mile or so, he reached a large wooden sign that read THE RUSTIC INN.
Powers made a sharp turn and pulled into a rectangle-shaped parking lot filled with cars.
Powers and Susan climbed out of the car. It was a warm night with a smell of rain in the air. They followed some garden lights to a path ascending some inlaid rock steps winding up to the restaurant itself. Only the muffled restaurant sounds, gaining in intensity as they continued upward, could be heard.
The restaurant, a one-story half-timbered traditional structure, was situated in a natural clearing. Inside, the walls were covered with antique kitsch and there were potbellied stoves and false-front fireplaces here and there for decoration. One of a nationwide chain of restaurants, it was neither genuinely rustic (the potbellied stoves being only for decoration) nor an inn.
Most of the forty or so tables were filled, a middle-class family crowd. Few men wore neckties. Powers figured Sullivan had picked the place because it was out of the circle of DC places frequented by Secret Service agents.
A sallow young woman wearing a gingham uniform dress greeted them at the door and showed them to a booth in the corner. She took drink orders and left.
At eighty-thirty Sullivan came in the door. Spotting them immediately, he moved to the table. Powers introduced him to Susan, Sullivan sat down. There was a mist of perspiration across his upper lip. "Sorry I'm late," he said, staring at Susan.
"I'd like you to meet Susan Brewster," Powers said.
"How do you do," Sullivan said warily.
"Susan is the woman I knew as Marilyn Kasindorf," Powers said.
"I'm afraid I don't-"
"Susan is the woman I followed to Kassel. She was impersonating Marilyn Kasindorf."
"You mean...?"
"I've been an agency asset for years. I'm a flight attendant, and I've been called on for a lot of routine chores.
"She's activated by a phone cut-out."
"The Inter-Agency Source Index," Sullivan said.
"Exactly."
"And your handier asked you to impersonate Marilyn Kasindorf?"
"Sent me the money and faxed me a photograph of her so I could make myself up to look like her."
"Jesus," Sullivan said. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.... Who ... who gave you the assignment?"
"I don't know," she said. "I've never known the identity of my handlers."
"I've been through everything with her," Powers said. "She was given the assignment by
phone and has no idea who activated her for the mission."
The waitress came to the table and Sullivan ordered a drink. She left.
Powers cleared his throat. "And there's something else. The bullets found in Ken Landry's body had been fired through a silencer."
"Who said that?"
"Herb Kugler," Powers said. "Landry was killed by a professional."
"Why ... why would someone want to kill Landry?"
"Ken found a bug in the White House Special Projects Office. Someone-a White House insider-was keeping tabs on Marilyn Kasindorf's activities; I found a bug in her apartment. And something else: We've been followed by a professional surveillance team. I think they're CIA."
Sullivan started to speak but, looking at Susan, stopped abruptly.
"You can talk in front of Susan," Powers said. "She was used just like we were."
Sullivan wiped moisture from his upper lip. "I guess that brings us to the big question. What the hell do we do now?"
"I know what I would do. I'd walk right into the Oval Office."
Sullivan nodded. "I know this President. The first thing he's gonna do is ask, 'What's the bottom line? What the hell is it all about?' Can you give him an answer?"
Powers shook his head.
"Neither can I," Sullivan said. He inhaled and let out his breath. "The President is going to Camp David tonight and will remain there preparing for the election debates. He knows-everybody knows-that if the boat gets rocked even a little at this point he'll lose the election." Sullivan's face was stony. "We're talking a possible coup."
"What are you going to do?" Powers said.
"Brief the President. The problem is, I'm not sure he'll buy what I tell him. He'll ask me for proof, and there is none."
"Landry is proof."
"As far as the police are concerned, Landry was killed in a street robbery," Sullivan said. "The President might think I'm lying ... or crazy."
"You have us as witnesses."
"I'll need you two somewhere where I can reach you," Sullivan said.
"It's too dangerous to go back to my apartment. I'll register at the Ramada," Powers said.
"I'll contact you there," Sullivan said. He shook hands with Susan, then offered his hand to Powers.
"Good luck," Powers said.
"I'll need it."
They shook hands tightly; Powers sensed the tension. Sullivan pushed his chair back and left the restaurant.
"I sense something terrible," Susan said. "I can feel it."
"My guess is we're going to be called into the President's office and asked to explain what we know," Powers said. "We have to keep our heads."
She nodded. He kissed her on the cheek. They chatted nervously for the next few minutes and Powers, aware the President thrived on facts and hated supposition, advised her not to volunteer any theories when he questioned her. Powers checked his watch.
"Let's go," he said.
With Susan at his side, Powers walked past tables and booths. As they reached the doorway, a strapping man with the build of a heavyweight wrestler and a tall broad-shouldered woman with dark eyes stood up from their seats at a table in the corner. The man had a dark trimmed beard and mustache and was dressed in Levi's and a loose-flowing plaid shirt. He had a dark olive complexion-Italian or possibly Lebanese. The woman, whose hair was wrapped in a bun, wore a green blouse and a pleated skirt with embroidered trim. She was carrying a leather purse with a long shoulder strap. If Powers recalled correctly, the couple had entered the restaurant shortly after he and Susan had arrived.
As Powers paid the bill, the couple took their time at the door. Were they stalling to allow him to leave first?
Powers knew a number of things about people who are carrying concealed weapons. Even in those who are accustomed to being armed, a certain self-consciousness invariably evidences itself. With those who carry weapons at the waist it's a way of walking that favors the opposite side from the gun and a frequent touching of one's coat or jacket to sense if the gun is protruding indiscreetly. With women who carry a gun in a purse, it's the way the hand grips the strap, always where it attaches to the purse, to steady it from tilting from the weight of the gun. Though Powers admitted it might be his imagination, he believed the man and woman were armed.
Without being obvious, Powers reached for the door handle and pulled. He stopped Susan, smiled, and held the door open wide for the couple. Exiting, the man forced a smile. The woman followed, holding her arm crooked, grasping the purse strap.
In the darkness outside, Powers took Susan's arm and they began slowly descending the path toward the parking lot. A light mist of rain was filtering from the darkness, and the branches of the tall trees spanning the path were dripping.
The only sound was footsteps. The couple was about thirty yards ahead of them, descending the steps. Powers felt something cold land on the back of his neck: rain dripping from a tree branch.
At about midpoint between the restaurant and the parking lot, there was no light other than the bulbs illuminating the footpath. The sound of the footsteps stopped. Powers stopped too, grasping Susan's arm firmly.
"What's wrong?"
Powers touched a finger to her lips.
Snap-click.
The sound came from below, unmistakably the slide of an automatic pistol being pulled back to chamber a round. Another
snap-click.
There were two guns.
****
TWENTY-FIVE
Powers pulled Susan off the path and into the forest. Moving in total darkness with his right hand in front of him to keep from running into a tree trunk, he headed away from the path.
"Stand here and don't move," he whispered, shoving her behind a tree.
"What's happening?"
"Just don't move," he whispered. "No matter what happens, stay right here." Powers moved away from her and took a position behind another tree. He remembered his Secret Service training:
If you wait for them to come get you you're finished. If the protectee is secure, attack the danger. Unfortunately, the instructor didn't say how to do this when one was unarmed.
In the weak illumination provided by the footlights along the path, two shadows moved up the steps. Suddenly a flashlight beam pierced the forest in their direction. Powers tensed and for a moment asked himself what had brought him here. Why had he joined the army and then the Secret Service instead of being a fisherman in Monterey with his dad? But he'd always drawn himself into harm's way. The path of his life had led him to be standing in the woods near the Rustic Inn waiting to get killed. For a split second, rather than seeing his life flash before him as people often said who knew nothing about it, Powers saw what he'd seen before, in Vietnam and other times he'd been shot at: his death. Then suddenly, in a warm wave of self-mastery reminding him of the first day he was shot at in Vietnam, the emotions of fear and rage and revenge, the urge to protect and the urge to kill
and control, meshed with the locus of his reasoning. Fear and doubt were supplanted by eye-darting, muscle-tensing, primal anger, that peculiar, vision-sharpening, adrenaline-pumping, last-stand acuity that comes when life is threatened: when one must kill or be killed.