“For good luck?”
“You’re going to need it in the second half.”
Earl and Stephanie came out the front door and joined them.
“Come on, you guys,” Stephanie said. “Let’s play.”
They got up, but before they could separate to their own ends for the kickoff, Annie shoved open the screen door and came out quickly.
“Kate, I just heard it on the news.” Her face was pinched with concern.
“What is it?”
“Bobby Lee. He’s dead.”
“No. Not Bobby.”
“The radio report said it was a boating accident. He drowned.”
Kate put a hand to her forehead. “Oh no, no. Poor Maggie.”
She was speaking, Bo knew, of Robert Lee’s wife.
“And Clay,” she said, looking stricken. “When did it happen?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh, Annie, I didn’t call him back last night. He must have known then.” She turned to Bo, and the pain she felt was obvious. “He and Bobby were like brothers. I’ve got to call him. Excuse me, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Uncle Bobby?” Stephanie said. She looked toward Annie.
“Come here, sweetheart.” Annie put her arms around the girl.
“I’d best go,” Bo said. “You’ve got a lot to deal with.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Annie. I’ll be in touch.” He reached out and shook Earl’s hand. “It was a pleasure playing against you.”
“Bye, Bo,” Earl said, looking confused.
That afternoon he received a call from the White House with his itinerary, and after that he packed. As the sun dropped behind the trees and the shadows crept up and overtook his windows, he stood looking out at his neighborhood. Tangletown. It was an area of old homes, big trees, green lawns. Most of the houses belonged to families. The backyards had swing sets. In the evening people sat on their porches, husbands and wives, talking quietly of the things that married people shared.
He’d never known his father. He’d mostly seen his mother use or be used. Harold and Nell Thorsen had given him a glimpse of what was possible between a man and a woman, but when he joined the Secret Service, he made a decision about his life. To live that life, he’d willingly isolated himself. Not all agents chose that course. Some, like two of the dead at Wildwood, had married, created families. In the end, they’d left behind them more grief than Bo could imagine.
Not for him, that responsibility. Better, he told himself, to be alone.
The phone rang.
“Bo, it’s Kate.” Her voice on the other end was feathery and sad.
“Hi.”
“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I know I rushed away.”
“That’s okay. Understandable. Are you going out to D.C.?”
“Just for the funeral. I’m coming back the same day. I want to stay here until I’m sure my father’s out of the woods.” She breathed a heavy sigh. “Know what Dad wants to do first thing when he comes home, Bo? He wants us to watch the moon rise over the St. Croix, all of us together. Isn’t that just like him? You’re welcome to be there, you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
The line fell silent. Bo desperately grabbed at something to say.
“Maybe I’ll see you in D.C.”
“Honestly, I doubt it, Bo.”
He’d said all the inane things he could think of. It was time to say good-bye, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the sound of her voice, couldn’t stop hoping that he could make himself say something that was true.
“I’d better go,” she said.
“Take care,” he said.
“You, too.”
She hung up and left Bo still searching for words that never seemed to come to him when he needed them most.
chapter
thirty-four
Just after 10:00 A.M., Bo checked into his hotel room in Washington, D.C. As he hung his slacks and blazer in the closet, someone knocked on his door. He opened up to find a tall, attractive woman with long chestnut hair. She stood in the hallway outside his room holding a brown, leather briefcase. It took him a moment to place the face.
“Ms. Channing,” he said, unable to hide completely his surprise.
“Good morning, Agent Thorsen. May I come in?”
Bo stood away from the door and allowed her to enter. They shook hands, and she glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on one of the two chairs bathed in the sunlight pouring through the window.
“May I sit down?”
“Please do.”
Channing sat, then indicated with a look and a nod that Bo should take the other chair.
“I’m surprised you knew who I am,” she said.
“Good memory for faces. Something I work at. Yours isn’t hard to remember.”
She leaned forward. “Bo Harold Thorsen. You’ve been with Secret Service fourteen years. Postings in New York, D.C., London, San Francisco, Miami, and Minneapolis. One citation for merit and another in the works. Expectations that you would go places. Four years ago you put in for a transfer to a small field office in the Midwest, a move most observers of your career considered a dead end.”
She paused here expectantly, as if awaiting an explanation.
Bo said, “I didn’t see it as an end. I still don’t. I just wanted to come home.”
Channing reached down to the briefcase she’d settled at his feet and took from it a rolled newspaper that she dropped on the floor between them. Bo saw that it was the National Enquirer with the photograph of him and the First Lady on the front.
“When you saved Kate Dixon’s life, was it duty?”
“Does it matter?”
“It may.”
“It was my job, but I’d have done it even if it weren’t.”
Channing studied him. “You impressed the president when he met you at the hospital after the incident.”
“We spoke only a few minutes.”
“Sometimes the measure of a man takes only a handshake. Or so the president believes.” Channing picked up the tabloid and put it back in her briefcase. “You’re going to have lunch with him in a couple of hours. But lunch isn’t the reason you’re here, Agent Thorsen. The president is going to ask a favor of you. A rather large favor. He’d like you to know what it is in advance so that you have time to consider before giving him an answer. Before I go any further, however, I need your word that whatever we discuss here, regardless of your decision, will remain between us. You must say nothing to anyone.”
“You have my word.”
To Bo, what he’d just given was the most important measure of who he was and, with the exception of his heart, was as near to sacred as anything he could offer. Nonetheless, Lorna Channing spent a long moment considering him before she went on.
“The president believes that Robert Lee’s death wasn’t an accident. He’d like you to look into it.”
“That’s the FBI’s jurisdiction.”
“Normally, yes. But the president feels there’s reason to believe his own security may be at risk.”
“Rich Thielman is in charge of the president’s security.”
“Technically, this investigation falls outside Agent Thielman’s purview. In fact, the president wants no one to know about his suspicions except you.”
“With all the media coverage since the Wildwood incident, I’m not exactly an ideal candidate for undercover work right now.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do have a forgettable face.” Channing paused a moment to see if Bo might object. When he made no comment, she went on. “The president’s less concerned with the public nature of your profile than he is with your integrity and ability. He wants very much for you to accept this assignment.”
“Assignment? This isn’t exactly occurring through official channels.”
“You’re on medical leave. Your time is your own, is it not?”
&
nbsp; “I know D.C.,” Bo said. “It won’t be long after I’ve asked a few questions that anyone who cares will be on to me.”
“Then you’ll have to come up with answers quickly.”
“I’d like to think it over.”
“Of course. That’s why the President sent me.” Channing stood, took up her briefcase, and went to the door. “I hardly need to remind you, Agent Thorsen, that if the President is correct, one man has already been killed in his service. Think about it carefully. We’ll see you at lunch.”
This was not Bo’s first visit to the White House. He’d been there many times when he was assigned to the Dignitary Protective Division during his years in Washington. Nor was Clay Dixon the first president to shake his hand. However, dining with the president was a first.
He was ushered into the Oval Office. As Bo came in, the president stood up, stepped from behind his desk, and extended his hand.
“Thank you for coming, Agent Thorsen. Is it all right if I call you Bo?”
“That would be fine, sir.”
Dixon’s hand was huge and strong. Bo could easily imagine a football nestled firmly in that grasp.
“How are you feeling? Recovered from your wounds?”
“A little sore now and then.”
The president smiled and nodded his head. “Every morning when I get out of bed I have to pop things back into place that got knocked out playing ball. I know about sore.” He indicated a door to Bo’s left.
“Lunch is ready. Shall we eat?”
They were served by a navy steward in the president’s private dining room just off the Oval Office.
“I hope you like fish,” Clay Dixon said. “It’s Chilean sea bass.”
“I understand the White House kitchen staff works miracles with everything.”
The president laughed. “So you don’t like fish. Honest but diplomatic. An admirable combination for D.C. I wish there were more of it here, especially the honest part.”
“I lived and worked in the capital for a lot of years. I know men and women here honest to a fault. On the other hand, not one of them is a politician. The sea bass is excellent, by the way.”
The president sipped from a glass of mineral water. “I understand the First Lady and my daughter had a wonderful time playing football with you yesterday.”
“You have a fine family, sir.”
“Thank you. I think so, too. If I recall correctly, you were adopted, yes?”
“Not legally. But official papers don’t always tell the whole story.”
“They don’t, do they,” Dixon said.
After they’d eaten, the president suggested a walk in the rose garden, which was odd, for it was a muggy day out. After a bit, Clay Dixon removed his suit coat and slung it over his shoulder as they strolled. In a few minutes, they were joined by Lorna Channing.
“Bo,” the president said, “you came close to being killed saving my wife. How do you feel about that?”
“About protecting her, pretty good. Not so good about some of the rest of the incident.”
“The agents who were killed, were they friends of yours?”
“Some, yes.”
The president paused and stared across the bright green lawn, beyond the Ellipse, toward the Washington Monument, jutting like a bony finger above the trees.
“I asked you here because I believe you’re a man of great integrity, and I need your help. I was supposed to leave for the Pan-American summit first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve delayed departure so that I can attend Robert Lee’s funeral.”
“I was sorry to hear about his death.”
“I know Lorna explained to you already that I don’t think Bobby’s death was an accident.”
“I thought the FBI determined it was.”
“As you said, official papers don’t always tell the whole story. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I think there’s something going on that may have compromised the integrity of the FBI investigation.” He glanced at the White House. “And the integrity of my own security as well.”
For the next dozen minutes, Dixon related the events that had brought him to that startling conclusion.
“What is it you want from me?” Bo said.
“To find out what Bobby knew or was about to learn that made it incumbent on someone to have him killed.”
“Someone? Mr. President, from what you’ve told me it sounds as if you think your father is involved.”
“I do. I’m concerned about the integrity of the White House staff as well.”
“Why me?”
“You’re a trained investigator. You risked your life in the line of duty. And you’re outside the network here.”
“There’s no one here you trust?”
“Someone I trust may already have betrayed me.”
Bo looked behind him. Under the pillared colonnade, two Secret Service agents stood post near the French doors that opened into the Oval Office. He didn’t know them. They looked grim and focused. He wondered what they thought of Dixon, the man whose life might someday require the sacrifice of their own.
Dixon said, “I don’t know what you think of me personally, but this situation transcends any personal consideration. It’s a matter of national security, with implications far beyond who I am as a man or as a president. Your country needs your help, Bo. Will you give it?”
Bo said, “Yes.”
“Thank you.” The president warmly shook his hand.
Bo glanced at Channing. “I’ve given this some thought. I’ll need a way to communicate with the White House that doesn’t raise suspicions.”
“You can communicate with me directly,” Channing said.
“I should use a code name,” Bo suggested.
“All right.”
“How about Peter Parker?”
Channing cast him a questioning look.
“Are you familiar with the comic book hero Spider-Man?” Bo said.
She shook her head.
The president smiled. “Peter Parker is Spider-Man’s real name, Lorna.”
Channing said, “Peter Parker it is.”
Bo left the White House carrying a large manila envelope, and he went straight to his hotel. He took off his blazer, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his white shirt. He bent to the small refrigerator and took a bottle of Heineken from the refreshments supplied by the hotel. He popped the cap off and carried the cold beer to the desk near the window. He picked up the envelope, dumped out the contents, and sat down to work.
The president had supplied him with a copy of all the documents related to Robert Lee’s death and the preliminary investigation. Although a number of jurisdictions had been involved, the paperwork wasn’t overwhelming, a sign that thus far in the thinking of the investigators, there was nothing unusual about the case.
The initial radio transmission had been picked up by the Coast Guard at 1902 hours and relayed to the sheriff’s office in Easton, Maryland. A boat had been dispatched, arriving on the scene at Bone Creek Cove at 1927 hours. The eyewitness who’d reported the accident directed divers in their effort to locate the victim. The body was pulled from the water at 2010 hours.
The sheriff’s people made a tentative ID from both the boat registration and a driver’s license found among the personal belongings aboard the victim’s sailboat. When they discovered that they had the president’s legal counsel under a blanket, they called the FBI, who took over the investigation from there.
The autopsy showed a depressed skull fracture and acute subdural hematoma beneath the right temporal bone, consistent with a blow to the head. No other wound or unusual marks had been noted. The lungs were filled with brackish salt water. (An accompanying lab report indicated the water in the lungs was chemically and biologically similar to samples taken from Bone Creek Cove.) The cause of death had officially been listed as drowning.
According to the statement given by the only eyewitness, a woman named Jonetta Jackson, Lee had been sailing across th
e inlet, north-by-northwest with the wind. She happened to be following him, a hundred yards back and slightly east, also running with the wind. They were the only boats in the area.
There’d been a lull in the breeze. Both sailboats had come to a stop, sitting dead in the water. Then the wind picked up again, only it had shifted, coming now from almost due north. As she prepared to come about, her attention was focused on her own boat. When she glanced again at Lee’s sailboat, she saw him begin to stand, his attention apparently grabbed by something on the shore. At that moment, the boom swung around and caught him in the head. She saw him go overboard.
Ms. Jackson had sailed as quickly as she could to his location. By the time she reached his boat, he had gone under. She immediately radioed the Coast Guard. In her statement to the FBI, she indicated she was a very good swimmer, and she had entered the water, hoping to locate Lee. Unfortunately, the murky water of the inlet prevented her from seeing anything below the surface. She’d held her position until the sheriff’s boat arrived, and she’d directed the divers in their efforts. According to the notes of the agent who’d interviewed her, she seemed quite shaken by the whole experience.
The Bureau had done a routine background check on Jonetta Jackson. The eyewitness was a consultant with a firm called Hammerkill, Inc. that specialized in high-tech security issues. Prior to that she’d been a special agent of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, a veteran of twenty years, who’d been cited for meritorious action at Waco. Her love of sailing was well known. Her credentials as a witness were impeccable.
Given all the evidence, the FBI was comfortable with a determination that Robert Lee’s death had been the result of a tragic accident and nothing more.
Looking at the evidence himself, Bo thought the same thing.
However, the president was convinced otherwise.
Bo walked to the window. He had a good view of the nation’s capital, a city that quivered in the heat of the August afternoon in a way that reminded Bo of a mirage in a movie. It was a city built on promise, on compromise, on inspiration and empty rhetoric both, on history poorly remembered and easily bent, and once in a while, on good people with the best of intentions who battled against the distrust, misdirection, and deceit that was politics as usual.