Presidential Deal (15 page)

Chapter 23

“Assuming that air traffic is too obvious, too easily controlled, and ground transportation is too risky and too limited given the local topography, probability suggests we’re looking at a waterborne escape from the area,” the general in charge of the briefing was saying.
Waterborne
, Chappelear thought. Odd choice of words, but then that was the military for you. Turn the kidnapping of the First Lady into a science project.

The general punched a button on his remote and another vast black-and-white satellite image filled the screen before them. They were using one of the hotel’s conference rooms, and the size of the image only made the quarters seem more cramped and airless to Chappelear, who was accustomed to the spacious briefing rooms in the White House. The President had been adamant, however. No time would be wasted shifting the base of operations back to Washington. It was the electronic age, after all. Information was infinitely portable, infinitely malleable. It was people who were difficult to move.

“What this gives us is a composite of the boat traffic from twelve hundred hours all the way into the evening,” the general was saying as the image came into focus. The satellite map seemed an impenetrable maze of white threads overlaid on a dark background that must have been the sea. “You can see what we’re up against,” the general said.

“We can factor out for size,” he said, punching another button. The maze transformed, leaving what must have been a hundred or so lines that crisscrossed wildly in all directions. “That’s your commercial traffic, for instance. Cruise liners, freighters, fishermen of size, easy enough to trace using the port records, but unlikely targets, most of them.”

He clicked another button. “Here’s the real problem,” he continued. The maze re-formed itself, became a spaghetti-like tangle again, nearly as dense as it had seemed in its first incarnation. “Pleasure boats. Day fishermen. Anything bigger than a wave runner.”

He turned to face the assembled group: the President, Lawrence Chappelear, John Groshner, representatives of the FBI, the Secret Service, the CIA, assorted aides. No one from the agencies seemed expectant. This was old news, grim news, a courtesy briefing primarily for the benefit of the President: we’re out there doing our best, Chief.

“It’s not just the volume of traffic,” the general continued.

He pushed another button and the view pulled back, leaped alive with color. The sea was suddenly blue, the boat trails a more vividly defined white. The southern edge of the green-shaded peninsula of Florida curved into focus, along with a few nearby dots of land that were the Biminis. Cuba—the entity that Chappelear could blame for all this—lurked there to the south, but most of its mass was shrouded by a dense gray cloud cover that arched on northward into the Bahamas, obscuring most of those tiny islands from view. The great majority of the boat trails disappeared into the thick cloud mass as well.

“The storm system’s not only played havoc with surveillance,” the general said, maneuvering an electronic pointer over the cloud mass, “but we’d pay hell getting any kind of craft down there right now, even if we had a destination in mind.”

He clicked something else on his device and the cloud mass transformed itself into a mad whorl of color: bands of green twisting at its outer edges, shading to yellow further in, bursts of angry red glinting at the edges of the imagery. “We’ve got a hurricane headed this way,” he said, sliding his pointer southeastward, toward the outcroppings of red. “Category One as she stands, but the tracking center in Coral Gables is predicting it’ll strengthen steadily through the night.”

“Good God,” the President murmured. “What else can happen?”

“The storm could turn north,” the general said, “miss most of the islands altogether. It’s a little too early to tell.”

“So we’re sitting on our hands, waiting?” the President asked.

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t say that,” the general replied. He pushed a button, and the image onscreen dissolved. He motioned to one of the aides and the overhead lights came back on. “We’ve mobilized SEAL units, special land response units, we’ve been screening the commercial traffic, as I said. We’ve got Coast Guard units in the Biminis where the weather’s still holding. We’ve had voice contact with most of the marinas where fuel might have been dispensed, we’ve got agents checking every marina on the mainland, from the Palm Beaches all the way to Key West…”

“And we have nothing to show for it?”

“Some things,” the general said. He gestured at the aide again and the lights went down. He pressed another button and a new image grew on the screen, this an actual photograph, an aerial shot of a small scrub-covered island, the Miami skyline in the distance. He clicked his controller again and the image tightened in on a lagoon sheltered by the island. Something seemed to hover there just beneath the surface of the water.

“We’ve discovered a cabin cruiser scuttled in shallow water off Soldier Key, just a few miles off the coastline,” the general said. He paused. “It’s being raised as we speak.”

“Did we send divers down?” Chappelear asked.

The general heard something in his voice, glanced nervously at the President. “We had a quick look,” he said. “There was no one in the cabin, nothing else readily apparent, but once we get it up and can get our technicians to work, we’ll see if there’s any evidence to suggest it was used by the terrorists.”

“What about the local authorities?” Groshner asked, glancing around the room. “I don’t see any representatives here.”

“Local law enforcement is mobilized to the maximum,” the general said. “They have primary responsibility for airport and marina surveillance, checkpoint control, ancillary services.”

“I don’t care about the groundskeeping,” Groshner said. “Have they come up with anything we can
use?”

The general turned to one of the agency types at his side. “Mr. Clyde is the Special Agent in Charge. He can tell us about these matters.”

Harvey Clyde stood ponderously, adjusting his suitcoat on his broad shoulders. “We’re still in the process of evaluating Metro-Dade and City of Miami data,” he said, casting a nervous glance at the President. “As well as the smaller agencies, of course. We’re taking a look at a break-in at a police supply house a couple of nights ago, which we suspect was the source of the uniforms used by the terrorists.”

“Any suspects in that robbery?” the general asked.

Harvey shook his head. “There’s a break-in about every thirty seconds in this part of the world. They don’t take them too seriously. By the time anyone realized the significance of this incident, the scene had already been contaminated, the owners boarded up and back in business the next day.” He shrugged, glanced again at the President as if to see if he’d seemed too cavalier.

“We’re also looking into a car bombing in south Dade County, checking residues against materials lifted from the plane that was blown up at the airport…” He trailed off for a moment. “There was a subject transported to one of the public hospitals who may have been involved in the car bombing, that’s what the locals tell us, anyway, but he was never ID’d.” Clyde threw up his hands. “He seems to have disappeared. We’ve got a team working that matter, but again, we’re talking pretty cold leads at this stage of the game.” His expression left no doubt as to his opinion of the local authorities.

“Thank you, Mr. Clyde,” the general said. He glanced around the table as if hoping to see an eager face, someone with good news to share, but the others stared up or down or off into the distance, anywhere but at him. The general might have been about to utter some hapless statement when something finally happened to galvanize everyone’s attention.

“I’ve heard enough,” the President said, rising from his chair. He turned to Chappelear. “Next time you bring me down here, make sure it’s for a reason, Larry.”

He strode out of the room then, flanked by a pair of Secret Service men, leaving all eyes on Chappelear, except for the general, who knew enough to avert his eyes. John Groshner’s gaze seemed particularly penetrating. “Well,” Chappelear snapped finally, “you heard the President. Do something. Do any goddamned thing.”

“Bomb that hurricane off the map?” Groshner asked mildly.

Chappelear stared at him for a moment. He felt the eyes of the others upon them, not much different from the promise of a schoolyard scrap, really, everyone gathered around, waiting for the fists to fly. “If that’s what it takes,” he said to Groshner, his voice cool.

He stood then, surveyed the others arrayed about the conference table. “There’s a trail out there somewhere,” he said. “And by God, we need to find it. Is that understood?”

Grudging nods around. “Dismissed, then,” Chappelear added.

The general looked up at him. “Sir?”

“If you’ve got a moment?”

“Absolutely,” the general said. He left aside his paper shuffling, let his briefcase fall shut.

“You’re the one who wrote the report bemoaning our diminished defensive posture on the Caribbean, aren’t you?”

The general colored. “Well, sir, I know we’ve had our differences…”

“Never mind that,” Chappelear said with a wave of his hand. “You’re a man of conviction. That’s what matters at a time like this. We need men we can count on.
I
need someone I can trust.” Chappelear stared at him evenly.

“I’ll do everything I can, sir.” The general straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Good,” Chappelear said. “I’d like a rundown on just what gear we’ve got at the ready down this way.”

The general nodded. “We’ve got everything, sir. Now we do, that is. Anything and everything. Men and material all in place. You want a missile up Castro’s behind, just give me the okay and stand back.”

“That’s fine,” Chappelear said. He liked a man who was eager to please. “Have a seat. I want you to tell me everything about it.”

Chapter 24

“Watch your car for a dollar, man.”

Driscoll was locking the Ford when the voice came over his shoulder. He turned, found a guy materialized right there in the street, about six feet, weighed maybe a hundred pounds. The street had been deserted when Driscoll had pulled into the space, a rare non-metered spot sheltered by some overhanging banyans a block or so off Washington Avenue where Doc Hammer kept his so-called pharmacy.

Where had the guy come from? Driscoll wondered. Manhole? Up from one of the storm drains? He had another look at the guy’s clothing: blue T-shirt that had once had a pocket, pair of shorts looked like they’d been peeled off a truck lane on I-95, rubber flip-flops that reminded him uncomfortably of his own favorites, 99-cent bargain bin, K-Mart of your choice. He was thirty-five, maybe, looked about fifty.

“Why would I need someone to watch my car?” Driscoll asked.

The guy stared back at him, blinking, eyes that might have been blue once, now the color of nothing. Zero. Zip. Zotz.

“’Cause I need a drink, man,” the guy said.

Driscoll sighed. There was something to be said for honesty.

“Say I don’t give you the dollar,” Driscoll asked.

The guy stared off, thinking about it. Perfect blue sky, perfect summer day. Looked like he was staring straight up into the sun, Driscoll thought. No wonder his eyes were bleached out.

The guy turned back to him. “I dunno,” he said. “Take a whiz in your gas tank?” He stared at Driscoll like he was wondering if that was the right answer.

“What you been drinking, I’d probably get better mileage,” Driscoll said.

He dug into his pocket, found his money clip, examined the notes folded there. Two twenties, two tens, two fives. He glanced up, noticed the guy was looking, too.

“Bummer,” the guy said.

“Yeah,” Driscoll said. He could stiff the guy, and probably nothing would happen to his car. Or maybe there was some change in his other pocket. He had important business—where did it say he owed this loser anything?

He stared off into the sky, same place the guy had been looking, couldn’t find his answer. He peeled off a five, handed it over.

“I could do your windshield,” the guy said. He held up a wad of his T-shirt, made a wiping motion.

“Next time,” Driscoll said. He gave the guy a wave, already on his way toward Jameroski’s. “Just keep an eye out for the bad guys.”

“You bet,” the guy called after him.

Driscoll didn’t bother to look back. He knew there’d be no one there.

***

A “
CLOSED
” sign hung behind the steel-grated glass of Jameroski’s pharmacy. There’d been a Rexall decal stuck on there once, but big chunks of it had disappeared, probably gnawed off by one of the doc’s customers looking for a new high, Driscoll thought. Driscoll checked his watch. Closed at 11:30
A.M.
on a Thursday. Sure.

He pounded the door frame with his fist and after a minute the doc showed up—snowy-haired, skinny Doc Hammer in a baggy pharmacist’s coat that had probably been white several years ago, all hunched over and squinting out at him over his granny glasses and his big broken-veined nose like some character out of Dickens. Jameroski had to throw at least three locks, jerk his five-foot-plus self mightily against the door to get it open.

“Goot, goot,” Jameroski was saying as Driscoll walked inside, out of the warming sun and into a netherworld of shadows and mildewy smells that took him back about forty years in the space of a footstep. What was the essence of it, anyway? Driscoll wondered. Faintly medicinal, but certainly not sterile. Like maybe somebody’s swabbed the wooden floor-boards with Mentholatum, then started over again with shoe polish. Musty paper and baby powder and cistern water in there, too.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. The shelves were dusty and half empty and a big faded box of surgical cotton lay open on its side, spilling white stuffing like a tiny pillow someone had shot. There was a dangling fluorescent fixture with two of its three bulbs gone and the other one sputtering blue. A wooden ceiling fan just behind it turning so slowly you could see the flies sitting motionless on the blades. There had to be a ceiling up there someplace, but it might have been cathedral height for all Driscoll could tell.

A wire paperback rack with three books total, their yellow pages fanned and dinged.
The Stranger. Hoyle’s Rules of Games
. Something called
Street Eight
, with palm trees and a gun and a babe on the cover. There was a wooden counter, an old-fashioned brass cash register the size of a baby carriage, a display card full of Sen-Sen packets propped beside it. On the wall there, a line of sample trusses that looked like they’d been nailed up by old man Rexall himself.

Driscoll stood as if paralyzed, barely able to shake his head. It was the kind of place, you plugged in a modern appliance, the walls would explode. He wanted to sink down in the dusty wheelchair at the end of the counter, suddenly, and weep for all the days past, for all the days of our lives.

He wanted to be a kid again, come into the place to spend a dime for a Nehi soda, shoplift whatever was handy. He wanted Deal to be waiting outside on his bike, they’d peel off somewhere, smoke cigarettes, argue arcane rules of card games, look at the pictures in their stolen copy of
Dude, Nugget
, or
Gent
, jack off in their socks. He wanted that life back, the life he couldn’t put a name to, the life that had damn well been right here once but was now out there in space somewhere, every last image expanding, whistling off in the void at the speed of light, on and on and on, never mind poor Vernon Driscoll, never mind all the terrible bends in the road.

He turned to Jameroski, who’d had to lean into the door to get it closed again, was snapping all his locks shut. “I bet you got a dial on your phone, Doc.”

“Sure I got a dial,” he said, offended. “What do you think? You want to use the phone already?”

Driscoll shook his head. “How about
Look
magazine? You carry that?”

“No magazines.” Jameroski shook his head. “No good. All the kids steal them.”

Driscoll nodded. Why
couldn’t
he dial back the clock? he was thinking. Notch it a couple days in reverse, anyway. None of what had happened would have happened. Bring Deal over to see this place. Buy out Jameroski, send him to the Keys with a U-Haul full of drugs, open up this place as a museum-
cum
-clinic, good for what ails modern you. He’d been to Ponce de Leon’s supposed Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine, paid five bucks for a bottle of the very water, he and Marie had chugged it, still couldn’t get their sex life started.

But this place…half an hour inside, you could forget time had ever progressed past Ike. Mom would be cooking in the kitchen, Dad knocking down a big-time two-seventy-five an hour at the plant, the vacuum cleaner’d suck up all the bad shit in life.

Sure. He sighed again, put his arm out, hung it over Jameroski’s frail shoulders.

“Okay, Doc. So tell me, where’s this jerkwad hiding?”

“
Isn’t
hiding,” Jameroski said.

“No?” Driscoll said. Anything was possible, Jameroski could have dreamed the whole thing up. “Then why’d I come all the way over here?”

“
I
hide
him
,” Jameroski said, making the distinction clear.

“Whatever,” Driscoll said wearily. He was feeling the onset of a headache now. All this time travel back and forth.

“I
show
you,” Jameroski said. And off he went.