The President's Henchman (7 page)

Lieutenant Welborn Yates had never been to the Pentagon before the morning he showed up to interview Colonel Carina Linberg, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if a body-cavity search were required to gain entrance. Not after the terrorist attack on the building. After all, he might be an Air Force officer with a legitimate reason to be on the premises, or he might be an SOB with a great disguise and a credible cover story.

If protecting the building were his job, he’d check out everyone down to their corn pads.

So when he arrived at the security checkpoint and an Air Force major on the far side of the metal detector nodded to the chief of the detail, who then waved Welborn through, he was sure somebody must have made a mistake. He started to open his briefcase for inspection.

But the major, whose name tag read SEYMOUR, told him curtly, “Don’t bother with that, Yates. General Altman is waiting to see you.”

“Sir?”

“General Warren Altman. The Air Force chief of staff. You’ve heard of him, Lieutenant?”

Welborn had. Four stars on each shoulder. That General Altman.

“Yes, sir. But he’s not who I came here to see.”

Major Seymour smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his dark skin. “But that’s who you’re going to see, Lieutenant. If for no other reason than the general sent me to fetch you.”

“Yes, sir,” Welborn said.

The first thing Welborn noticed was that the general’s office was bigger than the Oval Office. The second was that Major Seymour was literally breathing down his neck. Nothing he could do about that. He was standing at attention, holding his salute.

General Altman was seated behind his desk, speaking on the phone. Seeing the man up close, Welborn thought he looked too young to have all those stars. His hair was still dark, his jaw was still firm, and the lines around his eyes only made him look like someone you didn’t want to rile. Someone Hollywood would put in a movie.

The general looked at Welborn now as he continued to speak. He had his right hand cupped around the receiver’s mouthpiece, and his voice was too low to hear, but Welborn had the uneasy feeling he was the topic of conversation.

The general put the phone down and returned Welborn’s salute. But he did not put him at ease. And Major Seymour’s breath, hotter if anything, continued to take the starch out of his collar.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I take a few minutes of your time.”

“No, sir. I’ll apologize to Colonel Linberg for my tardiness.”

The general smiled, but it only confirmed Welborn’s earlier impression: Here was a man you didn’t want to cross. “Don’t worry about the colonel,” he said. “She’ll keep.”

The general picked up a pen and began to make a note on a pad of paper. With his pilot’s eyesight, Welborn could see the precision of the general’s handwriting. And even a name, written upside down from Welborn’s point of view: Merriman.

He decided it was better not to snoop on the general and looked away.

“How do you like your office at the White House, Lieutenant?” the general asked.

When Welborn looked back, he saw General Altman was staring directly at him, and he immediately felt there was no good answer the question. But he said, “It’s more than I ever expected, sir.”

The general smiled again, giving Welborn the feeling that he had already crossed this man.

“More than any of us expected. A nice temporary billet for you but a problem for me.”

“Sir?”

“Having you outside your normal post at Andrews adds one more step to the process. Reporting the progress you make on your investigation becomes more time-consuming, if nothing else. And if someone, say the president’s chief of staff, tries to manage the outcome of your investigation for political reasons, it could conceivably hurt the Air Force. Possibly even your career, should the politicians decide they need a scapegoat.”

Welborn made an effort to keep his face impassive.

“We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, Lieutenant?”

Major Seymour’s breath felt like a draft from a blast furnace now.

“No, sir.”

Altman’s voice changed tone, became almost paternal.

“I think a mistake was made assigning a new man to this investigation, Lieutenant. I’m taking you off the case. You will return to your desk at Andrews. I’ll inform the president that a senior investigator will be taking over, and he will need to work out of OSI headquarters.”

Welborn closed his eyes briefly, a silent comment the general did not miss.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

“If I may, sir?” Welborn raised his briefcase by a millimeter.

The general looked past Welborn to Major Seymour, who looked at the briefcase and suddenly wished he had allowed the lieutenant to open it.

“You have something to show me?” the general asked Welborn.

“Yes, sir.”

Altman nodded and Welborn opened his briefcase, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to the general. The envelope was White House stationery; so was the sheet of paper it held. As the general read the message from the Executive Mansion, his face grew red. When he finished, he carefully folded the sheet of paper, placed it back in its envelope, and returned it to Welborn.

“Do you know what that message says, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you agree with it?”

“It’s not my place to agree or disagree, sir.”

“You’re right about that. Tell Major Seymour what the message is.”

“Major, the message General Altman just read is from the president. It states that I am not to be relieved of my duties in the investigation of the charge of adultery against Colonel Linberg. Nor is any other investigator from OSI to be assigned to work with me. Furthermore, I am to report my progress to no one other than the president. If any superior officer tries to countermand these orders, I am respectfully to refuse such a countermanding order and immediately refer that superior officer to the White House.”

After a moment of disbelieving silence, General Altman said in a deadpan voice, “So there you have it, Major. The chain of command on this matter now consists of only two people: the president and the lieutenant. Quite an extraordinary concept. Overthrows more than two hundred years of military tradition in this country. For purposes of his investigation, Lieutenant Yates now outranks every general in the Pentagon.”

Those words had no sooner been spoken than Welborn felt Major Seymour’s fiery breath withdraw from his neck.

“What do you think of that, Lieutenant?”

Welborn felt a chill, and not just from Major Seymour’s sudden distance.

“It’s not my place to have an opinion, sir.”

“No, it’s not. For that matter, it’s not the major’s place, nor mine, to have an opinion of any order we receive from the president.”

The general’s statement was entirely appropriate. Would look irreproachable if printed in a newspaper. But it didn’t come close to matching the look on his face.

“I think we’ve taken up enough of the lieutenant’s time, Clarence,” the general told the major. “I don’t want to speculate about what else he might have in his briefcase.”

Welborn could almost hear the major wince, and the cold settling into Welborn’s bones deepened. The world was turning upside down. He tried to restore a semblance of normalcy by snapping off a picture-perfect salute. But the general’s response was only halfhearted.

Even so, Welborn executed a parade-ground about-face. Major Seymour held the door open for him. As he started for it, the general had one more question.

“Lieutenant?”

Welborn turned crisply once more.

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious: Did you vote for her, the president?”

Welborn took a deep breath. Refusing to answer would be giving his answer, only in a cowardly silence. He let the breath out.

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Major Seymour closed the door behind Welborn as he stepped out of the general’s office. Then he grabbed Welborn’s upper right arm, and treated him to another round of his preternaturally hot breath. This time on Welborn’s ear.

“Four years or eight, administrations come and go,” the major said quietly. “You want to make the Air Force your career, Lieutenant, you better remember that.”

Welborn turned to look the major in the eye. And he flexed his arm. At the Air Force Academy, he’d developed a passion for free climbing in the nearby Rocky Mountains. He was told going in that if you took up a hobby where your life could literally hang by your fingertips, you’d better have some serious upper-body strength. Being able to do a set of a hundred pull-ups, it was suggested, was reasonable preparation. Which had seemed like something not even Special Ops crazies would demand of themselves. Now it was part of his daily routine.

Major Seymour was no office commando, but his grip on Welborn’s arm started to slip and when the futility of trying to hang on became obvious, the major let go.

Welborn saluted him and went to find Colonel Linberg.

He needed an MP to help him. He got lost on his second turn. Rather than wander around and waste time, he knocked on a door, went inside, and asked for help. His mother had taught him there was nothing wrong with a man asking for directions. Women appreciated men with common sense. The MP was dispatched to make sure Welborn didn’t have to ask for directions at any door where he wouldn’t be welcome.

Colonel Linberg’s tone was hardly welcoming, but when he knocked, she said, “Enter.”

Welborn stepped into an office that was a tenth the size of General Altman’s. The only furnishings in the room were the desk Colonel Linberg sat behind and the chair she sat upon. Both looked old enough to be on exhibit at the Smithsonian. On the desk in front of the colonel was an open copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Next to it was a pad of lined paper.

The colonel, apparently, had been assigned the duty of copying the UCMJ in longhand. She was far from finished with her task. Her career, however, appeared to be over. Nonetheless, Welborn saluted her as smartly as he had the Air Force chief of staff.

“Lieutenant Yates, OSI, to speak with the colonel, ma’am.”

His sense of punctilio seemed to lift her spirits, and she returned his salute sharply.

“I’d offer you a chair, Lieutenant,” Colonel Linberg said, “only I don’t have one to spare.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave him a long look. “Are you here to ask me all sorts of embarrassing questions, Lieutenant?”

“Embarrassment is not my purpose, ma’am.”

“But if it happens anyway …” Colonel Linberg held up a hand. The one holding her pen. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Your conduct has been entirely professional. I’ll see if I can comport myself on the same level.”

She put her pen down and folded her hands on the desk. Like a schoolgirl about to pray, Welborn thought. Or a defendant awaiting the reading of a jury’s verdict. In either case, she seemed determined to meet her fate without flinching.

Which only added to her attractiveness. Light brown hair cut short, but stylish, for military utility. Clear blue eyes. Strong straight nose. Generous mouth. The colonel was a looker.

“Are you trying to peer into my soul, Lieutenant?” she asked Welborn.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered evenly. “That’s a class they make us take at Glynco these days.” Glynco, Georgia, was the site of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

He had her there for a moment. Then she smiled. As much as she was able.

“You’re joking.”

“About Glynco, yes, ma’am.”

“But not about something else?”

“Outside of class, I was told it’s a good idea to pay attention to a face in repose, like yours was just now. That’ll give you a baseline, make it easier to know when someone’s telling you the truth.”

“Or lying.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have you had breakfast?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’d like to conduct this interview …” Welborn looked around the tiny office. “… somewhere else. Outside the building. Where we can speak freely. I thought you might be hungry.”

Colonel Linberg frowned and pulled a brown paper bag out of her desk.

“I’m tasked to stay in this office until 1700 hours, including lunch.”

“I understand, but my investigation takes precedence over any other duties you may have. If anyone questions your absence, you may refer them to me.”

This time Colonel Linberg smiled broadly.

“Refer them to
you?
And who cuts your marching orders, Lieutenant?”

“The president, ma’am.”

Welborn drove Colonel Linberg to a place he knew in Alexandria where they offered a selection of gourmet coffees and fresh pastries. It would be the second time that day he would be eating and conversing with a good-looking older woman. The first time had been breakfast with the president at the White House.