“When you’re done, buzz me, and we’ll talk about what you’ve found.” She closed the door and left him to his work.
KATE WAS CONCLUDING a meeting just before lunch when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“It’s Harold Broward, Director. I’ve finished.”
“I’ll be right with you, Harold.” She concluded her business, then went into the conference room. Broward stood as she entered, and she waved him back into his seat. There were two stacks of files next to him and one thick folder before him. “Have you got something, Harold?” she asked.
“Maybe so, ma’am. At least, this guy meets the specifications pretty well.”
“Tell me about him.”
Broward consulted his notes. “His name is Edward Eugene Coulter. He retired two years ago at age sixty-five. He was an assistant director of technical services, having served in that department for thirty-nine years in a variety of capacities, gradually being promoted. He has expertise in firearms, explosives, drugs, document work, and almost anything else you could ask tech services for. He was a member of the ACLU, but that was his only political affiliation. He didn’t subscribe to any publications, except The New Yorker and Washingtonian. He testified before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence four years ago and was raked over the coals by Senator Wallace for his ACLU membership and for being associated with some documents that his department had prepared, which were later stolen and used in an operation against us in the Middle East.”
“Now that’s what I call a good fit,” Kate said.
“Shall I send all this to the FBI?”
“Yes, but not yet. Call the office of Robert Kinney and tell his secretary that we’re messengering the files over tomorrow. In the meantime, leave them here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kate went back to her office and called the office of internal investigations. Fifteen minutes later, two officers stood before her desk. She handed them Coulter’s file. “I want you to copy this, then conduct an immediate investigation of this man. Don’t interview him, but I want to know how and where he lives his life; how much money he has; who, if anyone, he lives with; the organizations he belongs to; his hobbies; and anything else there is to know-and I want it all by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Any questions?”
“Are we permitted to know the reason for this investigation?” one officer asked.
“He’s a suspect in the right-wing murders you’ve been hearing about. By tomorrow afternoon, the FBI will be all over him, and if he’s the killer, I want to know about it first.”
“I understand,” the man replied.
“Then get on it.”
HELEN ENTERED Bob Kinney’s office. “The CIA personnel office just called. They’re sending over all the relevant files tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” Kinney replied. “Put a couple of people on them as soon as they arrive, and let’s see if we can develop some suspects.”
“There’s something else,” she said, laying a thick brown envelope on his desk.
“What’s this?”
“When going through Senator Wallace’s personal files, I found that more than two dozen cards had the president’s name on them, going all the way back to when he was in college.”
“Did you read them?”
“No, sir. I checked the early ones to see when they began and the later ones to see where they ended. There are notations dated as recently as a month ago.”
“Thank you, Helen, I’ll deal with these myself. When will you have your digest of the others prepared?”
“In a couple of days, I think.”
“See that it contains no reference to the president.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a letter.”
She picked up a pad and sat down. “Go ahead.”
“To the President of the United States, for his eyes only: Sir, enclosed are index cards bearing your name from the personal files of Senator Frederick Wallace, the remainder of which are in my possession. To the best of my knowledge, no one except Senator Wallace has read them, certainly not I nor anyone else at the Bureau. The files bearing your name are not evidence in any case, and you need not return them to me. They may be disposed of as you wish, and no copies have been made. Sincerely, etc.
“Have the package hand-delivered to the president personally by an agent and have him sign for them. If he’s busy, have the messenger wait until he can receive them. Let his secretary know to expect our agent.”
“Yes, sir.” She went to do her work and returned shortly with the letter for him to sign.
He signed it and sent the package on its way.
21
SPECIAL AGENT KERRY SMITH arrived at the White House and, after identifying himself twice and having his package X-rayed, he was admitted to the office of the secretary to the president.
Smith had been at the Washington headquarters of the Bureau for less than a month, after tours in Atlanta, Houston, and Seattle. He thought of himself as a supremely competent FBI agent, but being inside the White House rattled him. When he reached the office of Cora Parker, he was sweating.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“It’s hot in here.”
She got up and walked over to the thermostat on the wall of her office. “It’s sixty-eight degrees. Everybody else is wearing sweaters. Are you sick? I’m not having any viruses in the Oval Office.”
“I’m not sick, I assure you.”
She sat back down at her desk. “Is this your first time in the White House?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“The sweating. You’ve got the first-time-in-the-White-House sweats, that’s all.”
“Ma’am, I just want to get the president’s signature on a receipt, and then I’m out of here.”
“What have you got for him?”
“Didn’t Agent Kinney’s office call?”
“Yes, but they didn’t say what was in the package.” She held her hand out. “Let me have it.”
“No, ma’am, it’s for the president’s eyes only.”
“I’m not going to open it, I just want to feel it.”
“Feel it?”
“That’s what I said. Do your instructions say anything about somebody besides the president feeling it?”
“No, ma’am, but it’s already been X-rayed and passed.”
“Give it to me.”
He handed her the package, but when she picked up a letter opener, he snatched it back.
“Boy, you nearly got a letter opener right through your hand.”
“You can’t open it, ma’am.”
She burned a look right through him. “You sit down over there and wait until I can get to you.”
He sat down, holding the package primly on his knees.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, a door beside Cora Parker’s desk opened, and the president stepped through it. “Cora, will you please make some time for Senator Kennedy this afternoon, and let his office know when?”
Agent Smith leapt to his feet, attracting the president’s attention.
Will Lee turned and looked at the young man. “Who’s this?”
“Special Agent Kerry Smith of the FBI, sir. I have a package for you.”
“Just give it to Ms. Parker,” he replied and turned back toward the Oval Office.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Agent Kinney has instructed me to deliver it to you, personally, and to no one else.”
Will paused. “Let me explain how this works,” he said. “One of these days, somebody is going to smuggle a bomb into the White House, and when they do, I’m determined that it’s going to be Ms. Parker who opens it, not me.”
Cora Parker stood up. “Mr. President, I quit,” she said. “I’m not going to be a sniffer dog or a canary in a coal mine for anybody, not even the president of the United States.”
“Well, in that case, Agent Smith,” Will said, “you’d better give it to me. Ms. Parker is not cooperating.”