president?”
Marty bestowed a smile upon the boy. “The Constitution says that if a vice president dies in office, the president appoints his replacement, with the approval of the Senate, so when Vice President George Kiel died, President Lee appointed me to the remainder of Mr. Kiel’s term. That term expires next January, unless President Lee and I are reelected.”
The boy sat down, and a Hispanic girl stood up and asked a question about the Democratic health care plan that was so sophisticated that Stanton was barely able to answer it. He was impressed.
Another girl stood up. “Mr. Vice President, how is it that, with a name like Stanton, you are supposed to be Hispanic?”
Stanton smiled again, relieved to receive a softer pitch. “Because my mother is Hispanic. She’s a native of Mexico, and I spent a lot of time there as a child. My father was a soft-drink bottler in Tijuana. I’m proud to be thought of as Hispanic.”
Will finished speaking in Chicago and was driven in a motorcade back to the airplane. It always embarrassed him to drive down an empty street and see people stopped at every corner to let him pass.
Back on the airplane he got Kitty and the head of his Secret Service detail together. “I’ve told you both about this before,” he said, “but nothing has changed. I’m still stopping traffic for miles around when I’m driven anywhere, and I want something done about it.”
“Mr. President,” the agent said, “we’re doing the minimum we have to to ensure your safety.”
“The minimum is an armored limousine, four Secret Service cars, half a dozen local police cars, and a platoon of motorcycle police?”
“The local cops want to participate in the motorcade, sir, and to tell the truth, I’m glad to have them clearing the way.”
Kitty spoke up. “He’s right, Mr. President. If we cut down the security and you were harmed it would be a stain on the Secret Service for decades.”
“All that security didn’t help Jack Kennedy,” Will said, “and it didn’t even help George Wallace.”
“A lone gunman in a high place is always a problem, Mr. President,” the agent said, “and the motorcade was traveling slowly, so that the crowds could get a good look at President and Mrs. Kennedy. Lee Oswald got a good look, too. That’s why we have to keep up the speed of the motorcade. George Wallace was shot because he didn’t follow the plan.”
“What plan?”
“The first two rows at any event are always people we know or have cleared. Governor Wallace broke through the first two rows in his enthusiasm for shaking hands, and Arthur Bremer was waiting for him with a gun. If he had followed the plan, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Look, Mr. President,” Kitty said, “I know you feel embarrassed by this, but you can’t ask the people who have the responsibility of protecting you to do less than what they feel is necessary. This is not going to change, and you just have to get used to it.”
Will was relieved to see Moss Mallet standing at the door. “That’s all, thanks,” he said to the two people, while waving Moss in.
“Mr. President, we have the results of the first poll since Bill Spanner was nominated. You’re favored by fifty- one percent of the American people to forty-five percent for Spanner.”
“Moss, what is going on? Two weeks ago I had a sixty-two percent approval rating, and now there’s only six points between me and the upstart?”
“He’s a fresh face, Mr. President. He’ll get old quickly, and the polls will reflect that. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Then why do you look so worried, Moss?”
“I was just worried about telling you the news. Believe me, it will get better.”
“Thanks, Moss. I’m going to take a nap now. Please put that DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door on your way out.”
Moss left, and Will stretched out on the bed, but he didn’t sleep.
33
Lance Cabot got into his office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, at seven a.m., as usual. He had been deputy director for operations for some months now, and he had just begun to feel he had a firm grip on the job when his direct line rang.
This line was there so that station heads and, sometimes, field agents could go directly to the DDO, in extraordinary circumstances, and whenever it rang, Lance got tense. He picked up the instrument. “Hello?”
“Lance, it’s Owen Masters in Panama City. Can we scramble?”
Lance pressed the scrambler button. “Good morning, Owen, we’re scrambled.” Lance didn’t like Masters a hell of a lot. As a young agent he had found the man to be opinionated and rude. The only reason he had left him as station chief in Panama was that the man had only a few months until his retirement.
“Something has come up I think you should know about. Yesterday morning a dead body was discovered on the deck of an oil tanker that had passed through the canal en route to Galveston.”
“Anybody we know?”
Masters ignored the question. “The body was taken off by the Coast Guard and flown to Panama City, which has the only medical examiner in the country. When an American dies in the Canal Zone I routinely get a call from a cop I know on the Panama City force, and this morning, on the way to work, I met him at the morgue and had a look at the body. It could be an accident, but it’s more likely a homicide.”
Lance was annoyed. Why on earth would a station chief take an interest in a local homicide? He repeated his question. “Anybody we know, Owen?”
“Not exactly, but he’s an American journalist, in a manner of speaking, who works for a rag called the National Inquisitor, based in D.C. Know it?”
“Vaguely. It’s gossip, isn’t it?”
“Right.”
“So how does this interest us, Owen?”
“I went through his effects. His name is Edward Partain, American. He had quite a lot of cash and credit cards on him, so it wasn’t a robbery.”
Lance was getting ready to hang up, when Masters stopped him.
“And he was carrying a photograph of Teddy Fay.”
Lance was stunned. He took a moment to collect himself before he spoke. “There are no existing photographs of Teddy Fay,” he said. “He removed them from all the databases before he started assassinating right-wing politicians.”
“There’s at least one photograph now,” Masters replied.
“And how do you know the photograph is one of Teddy Fay?”
“Because I knew him when I was a field agent. He outfitted me for a couple of missions-fake passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards-that sort of thing. He was the top guy in Tech Services.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Twelve, fifteen years.”
“And how old is the photograph?”
“I’m not sure. Five to ten years, I’d guess.”
“Have you mentioned this to anybody in your station?”
“No. Nobody’s in yet.”
“Then don’t. Scan the photo and e-mail it to me now.”
“Will do.”
