The agent had stopped a few yards away. Vue moved to Wilson’s left-a mobile wall. I got the impression Vue didn’t like Agent Wren. Same with the president.
“I’m very sorry, sir. Our understanding was that sequestering yourself meant you weren’t going to leave your cabin. Two weeks of solitary meditation. Very healing, I’m sure. But here you are outside your cabin.” The man had the infuriating ability to sound compliant but with a subtle, superior edge.
“ Our understanding, Adrian? I missed the evening news. Were you named director, Secret Service?”
“Of course not, sir-”
“Then maybe you have something in your pocket. A special little friend? My guess is, it’s the GPS tracker.”
Tracker?
Wren reached into his jacket and produced something the size of a TV remote. When I saw green lights blinking, I knew what it was.
“Sorry, Mr. President, but I took extra precautions tonight for obvious reasons. The tracker indicated you’d left your cabin. I thought it was a false reading, so I tried to find Vue. When Vue didn’t respond, I knocked on your cabin door-”
“You what?”
Vue took it as a cue. “He did right thing, Mr. President. That’s procedure.”
“Bullshit. I gave orders not to be disturbed. Period.”
“He was just doing his job, sir.”
“His job, my ass. Agent Wren’s job is to follow orders. Don’t take his side in this, Vue-”
Good cop, bad cop, Wilson and his bodyguard knew their roles.
“Vue’s right, Mr. President. I wouldn’t risk disturbing you unless agency protocol required-”
Like heat, Wilson’s voice began to rise. “Agent Wren, for the next two weeks I want you to pretend like agency protocol requires you to follow my orders. Pretend as if I’m the man in charge, not you. Do you read me, mister?”
“I understand, sir, but-”
“… Because, Agent Wren, if I’d known a GPS chip in my shoulder gave you permission to stick your nose into my personal business I’d’ve had the doctors stick it up my ass instead of sewing it into my arm!”
“If you got the impression I’m snooping, sir, I want to reassure you-”
“I don’t want to be reassured. I want to be obeyed. For your information, Agent Wren, we are on an island. Do you know the sailor’s definition of an island? An island is a navigational hazard inhabited by drunks, whores, farmers, thieves, and other sons of bitches who were dumb enough to get off the fucking boat…”
“Really. That’s quite amusing, sir-”
“… which is why I strongly suggest that unless that electronic gizmo your holding, the whatchamacallit, ‘Angel Tracker,’ indicates I’m swimming out to sea, or drifting toward Mars, you’d better mind your own goddamn business. Or you will find yourself on a boat headed for an assignment that includes icebergs and sex-starved polar bears. Not palm trees and moonlit beaches. Am I getting through to you, mister?”
“Well… of course, sir. When you put it that way. And it really is such a beautiful tropical night…”
I continued listening, impressed by Wilson’s gift for seagoing profanity. But I was also picturing the president with his sleeve rolled up, Vue concentrating.
Angel Tracker.
Suddenly, I understood.
I’ve done a lot of fish-tagging projects. Worldwide, the electronic fish tag of choice is made by Applied Digital Solutions, a Florida-based company. Because I’m on their mailing list, I knew that the company had patented an implantable microchip for humans. The chip is the size of a rice grain and transmits its location, along with a unique verification number, via satellite. The system is called “Digital Angel.”
Kal Wilson had a locator microchip in his shoulder. Vue had been in the process of removing the Digital Angel when Agent Wren interrupted them. Smart.
The president was leaving with me. The microchip was staying in his cabin.
Something else smart: Wilson had established the precedent of spending long periods of time alone-Tomlinson had mentioned his month at a Franciscan monastery. Maybe it was possible that the former president could sneak out for a week or two without Secret Service missing him.
Maybe.
But I didn’t believe it. I doubted if Kal Wilson believed it.
7
The former president told me, “Stop calling me ‘Mr. President.’ Same with ‘sir.’ Even when we’re alone. Break the habit before we go public.” Ligarto Island was two miles behind us but he kept his voice low. Something about being in a canoe in darkness causes people to whisper.
I said, “I’ll try. But it’ll seem strange.”
“Not as strange as it’ll seem to me. Vue’s one of the few who calls me by name. And my wife, of course. It’s not because I’m a prick-though I can be. It’s because the office demands that degree of respect.”
“Then I should call you by your real first name?” I knew that Kal, although his legal first name, was an acronym made up of his given name and two middle names.
Because I wasn’t sure of the pronunciation, I was relieved when he said, “No. For now, use something impersonal. Military. Nautical, maybe.”
I said, “What about your Secret Service code name?” Vue had used it a couple of times on the radio.
Wilson shook his head.
I tried again. “Captain?” I waited through his silence, then said, “Skipper?”
“ ‘Skipper’… yes, that works. Use it. Drop all the other formal baloney. No, wait…” He thought about it for a moment. “I spent June on Long Island. Seaside mansions, and about half the people there were named Skipper. Skipper’s too old money. I grew up on a farm.”
“Well, how about-”
“How about ‘Chief.’ I left the Navy as a lieutenant commander so it’s a bump in rank. But it’s better than Skipper.” There was a smile in his voice. The man had known some chief petty officers.
I said, “It fits.” I was thinking chief executive, commander in chief.
“Hold it. No… Chief’s too pushy. If we run into strangers, they’ll start asking questions if you call me Chief. It needs to be bland. I don’t want to attract attention.”
I remembered Vue using the military acronym FIGMO, and said, “Why not ‘Sam.’ That’s as simple as it gets.” It was short for Samson bit, the cleat on the bow of a ship. It was also an acronym with a couple of meanings. One was profane, and stood for ‘Shit Awful Mess’; the other, a type of missile.
Wilson laughed when I reminded him of SAM’s three meanings. He thought it for a few minutes before saying, “I like that. For now, that’s what you call me. Sam. Try to treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”
“Okay. You’re making it easier for me. Sam.”
“Making what easier?”
“Talking about the way you handle a canoe. You’ve got us zigzagging like drunks. It’s going to take forever to make land unless we switch places.”
The paddler in the stern controls the boat and Wilson had insisted on taking that seat.
“But I want to steer.”
“I’m aware of that… but it’s not working out. I should be in the back.”
“You’re saying I’m not competent?”
“I’m saying I’ll get us there faster.”
“Come on, Ford. What’s the problem? I prefer honesty to-”
“Okay, okay, you’re not competent. In fact, you’re worse than not competent. You bang the hull, and you splash me about every third stroke. You suck at the helm.”
“I didn’t say to be crude-”
“Don’t be offended. I have more experience. That’s why I should be steering.”
In a flat voice, he replied, “But you don’t know where we’re going.”
I was aware of that, too. When we left Ligarto, I’d told him my truck was two miles east, loaded and ready, as he had ordered. The former president replied, “There’s been a change of plans. We’re not using your truck.”
Instead of east he was steering us west -trying, anyway-toward the chain of barrier islands that separates mainland Florida from the Gulf of Mexico.
“It’s time to trust me. Tell me where you want to go. We’ll find shallow water and trade places.”