Storymania - The Retirement Plan by Steven Prowse

The Retirement Plan (4)
Steven Prowse

planning a visit to Mount McClellan, from which one-sixth of Colorado could be seen, and had deliberately "bumped" into him there. The talk had been about the environment and Wilburforce had been impressed by how much Jacobs seemed to have his finger on the pulse. Within a month he was almost a permanent resident of the Governor’s Mansion on Eighth Avenue.

It was a successful pairing, as America found out fifteen years later when Wilburforce walked into the Oval Office against all the odds.

‘If the security services manage to catch him soon, you will keep almost all the gain up to the election, but the longer it takes, the more that gain will diminish,’ Jacobs continued grimly. ‘If he’s not caught, we’ll look weak and ineffectual and probably take a net hit of between three and five points from our current standing.’

Wilburforce cursed out loud and slumped backwards into the soft padding of the armchair. His fate, indeed the next four years of American history, was essentially out of his hands. ‘So you’re telling me that there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Back the investigative team up to the hilt. No limits,’ Jacobs suggested. ‘Tom Douglas has an idea he’s been kicking around for a couple of years now and I think you should hear him out. Also, the obvious "rally ’round the flag" speeches and concentrate some more on anti-crime measures. Should pick up some points that way, but I’ve already factored that into the model.’

The President’s shoulders sagged further. ‘Jesus, Owen, what am I supposed to feel right now?’ he complained. ‘One of my very best friends has been brutally murdered, and yet it may well have given me the only real chance to stay here for another term.’

‘That is between you and your conscience, Mr. President,’ replied Jacobs with neutrality ringing in his voice. Wilburforce stared at Jacobs’ ruddy face, surprised by the unhelpful response.

One of the Secret Servicemen who had been standing next to Durrie’s nostalgic Farmyard in Winter painting politely interrupted. ‘Mr. President? Director Douglas and party of one have just entered the White House as you requested and will be here in a few minutes.’ Jacobs took the opportunity to take another bite at his now lukewarm toast.

‘I’ll see them in here, rather than the Oval Office,’ Wilburforce decided. ‘I’m sure it’s been a long night for both of them as well and they could do with some nourishment.’ Wilburforce had hardly eaten himself, anyway. The Navy steward immediately left the room unbidden to fetch two more place settings. ‘And get me a run down who "party of one" is,’ the President said with irritation.

Wilburforce continued after a few moments of thought. ‘As Victor Dennison is, was, Deputy AG, he has automatically taken over from Robert. I think I should make it permanent, at least up to the election.’

‘I agree, Mr. President,’ nodded Jacobs. ‘If you were to choose anyone else, people would ask why Dennison was Deputy in the first place. Bit of a poser but, like Robert, he’s a hard bastard when the need arises and could well prove an asset in the next few months. I think it’s just a matter of pushing everyone one rung up the ladder. Confidence in your appointments.’

The President nodded silently.

Aitken’s body had been delicately moved to the basement of the FBI Headquarters in Washington where the Laboratory Division is situated. The autopsy had already been performed, and various tissue samples had as a matter of routine been sent to the Chem/Tox Lab for analysis.

There are over ten million organic compounds, and the lab’s mass spectrometer can fingerprint over sixty thousand of those most commonly found in the human body in a matter of minutes. The technician in charge, a man who looked like a human version of a lab rat, held the back of his hand to his open mouth as he yawned audibly, awaiting the results. Six in the morning, been here all night, and I’m checking tissue samples of someone who’s died from a lack of blood. He absent-mindedly scratched his stubble. Talk about a dead-end job! A soft ping interrupted his reverie, announcing that the analysis was complete.

He moved wearily over to his computer terminal and clicked open the results file on Aitken’s blood, lazily scanning the readout. His eyes suddenly widened with surprise. What the fuck? Like any reputable scientist he ran the test again only to get the same reading. His hand darted to the telephone next to his left hand, his eyes still staring at the screen. ‘Kenny, did you find any needle marks around the feet area? Well look – in fact comb the body for them. And I need his medical records. Now.’

Douglas’s feeling of awkwardness in his tux at Montebello was nothing compared to that which Hawthorne now experienced in his jeans and buttoned leather jacket as the two of them were escorted through the White House. The fact that he was one of the most decorated agents and Douglas was the FBI Director had not seemed to count for anything. They had both been subjected to a thorough screening protocol before being allowed into the inner sanctum. Hawthorne half expected to see one of the agents strap on a latex glove and ask him to bend over to do the one-eye. ‘The little shits are trying to make a point,’ Douglas glowered to Hawthorne, referring to the fact that it had been the FBI protecting Aitken and not the Secret Service.

As they progressed through the building, Hawthorne realized just how much of the White House he had missed when he had been on one of the public tours. As realtors were fond of saying, it was deceptively spacious. After a few minutes the Secret Service agent leading Douglas and Hawthorne stopped in front of a deeply polished oak-paneled door and knocked discretely twice.

‘Come.’

Wilburforce preferred to have breakfast and informal meetings in the Green Room. It was one of the many functions it had served throughout history. Over the years it had been used as a lodging room, a dining room, a sitting room and even a whist room in Monroe’s day. Most of the furnishings were from the early nineteenth century in a style that Thomas Sheraton would have approved. It had derived its name, as had many of the White House rooms, from the color scheme Jackie Kennedy had chosen for it in ’62. It was adjoined to the Blue Room. The rather garish green watered-silk fabric that covered the walls was the first thing to strike Hawthorne as its door opened. Well, if I wasn’t awake before, I sure am now.

Wilburforce, in his charcoal-gray suit and sober dark tie befitting the moment, stood up to greet them. Jacobs had left moments before. He regarded both Douglas and Hawthorne with surprise and smiled, not because they seemed so disparate and out of place, but because both sets of apparel showed they were not wasting any time.

‘Tom, thanks for stopping by at such an ungodly hour,’ greeted Wilburforce, taking Douglas’s proffered hand. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘Not bad, Mr. President, considering.’

‘And you must be Sam Hawthorne,’ remarked Wilburforce turning to Douglas’s right. ‘Heard a lot about you. How’s training suiting you?’ He took Hawthorne’s hand strongly in his, laying his other hand gently upon Hawthorne’s outstretched arm just by the elbow - the standard political-buddy posture. Wilburforce exuded an invisible aura of puissance.

‘Enjoying it, even if it is temporary, Mr. President. It’s good to see how the rookies think - in a way it helps to clear your own mind. On top of that, they got some nice moves on occasion.’ Hawthorne stopped as soon as he realized the President hadn’t really wanted a detailed answer.

Damn, thought Wilburforce. Why hadn’t I been told it was only temporary? Satisfied that the preliminaries were over and the minor error glossed over, the President gestured to the breakfast table. ‘Gentlemen, let’s get down to it. We lost a damned good friend tonight.’

As they sat down, the President took off his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. The Navy steward took Douglas’s overcoat, whilst Hawthorne elected to keep his T-shirt under wraps. As the coffee was being poured, Wilburforce wasted no time. ‘Tom, how could you have let this happen?’ Straight for the jugular.

Douglas was already prepared. ‘Mr. President, as you know, because of the very nature of a democracy, people like yourself need to be seen outdoors. There is no way in the world that any protection detail will stop the most expert of assassins or the most suicidal of fanatics. Take Yitzhak Rabin for example. He was assassinated in broad daylight by a law student of all people, and the Israelis have the best security in the world.’

Wilburforce did not need to be reminded. ‘That doesn’t answer the question. Robert was murdered in his own home.’

‘As far as I can tell, he waived aside the two agents request that they quickly sweep his apartment, or so they tell me – I’ve no reason to doubt them. Maybe there was a false sense of security, twelfth floor, idyllic surroundings, some local security presence, but still it was slack. The agents should have been more forceful. The case has already gone to OPR, our equivalent of Internal Affairs. They could have been involved, but the screening for the protection teams is pretty tight. They’ll probably be suspended followed by a transfer to Fairbanks, Alaska.’

‘Look, Tom,’ answered the President with irritation, ‘At best it was sloppiness on your part, at worst it was complicity by the agents. Which should I tell the American people?’ Wilburforce, at sixty-three years of age, even though he was the most powerful person in the world, was in many ways like any other human being - he always got his greatest buzz from ordering around people older than himself.

‘Mr. President, if I may?’ Hawthorne volunteered. Wilburforce acceded enigmatically.

This was getting nowhere. If Douglas’s plan was going to work, Hawthorne needed to gain the confidence of this man. He was about to step onto dangerous ground and he knew it. He carefully placed his empty bone-china coffee cup on the table. ‘Mr. President, with all due respect, we know Robert Aitken’s killer had an accomplice. It was Aitken.’

‘I think you had better explain yourself, young man!’ barked the President of the United States of America. Douglas almost dropped his plate of eggs easy-over.

Hawthorne continued, his voice controlled. ‘I’m sure that there are occasions when you yourself have curtailed some detailed search by the Secret Service, either because you’ve a pile of work to do or the First Lady has that look in her eye, and that puts the Secret Servicemen in an impossible position. They have a duty to perform but they have been given a direct order from their boss.’ He turned to the Secret Service agent leaning against the wall. ‘Am I right?’

Agent Harrison was caught off guard. He wasn’t used to being part of a discussion, particularly one where he was being roped in by the side arguing against the chief. His eyes went through the whole gamut of emotions from surprise to awkwardness. He gazed at the President, then Hawthorne, back to the President and finally settled on the portrait of a thoughtful Benjamin Franklin above the fireplace.

‘Harrison?’ Wilburforce consented.

Harrison was in pain. Careers were made or broken at these moments. ‘Well Mr. President, I’m afraid he does have a point. There are instances where my team and I would liked to have done a more thorough search, but you’ve dismissed us after what amounts to a mere cursory glance. We never sleep well those nights.’ He wondered if he had just lost his job.

Wilburforce stared at Harrison, not out of anger, but with new understanding in his eyes.

Hawthorne turned to the President. ‘Just by allowing him to answer my question was an example. Should he give the answer he thinks you want and defend you verbally, or speak the truth, which may result in him or his replacement being allowed to defend you better physically? A true Gordian knot.’

Wilburforce studied Hawthorne for a moment, realizing that he had just been played but regarded this agent with admiration all the more for it. Ballsy prick, I like him. He knew where this was heading and decided to beat Hawthorne to the punch line.

‘You’re saying it was the same with Robert. The protection team is part of the FBI, and the Attorney General is the FBI’s boss. He gave his agents a Gordian knot. You’re right.’ The President exhaled slowly. It was time to get some details. ‘Right, what do we know so far about the assassination?’ he asked.

Douglas outlined the facts that they had managed to uncover to date. It had turned out that Williams had been correct in his assumption. The SWAT team had found Wilson lying in his bath at home in a pool of blood, his body mutilated in the same way that Aitken’s had been. His car had been found at the Metrorail near Montebello. Yes, forensics are all over it. No, there are no named suspects to date, but the databases are searching for matches on the MO. Yes, Mr. President, we are looking at a range of possibilities for the motive. Yes, Mr. President, this man appears to have been working alone.

Wilburforce stared into space for what seemed like ages, gently tapping a spoon against the breakfast table. He turned to Douglas. A decision had been made. ‘The American people will not accept failure. They will demand results, and soon. I hope you will make an arrest in the next couple of weeks.’

Douglas’s political antenna quivered. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? He decided to probe. ‘Mr. President, I’m sure we’ll manage to catch the perpetrator of this vicious crime early on.’

‘I’m sure your agents will be thorough and the conviction ironclad,’ responded Wilburforce after a moment’s hesitation. Douglas dissected the President’s last two statements. The message was clear. Wilburforce was deliberately choosing his words with care – it was immaterial who was convicted, so long as there was a conviction. Jesus. The implication was not lost on Hawthorne either.

Douglas decided to make his play. ‘Mr. President, there’s something I’ve been considering proposing for a while, but now the time is ripe.’

‘Go on.’ Wilburforce was curious. Hawthorne gestured to the steward for more coffee.

‘Well, all the action services have a small, dedicated elite team, such as the Rangers, Deltas, SEALs, et cetera. We have SWAT and Hostage Rescue. But they’re all devoted to physical response. It occurs to us that we need a permanent elite team for the most difficult high-profile investigations - the cr�me de la cr�me from all disciplines from special agents to soundmen, whether they’re currently based right here in Washington or in Seattle. The closest we have to it at the moment is the Rapid Start Team, but all they do is deploy to a crime scene and tap info into a database for the on-site investigators. Typists on wheels, if you like. With the right personnel this new group can only increase the headline success rate. I suggest they start with this one.’

Wilburforce saw the fallacy and a knowledgeable smile crossed his face. ‘I’m a politician, so I know number juggling when I see it.’ It was not a drawback in his mind. There are lies, damned lies, and government statistics. ‘It would be at the expense of cases they would otherwise have been on.’

‘True, but only in the short term, Mr. President. The beauty is, it pays for itself,’ Hawthorne countered. ‘With increased success in the major cases, we can go with a bigger bucket to the Appropriation Committee and fill it. That extra money would more than fund their replacements.’

Wilburforce wanted to check if Douglas and Hawthorne had properly thought it through. ‘What’s the initial budget for this?’

‘Less than three million, Mr. President,’ answered Douglas confidently. Wilburforce perked up at the news. The annual budget for the FBI was around three billion. The FBI Director explained further. ‘You’re only looking at relocation costs, minimal extra training, and once the team transfers to New York after this case, where else, the standard twenty-five percent hike in salary.’

‘Higher cost of living,’ nodded Wilburforce sagely.

Douglas could afford to relax. He could see that Wilburforce was hooked. ‘No. Danger money. Trust me, I’ve lived there,’ he said leaning back in the small green chair.

Wilburforce grunted a thin smile. He stood up and walked slowly to the window, gazing at the dark outline of the Washington Monument against the beginning of the dawn overhead. He could not for the life of him see a downside. Boy, was this going to be good when he announced it on TV. Bet Jacobs hasn’t factored this little nugget into his model. Jacobs had.

He turned to Douglas. ‘I suppose Agent Hawthorne here will lead the team.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Excellent. If he railroaded me like that, just think what he can do with a suspect.’ Where the hell had that come from? Douglas and Hawthorne looked at each other, each reading each other’s mind. Is he looking for confirmation he’s not a suspect in this case? They both decided to ignore the comment. For now.

‘I suppose you already have a name for this outfit,’ asked the President. He beckoned the steward for more coffee.

‘Yes, Mr. President. And�ril,’ answered Douglas. The puzzled look on Wilburforce’s face compelled him to explain. ‘It’s a famous sword in Lord Of The Rings. It means "Flame Of The West".’

‘You read too much damned Tolkien. Stick to "Excalibur",’ Wilburforce replied briskly.

‘Yes, Mr. President.’

Wilburforce wished them luck and bade them farewell. After they had left the Green Room, he mused over his fresh coffee. In-between speed-dialing Jacobs and his speechwriter, he cupped the phone in his hand. ‘Harrison?’

‘Mr. President?’

‘Sorry.’ Harrison’s visibly slumped with relief. His next pay-slip was not going to be pink after all.

Hawthorne and Douglas made their way out of the White House to where Hawthorne’s car was parked just outside the grounds at the South-East entrance. The air was still warm from the furnace of the day before and the first tendrils of pink sunlight were already making themselves known and obliterating the weaker pinpoints of light above them. ‘So when does this Excalibur team first meet?’ inquired Hawthorne.

‘Eight this morning, Hoover Building.’ Douglas checked his watch. ‘The last team member’s landing at Dulles in around ten minutes. Any chance of a quick lift, Sam?’

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