“From the beginning,” Stanton said. “One. Wednesday afternoon, Agent Thorsen tried to get into Wildwood. When he was denied access-”
“Denied?”
“His actions at Wildwood before and during the recent attack on the First Lady are the subject of a formal investigation. In addition to certain procedural irregularities, there have been accusations of dereliction of duty lodged by Special Agent Christopher Manning. It’s all spelled out in this memo I’ve prepared.”
Stanton handed the president a folder.
“Because the First Lady and several of the family members will be called as witnesses in the inquiry, any contact with Thorsen at this point is out of the question.
“Two. Thorsen entered the field office Wednesday afternoon and engaged in a verbal altercation with his superior, Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru. According to eyewitnesses, Thorsen left in an agitated state. Later that evening, he was seen leaving a bar in St. Paul, reportedly so drunk he could barely stand. According to Ishimaru’s neighbors, a man fitting Thorsen’s description pounded on their door at oneA.M. looking for Ishimaru. He appeared to be quite inebriated. The neighbor directed him to Ishimaru’s home. At one-thirty-seven, this same neighbor heard shots fired next door and called the police. The officers who responded discovered Ishimaru dead from a gunshot wound to the head. Thorsen’s clothing was found in the home. His car was parked-badly-on the street in front of the house.
“Three. Agent Thorsen has disappeared.”
“And that’s where things stand now?”
“No. There’s more. Thorsen contacted the Minneapolis field office this evening, claiming that Tom Jorgenson was the target of another assassination plot. The agent who spoke with him said he sounded like a man gone over the edge. A short time later, Thorsen showed up at a gas station next to the hospital where Jorgenson was recuperating. He threatened the clerk and a customer with a gun. As much as I hate to say this, it appears more and more likely that Agent Thorsen is under severe emotional strain. At this point, we consider him extremely dangerous.”
Dixon nodded and sat back.
Stanton said, “Sir, it’s my understanding that Thorsen was involved in an investigation here in Washington just a few days ago. At your request.”
“I asked Thorsen to do me an unofficial favor.”
“A favor? I have reason to believe the investigation was of a very serious nature.”
“I asked him to look into a few matters concerning Robert Lee’s death.”
“Were you worried about your own safety?”
“When I’m ready to share my concerns with you, Director Stanton, I will.”
Stanton’s face grew perceptibly stonier. “Sir, I would like nothing more than to be able to clear Agent Thorsen and to remove this dark cloud that’s hanging over the Secret Service. Can you tell me anything that might help me do that?”
“No.” He and the director locked eyes a moment. It was Stanton who finally broke. The president said, “I expect to be updated on everything that occurs in your investigation of Thorsen. Thank you for coming, Director Stanton. We’ll remain in touch.”
After the director left, Dixon turned to Lorna Channing. “What do you think? Has Thorsen gone over the edge?”
“It certainly appears so.”
“I’m thinking that nothing anymore is the way it appears.”
“It’s hard to imagine this has all been orchestrated. And to what end?”
“I don’t know, Lorna. But I’m sure my father’s hand is behind all this. I don’t know how he’s done it, but it’s him all right. I can feel it.”
He walked to the middle of the room where presidents before him had stood and had faced the crises that made them great or marked them to be all but forgotten. He felt the weight of history on his shoulders. The burden was his. Not Carpathian’s or Llewellyn’s or William Dixon’s. It was his call, the way everything would go from that moment forward. It was a daunting realization, but he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt the tremble of an old excitement flowing through him, the kind that had been so familiar on the playing field.
“Lorna, get our people together, all of them, here. We have work to do. And get my father here first thing in the morning.”
“What do I tell him?”
Dixon thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s fourth and long. And his son has decided to go for it.”
chapter
forty-four
Bo had breakfast at a small greasy spoon on West Seventh called Oscar’s, not far from the river. It was full of people who shopped the Salvation Army regularly, guys who’d hustled enough change to cover the $1.99 two eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee special. Bo fit right in. He could have used a shower, a shave, and a clean change of clothes. However, all things considered, he was in good spirits because beyond a few drops, it hadn’t actually rained the night before, and he was still a free man. The coffee tasted as if it had been made from mud scooped off the bottom of the Mississippi, and the egg yolks were like clay. Bo ate every last bite and sat for a while at the counter, bent over his coffee mug, trying to figure out what to do next.
In his possession was the weapon that had killed Diana Ishimaru. He’d argued with her at the field office in front of witnesses. And there’d been witnesses, too, who had placed him at the murder scene, apparently drunk. That was plenty for a good prosecuting attorney. Probably even a bad one. What did he have for a defense? A pathetically paranoid-sounding tale of conspiracy for which he had not a single shred of solid evidence.
He was pretty well screwed.
NOMan’s desire to assassinate Kate was a greater concern to him, but he was stumped. Wildwood was so tight now a snake couldn’t crawl in without being detected. Moses had told him about the sniper rifle. If that was the way they’d go, where would they try the hit? The buildings at Wildwood were protected by orchards. The wooded hills along the highway to Wildwood offered a number of good opportunities, but the First Lady’s car was armored and nothing short of a direct missile hit could penetrate it.
Bo noticed a sudden rippling and exodus among the clientele of Oscar’s. Several hard-looking customers dropped money on the counter or their tables and left. Within a couple of minutes, the place was half empty.
“What’s up?” Bo asked the man at the grill behind the counter.
The guy wore a shirt that may have been white once. His belly hung over his belt, obscuring his buckle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fry his own fat along with the bacon. He was in worse need of a shave than Bo. “Cops,” he said, scraping a layer of grease off the griddle. “Come in here every morning at eight-twenty-five. Like clockwork. The cockroaches take a hike, come back around nine when the boys in blue are gone.”
Bo dropped three bucks on the counter, picked up his bedroll, and slid off the stool. The guy at the grill gave a short laugh and shook his head.
The cruiser pulled up as Bo stepped outside. He turned and walked away from Oscar’s at an easy pace.
Like clockwork.
He took the corner and hunkered in the shadow cast by a video store advertising “the finest erotic collection in the Twin Cities.” An old woman passed him by, pushing a grocery cart full of discarded aluminum cans. Bo stared at the big smokestacks of the Minnesota Brewing Company a few blocks down West Seventh.
Like clockwork.
He thought about the sniper rifle and the nightscope. He mulled over the question of opportunity, and he considered the tenet that anybody involved in protective services knew: Routine was the deadliest enemy of all.
Like clockwork.
Bo had a pretty damn good idea of how NOMan would make the hit.
He used fifteen bucks of the money Otter had given him, and he took a taxi. He got out a block away from the church and stood at a safe distance, looking for any sign of police presence. On that sunny Friday morning, with doves cooing on the gutters along the eaves, everything seemed fine and peaceful. Bo didn’t trust appearances anymore, so he circled awhile, casing the building. Finally, he knew he had to take a chance. He went in the front door and walked through the sanctuary. He passed the suite of offices that were used for administration, and he heard a copy machine running. Quickly, he made for the stairs to the basement and headed down to Otter’s room. The door was locked. He knocked lightly. No answer.