“Christina,” he said, licking his lips, “I did something today. I wanted to tell you about it. I-”
“Don’t bother. I saw you on television.”
“Oh.” Well, that simplified matters. Maybe. “I just wanted to explain-”
“Don’t bother.”
“But I wanted to tell-”
“Frankly, Ben, at the moment, I don’t care to hear anything you have to say.”
“But I wanted to explain-”
“Then you should’ve done it before you told the rest of the Western world on national television!” And with that, the door slammed between them.
Ben dropped his briefcase, his shoulders sagging. He had thought a moment ago that he felt more tired than he could ever possibly feel. He had been wrong.
They had never even taken a honeymoon. But now he had a distinct feeling that the honeymoon was over.
19
Agent Max Zimmer stared at the framed photograph in the hallway, hoping he might draw some strength from it before he proceeded with the extremely unpleasant task that lay before him. The photo was of Leslie Coffelt, the only member of the Secret Service (at the time, it was called the White House Police Force) to die while protecting the president. In 1950, President Truman was living in Blair House, because the White House was being renovated. Two Puerto Rican nationalists opened fire on the temporary residence. Even though he had taken three shots to his chest, Coffelt returned fire, killing one of the assassins and wounding the other. As a result, they did not penetrate the perimeter and the president was saved, but Coffelt subsequently died of his wounds. He was, some believed, the greatest hero in the history of the Service.
And who am I, Zimmer wondered, compared to a man like Coffelt? I’m the screwup who let the first lady be killed.
He would never be a hero. The name Zimmer would never be remembered in that way, and his photo was not likely to ever be hanging on this wall. Not after the way he’d bungled that job.
But at least he’d gotten himself out of that darkened office. He knew there was only one way he could in any tiny measure make up for what had happened. And that was to get to the bottom of the matter. To understand what had really happened, and why.
And then do something about it.
This would probably cost him his job, he realized, and maybe more than that. But it was something he had to do.
He turned the doorknob and entered Gatwick’s office.
He had expected to find the senior agent poring over reports, trying to uncover the magical lead that might finally give them some confirmation about whether Saifullah was behind the April 19 attack-or if not, who was. That’s what virtually every other available agent in the department was doing. Instead, he was sitting at what appeared to Zimmer to be a miraculously neat desk polishing his weapon-what the other agents commonly referred to as “masturbating.” Zimmer was familiar with the common association made by Freudian analysts about a man’s gun, but he thought that was carrying it a bit too far.
Gatwick looked up at Zimmer, nodded, then returned to his work. “Good to see you up and about, buddy. Guess Dr. Dobson does better work than I realized.”
“It wasn’t the shrink who got me out of my funk,” Zimmer said defensively, although privately, he knew those sessions had helped. She told him he needed to confront his guilt, rather than wallow in it. She had been right.
“What was it then?”
“My own self,” he said, considering for a moment how exactly to put it. “My personal need to see a job to its completion.”
Gatwick continued polishing. “I assume that means you’re going to join the task force trying to track down the perpetrators. We need all the help we can get.”
“That-isn’t exactly what I meant,” Zimmer explained slowly, “when I said I needed to see this job to its completion.”
Gatwick finished polishing and carefully slapped the ammunition magazine back into the handle of the gun. “What did you mean?”
Zimmer licked his lips, trying to remain steady. “I’ve been reviewing the videotape of the attack. Media stuff.”
“Yeah. The team downstairs has confiscated and reviewed every piece of tape known to exist.”
“But they aren’t looking at the same parts I reviewed,” Zimmer said. “I was looking at some outtake shots, stuff that never aired.” He took a deep breath. “I was looking at footage taken before the shooting began.”
The creases at the corners of Gatwick’s eyes evinced his puzzlement. “And you find that useful in some way?”
“I find it interesting. Specifically, the arrangement of the chairs.”
Gatwick laid down his gun. “Zimmer, you’re talking in circles, and frankly it’s making my head hurt. What is it you’re trying to say?”
“What I’m trying to understand,” he said carefully, “is why a chair had been placed on the left side of the stage for the first lady…before you announced your decision to move her there.”
“I’m not following.”
“I’ve reviewed a lot of tape, Tom. I saw the way the stage was originally arranged-with the first lady’s chair on the right where it usually is for Domino Bravo. Then I saw you step to the stage and move it.” Zimmer rested one hand on the desk. “You knew you were going to move her, Tom. Long before you did it. Or at least, long before you announced it. You had already decided to deviate from Domino Bravo.”
Gatwick appeared nonplussed. “Yeah, you’re right. I saw the moment I took the stage that the arrangement wasn’t the most advantageous, so I adjusted it to make it better. That’s my job.”
“Not exactly. We didn’t know yet that Marshall was out of the picture. So why would you override his authority? Unless you…knew something.”
Gatwick leaned forward slowly in his chair. “What exactly are you suggesting, Max?”
“I’m attempting to gather information. I’m not suggesting anything.”
“Are you sure? Because it really sounds a hell of a lot like you’re suggesting that I somehow knew that Marshall had been kidnapped and tortured at a time when I couldn’t possibly know it.” He paused, staring at Zimmer with steely eyes. “Unless I was in on it.”
Zimmer stared right back at him, not saying a word.
“And coming at a time when we’re all wondering if the assassin had inside assistance,” Gatwick continued, “this is a particularly disturbing accusation.”
“I haven’t made an accusation.”
“Then what the hell would you call it?” Gatwick’s teeth clenched tightly together. “Do you know how many years I’ve been with the Service? Do you know what I’ve sacrificed? My whole life, practically. My family. My ex- wife.”
“Is that why you lost your wife? Or was it something else?”
Gatwick’s eyes widened like fiery coins. “You filthy little-I will not be tried and hanged based on locker room rumors.”
“I haven’t done anything like that,” Zimmer said, although he knew that wasn’t entirely true. “I’m just trying
