The South Lawn Plot (29 page)

T
HERE WAS AN ORDER TO THINGS
, of sorts. On some days, the instructions coming from the Secret Service were quite specific. On others, there were none. But activity was expected nonetheless.

The premise of the work at Globescan was based on the view that best results came from freely ranging activity, that crucial discoveries were uncovered in quiet hours. It was true, though never openly spoken, that the nation's security languished partly in the realm of luck and chance. And it was in response that adjunct operations like Globescan had been created in the first place. You could never have enough data nor intelligence, and the quickest way of obtaining both was setting up a new intelligence-gathering operation. It was a recipe for chaos on one level, but people slept a little better for it.

This might have been one of those quieter days but it would take a future historian with an appetite for the obscure to decide if this was absolutely the case. Either way, the input from the Service higher ups, fast flowing and demanding in the past few days, had ebbed. Today was not a red, or even an orange alert day on the office's own internal scale, but more like a cool blue, perhaps even a sleepy green. And, as a result, expectations were at the highest level for Globescan, not unlike expectant, ever-hopeful fishermen.

The lack of bites always preceded the biggest strike of all. They hoped.

In this regard, the men and women click-clacking away on keyboards and perusing obscure manifests and hate sheets were no different to the agents with the guns and shades. It, whatever it was, was not a shot away so much as only a keyboard stroke away. That's how the bad guys worked now, the Globescanners were told over and over. The internet was the trigger for all manner of unwelcome things, so it was necessary to be up to speed on what was passing through it, twenty-four seven.

Greg Spalding could recite the pep talks backwards at this stage. He stood in the doorway for a moment and took his customary deep breath.

“Showtime,” he said.

Steve, his buddy and chief competitor, was on a day off. Chip and Dale
were not on either. The two others in the room, Danny and Lynn, were relatively new to the job. Lynn gave him a cheery wave. Danny nodded his head without taking his eyes off a monitor. It was Thursday evening in Washington. Most of the jihadists in the world were far to the east where it was Friday. With luck, Spalding thought, they would be praying rather than plotting.

He covered the short distance to his desk in a few strides and sat down. “Ah, sweet routine,” he said.

“Sweet indeed,” Lynn replied.

Spalding adjusted the framed motto that Steve had given him for his last birthday. “Doubt everything, believe anything.” Spalding had asked Steve the identity of the great mind that had concocted such a gem. Some master spy, a director of the CIA perhaps. Steve Peterson had claimed the mantra for himself. So there it rested on Spalding's desk, immovable, irrefutable.

“So, what have we here?” Spalding asked as his screen responded to the single key tap.

What he had was today's date in the diary of Samuel Pepys.

“And so to bed,” said Spalding. “I think we'll give old Sammy a miss today.”

“Who was he anyway?”

Lynn's expression was one of genuine curiosity. She was as smart as whip but rather more in the science and math line; history wasn't her
forte
.

“He was a man who kept a diary in seventeenth century England,” Spalding replied. “And he gets more or less the lion's share for founding a proper English navy.”

But Lynn had already moved on and was frowning as she stared at her screen.

Spalding shook his head. “And so to work,” he said.

In the course of a day's labor Spalding and his colleagues were required to cover specific parts of the globe, more or less, but not entirely limited to lines on the map. In Spalding's case this was East Asia and in particular the Philippines. He had grown up on Mindanao, his parents having been Presbyterian missionaries. He spoke Spanish and Tagalog fluently and had a reasonable grasp of a couple of the more important island dialects.

Though his range of responsibility, like that of all his colleagues, was in the broadest sense global, Spalding was primarily responsible for keeping tabs on the activities of Communist and Islamic guerrilla groups in the
southern reaches of the island archipelago. This responsibility extended to the monitoring of Filipino communities in the United States and Canada.

Not surprisingly, Spalding had been drawn to the growing crisis in the Taiwan Strait, a confrontation that threatened to turn any and all other present concerns into tiny potatoes. He wasn't alone in the room at having a hard time believing that there could actually be a world war started by a fight between the two Chinas, or, as one or two in the room had put it pointedly, the two parts of China.

The China crisis, however, was having one beneficial effect. It had dramatically reduced the number of visits to the office by members of Congress, politicians from countries closely allied with Washington and diplomats from those same nations who were allowed access to an operation that, while mostly under the radar as far as the media or public was concerned, fell short of top secret. With fewer such distractions, Spalding and the others had been trawling the world's trouble spots at an accelerated pace over the past couple of weeks.

Special Agent Conway's visit had been the sole intrusion, and it didn't even count as one of those, given her job.

Spalding had a particular side interest in British history. His mother had been born in Scotland, and this had drawn him first into the story of that country and beyond it to its most immediate neighbors: England first and foremost for practical purposes, Scotland for sentimental ones, and Wales and Ireland as peripheral afterthoughts. He had been to London three times and was so afforded the kind of deference in the room given those who had traveled beyond the nation's borders.

It was no surprise then that Lynn alerted Spalding to an email that contained a copy of a report from a London newspaper concerning a string of deaths involving Catholic priests and a connection, albeit a very tenuous one, to the British prime minister who, as Spalding knew, was about to be an honored guest at the White House.

“Thought you might want to take a look at that,” Lynn said without looking up.

Spalding was already digesting the contents of the report in the
Post
, a paper he had picked up, along with most of the other main daily titles, during his last visit to London. The story was pumped up; that he could see. It was suggesting things between the lines above and beyond the stated facts, though
those facts were certainly interesting. Four dead people, a common thread linking them, unlikely or unusual causes of death and both a geographic and chronological spread.

But it was the “we can sensationally reveal” line that made the story jump off the page as far as Spalding was concerned. It linked the victims, all four of them Catholic priests, with a school in the English countryside which once had a student who was now head of the British government. The prime minister had boarded in the place though only for a short time. He had left, or had been expelled. The story stated the former while hinting at the latter with a line saying that the reason for a mid-semester departure, or term as it was referred to, was unclear.

Spalding read the story a second time, shaking his head. The paper clearly knew more than it was immediately revealing, he thought. He hit a few keys on his computer and brought up a biography of Leonard Spencer.

“Ah, as I thought,” Spalding said.

“What did you think?” Lynn was looking at him expectantly.

Spalding looked at her for a moment. She looked good today, he thought.

She raised her hands and opened her palms.

“Sorry,” said Spalding. “What I was thinking was that he went to a Catholic school, but his bio lists him as Church of England, Anglican.

“So?” Lynn responded. “He had a conversion or maybe his folks thought it would do him some good. I was in Catholic school and there were kids who were various other religions. I even remember a Hindu.”

“Yeah, but that's here. It's different over there, or at least was when Spencer was a kid. There's a lot of history, and though the English are not quite up there with the Irish on the Catholic, Protestant thing, they have long had their own internal version going on.”

Lynn shrugged her shoulders and began working on her computer. Spalding went back to his screen. Within seconds he had a detailed report up on the British leader's Washington visit, now just days away. It carried a few lines about Northern Ireland and mentioned a Taiwanese billionaire who was going to pump money into the place. This fueled the main part of the story which had the prime minister and president meeting in conclave as the powers drifted towards what now seemed an inevitable clash in the waters separating the rich guy's island and the Chinese mainland.

But that was everybody's story. Spalding went back to the tabloid
Post
and ran searches that, after several minutes, revealed a series of reports on the deaths of the priests. One of them had been found hanging from a bridge in London that already had its name in the history books for the infamous Roberto Calvi affair.

After printing out the stories, Spalding laid them out on his desk in order. They all carried the same byline: Nick Bailey. Spalding picked up the desk phone and punched in numbers. His call was answered and after a brief exchange he replaced the receiver.

The White House press office, though only after Spalding had identified himself by name and a code number, had confirmed to him that a Nick Bailey from the London
Post
was indeed listed as an accredited correspondent and was expected to show up for the upcoming White House post-conference reception.

Spalding checked his watch. It was still early enough to get people at the office in London. He picked up the phone again and dialed the prefix and what he considered the number that offered the best chance of an instant response. If the
Post
report had sent up any flares at the embassy, or any of the US intelligence and law enforcement agencies with offshoots in the British capital, he was going to find out.

Even if the reaction were a negative, it wouldn't deter him.

Not for the first time in his career, Greg Spalding had that feeling in his gut. Something was not quite right. Something was up.

C
LEO CONWAY DUCKED INSTINCTIVELY
under the rotors of the helicopter. The lifting-off point was one of the quieter corners of Andrews Air Force Base, the main arrival and departure point for the president, just outside the nation's capital.

It was, however, Conway's first time setting foot in the place, and now she was about to get an aerial view with the added bonus of a flight from the base to the White House along the route taken by presidential parties.

A general mental picture, that's what they had said. This was on top of Conway having to pore over detailed street grids. That was the more crucial part of the exercise. If some crazy took a shot at Marine One, or one of its identical companions, she was required to know in an instant, without computerized aids, what point, intersection or landmark in the city they were flying over.

Marine One was ready to take the president and his entourage above the Washington traffic any time of any day or night. Now was the middle of the day, a sunny one with the prospect of a couple more to come.

Conway took a deep breath as she settled into her seat. There were two special agents, Philips and Rafter, already seated while a fourth position was the preserve of a Marine Corps sergeant who nodded and indicated a set of headphones. Conway put them on and the man nodded.

“Can you hear me, Special Agent?” he said.

“Loud and clear,” Conway replied.

“Okay. Please check your firearm, ma'am.”

Conway knew why. She had to make sure it was on safety. An accidental discharge in a helicopter was, naturally, a bad idea. Once assured, she gave the thumbs up and got an identical reply from the sergeant whose face was obscured by a visor. Very cool, she thought. The sergeant leaned through the doorway into the cockpit and waved his hand in an upward gesture.

The noise from the rotor overhead took on a higher pitch, and the helicopter gently lifted off. Conway had been in a chopper a few times but could
never quite get used to the odd sensation, compared to the more familiar thrust of a jet aircraft. The helicopter, by contrast, seemed not to move at first; indeed, she could recall faster elevators. But within seconds they were a hundred feet above the ground, rising higher and turning south westwards.

All four were linked by the helicopter's voice communication system, but for the first couple of minutes, nobody said anything. Their route was a slightly roundabout one that took them initially in the direction of the Washington Navy Yard.

Conway, seated on the starboard side, pressed her eyes closed for a moment. She had not been sleeping well. No surprise, given her new assignment. Her half-asleep dreams had covered all manner of scenarios in which she might have to take a bullet for the president. She knew this to be a normal enough reaction. A few of her colleagues had made jokes, and she had forced herself to laugh. But the dreams, nevertheless, seemed real, entirely plausible. And so she had asked herself, silently and aloud, why she had not chosen another path in life, why she had not become a lawyer, a teacher, even a member of the military which, unlike the Secret Service, could stand at comparative ease in peacetime.

Conway glanced over at Philips and Rafter. Both were looking out of their side of the helicopter. Philips was from Ohio, the Cleveland area. He was an extrovert, one of the boys. Rafter was a little more of a mystery, the strong silent type. He was from out west somewhere, Wyoming or Montana, she wasn't quite sure. She had decided that he had an image to protect. She had also decided that she was more than a little attracted to him. But that's as far as it went. Conway had her rules and a primary one was no relationships on the job.

“Navy Yard.” The sergeant gestured downwards with his forefinger, and all three agents stared out of the machine that had now taken a turn to its right and was dropping slightly in altitude.

The agents had closely studied street maps and were listing off buildings and intersections as the helicopter lined itself up for an approach to the White House. The Southwest Freeway and Virginia Avenue passed underneath. Conway, who was sitting facing forward on the right side, was now looking straight at the dome of the Capitol. The pilot eased slightly to his starboard and the dome filled the cockpit window.

“Sorry, no sightseeing.” It was as close to humor than any of them were going to get. Conway half smiled at Philips who was opposite and had been
the source of the comment. Rafter, she noticed was looking out the other side. He was also cracking his knuckles.

A little tense, she thought.

The helicopter was flying straight and level again. The Botanic Gardens passed below and moments later the Air and Space Museum, just off to the left side. The pilot continued along the southern edge of The Mall, all eyes of his passengers, including those of the sergeant, staring out at the buildings and streets below.

Conway was feeling slightly queasy now, though she was not going to give anything away. She gritted her teeth and focused her eyes on a gray cloud in the distance that was the only exception to the clear day.

“We're going to just take a loop around the monument.” The sergeant, whose nametag said Holmes, was emphasizing this by twirling a raised forefinger.

“Then we will make a final approach to the South Lawn. Sorry, I forgot to mention it but we're actually going to make a brief landing on the lawn. You won't be getting out but apparently you have to follow Marine One's line of flight all the way to the target. Let me rephrase that, destination.”

The loop around the monument completed, the helicopter quickly covered the remaining distance to The Ellipse and the back of the president's mansion. People were lined up against the back railing. Had it been Marine One making the approach, they would have been moved to another barrier some distance from the railing, but the chopper was merely carrying the president's protectors, not the man himself.

They were over the South Lawn now and dropping fast. At what seemed to be the final moment before collision with the Truman Balcony, the chopper shuddered slightly, hovered momentarily, turned to its right and descended to the executive sward. There was only the slightest bump on contact with the landing markers. Conway took a deep breath and closed her eyes. With luck they would stay for a few minutes.

“Would have been a harder landing than that if we had been hostile.” Philips was staring at her, smiling and nodding.

“Yeah,” said Conway. “We'd be history for sure.” She desperately wanted to get out of the machine and suck in some air.

That didn't happen. Conway, trying to appear focused, stared out of the helicopter at a crowd of people on the lawn. They were erecting a stage and
an open-sided marquis, both, as she was aware, for the trade event that would mark her debut as a member of the presidential detail.

After what seemed like an age, the sergeant announced that they were about to take off again. Conway forced a half smile, nodded and gave the thumbs up sign, something, it occurred to her, that seemed to be the thing to do in a helicopter at least once every few minutes. Philips was staring out the window. Rafter, too, though out the other side towards a cluster of trees and bushes.

Slowly, the helicopter lifted off the ground and as it did so it turned and faced south. Conway looked down at the mansion's rooftop; several faces were turned up in the helicopter's direction. She knew that even though she was in a friendly, the eyes in those faces would follow them until they were out of sight.

“We're going to proceed a ways before turning. We have a limit because of Reagan,” the sergeant said. And as he said it Conway spotted a plane gliding in towards the airport on the far side of the Potomac. She also spotted a familiar landmark, one that brought back memories of her first serious kiss.

It was that school trip to the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, or the whopper church as Jimmy Turiso had insisted on calling it. Jimmy had been a determined suitor, at least for a fifteen year old.

He had argued that a kiss in a church, especially a whopper church, would mean that Cleo and Jimmy would be a match made in heaven. Luckily, and despite the quick smacker at the tail end of the guided tour line, that had not turned out to be the case. Conway and Jimmy Turiso had long parted ways. Those who kept track of alumni in general and who had kept track of Cleo Conway in particular had informed her that he lived out west somewhere and didn't stay in touch.

“Campanile and Carillon.”

“What was that?” Philips was leaning towards Conway in an effort to better hear what she was saying.

“Oh, nothing. Just a memory from a long time ago,” Conway replied as the helicopter began a long, looping turn on its way back to Andrews and the Secret Service car that would plunge them back into the earthbound traffic, along the highways and streets they had been silently reciting, supposedly at any rate.

She looked backwards over her shoulder in the direction of the White
House, but from this angle and distance it was almost entirely obscured by its freshly leafed-out trees. Turning, Conway considered the broad Potomac, a reason, and better than some of them as to why the nation's capital was where it was. The river had a soothing effect, and she forgot the streets and stared as the helicopter began to make a slow turn.

Beyond the river, which was high from recent rain, the line of trees signaled the beginning of the woodland that, as best as Falsham could tell, stretched all the way to the fens that lined the coast in these parts.

It was not his land, but up to the river bank on this side was now, beyond all argument and dispute, his newly acquired estate. He had pushed the mare hard in the ride from the house, and the animal was sweating and breathing heavily in the shade of an oak that, by its girth, was quite possibly above the ground in the time of Richard Lionheart.

As best he could estimate, it had taken most of two turns of the half hour glass to reach the new end to his world. Granted, he had been lost at one point, but he was more than pleased, indeed impressed with what he had secured on the word of the king, though, in a truth that could never be told, at the deliberate cost of the old man's life.

Once again a plot had resulted in bloodshed. This time, however, the shedding had been for a purpose, the creation of another plan, one that, Falsham had decided, would take time to bear fruit. Perhaps a lifetime, he thought. But in Ayvebury, and this was a comfort, he would have the perfect wellspring.

It had all proved uncommonly simple in the end. As the old man had planned it, he had feigned madness as the king and his cohort feasted that night. His rush at the royal person with dagger drawn was augmented with a shriek that had been truly alarming. Falsham had been in his allotted place and just as the king rose from his chair to meet his maker, Falsham had slashed at his friend with a long dagger.

John Falsham was expert with a blade. He had pulled its edge across the abdomen giving the old man reason to stop his lunge across the table. Quickly pulling its end back he had plunged the tip into the old man's side at a point where he knew the liver would be pierced. As his friend was already in grave health it had taken just this to fell him, and he had breathed no more than a moment before his life had gone from the room, and the world.

There had been uproar of course, and swords drawn in abundance to
protect the king; but all a little late. Falsham had turned to face the king and in a loud voice had called “Your Majesty,” this to focus the king's attention on him and him alone in what would prove to be a prolonged period of alarm and confusion. The king had duly fixed his eyes on Falsham, who in turn bowed low. In doing so he stared at the body of his friend and silently recited the Confiteor.

The following minutes were still unclear in Falsham's mind. Some of the king's more excitable followers had continued to make a great noise and fuss, shouting at the tops of their voices, “Protect the king!” They had made a great display of it. Others stood back, satisfied that the anger had passed. One or two had applauded, and one particularly large man had placed a hand on Falsham's shoulder. “Nobly done, sir,” he had roared above the din.

One in the crowd cried “reward,” doubtless an idea never too far from the minds of those in the king's inner circle.

It was only when some of the servants rushed over to lift Cole's lifeless body off the floor that Falsham again turned his eyes in the direction of the king. He bowed deeply before the royal person.

The king acknowledged this with a wave of one hand and silenced the room by raising high the other. It was at this moment that Falsham was aware of his greatest fear, that being mere thanks. But James had risen to the occasion with a speech in an accent that was for certain alien to Essex and a concluding act that witnessed the rising from bended knee of Sir John Falsham, new owner of Ayvebury and an honored servant of His Majesty who could pass the place down to his heirs, successors and so forth.

All had cheered heartily; the king confessed to a great appetite and called for venison. Sir John Falsham excused himself saying that he would personally inspect the cooking of the meat in the kitchen. He left the room and cupped his hands over his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said before walking briskly towards the smell of roasting deer.

That had been the better part of a month ago and now the lord of Ayvebury was turning his horse around for a ride back to the house. His eyes caught sight of a kestrel in the meadow to his left. The falcon was hovering at about the height of four men. Suddenly it dropped into the grass, and Falsham knew it to be the end of a field mouse, or a mole perhaps.

“It's a good omen,” he said. “We will pounce on this usurper king yet.” He kicked hard at the mare's flanks, and she broke into a canter.

All the way back to the house, Falsham considered one thing when he wasn't bellowing at his mount, or for sheer joy.

How long, he wondered, was the life of a good omen? A year? A hundred years? More?