The Sentinel (43 page)

There were plenty of places in the Kennedy Center where one could hide a bomb. The schematic showed a door at the rear of holding room A leading to a large closet, and another door to an adjoining lounge. It bore the Secret Service designation "S" for safe. This meant that its corner location and reinforced walls made it the best place to be in the event of a bomb detonation. Trying to get into the Kennedy Center would be suicide.

He took out his cellular phone and dialed information, obtaining reporter Joe Kretchvane's telephone number from the operator.

"Kretchvane Incorporated," a woman said.

"Is Joe in?"

"May I say who's calling?"

"Special Agent Pete Garrison, U.S. Secret Service."

"Hold the line."

A moment later, the phone beeped.

"What can I do you for, Agent Garrison?" Kretchvane said.

"Just get out a pencil. I'm going to give you a story."

"Go, man."

"There is a conspiracy to assassinate the President-"

"Is this a joke?"

"No."

"Where are you?"

"In D.C."

"We need to do this in person."

"That's a problem for me."

"Come to my place. The Promenade Towers on E Street in Capitol Hill."

"I'd prefer to do it over the phone."

"For all I know, you might be someone impersonating Garrison. Stranger things have happened."

"I don't have much time."

"Look, I know you. You wouldn't be calling me if it weren't important - if this weren't for real. But I can't do anything with a story whose source I haven't nailed down."

Garrison thought about it for a moment. He didn't trust Joe Kretchvane. But his contacts with members of the press were limited, and he believed the best way to save the President was to expose the plot to the world press. Besides, Kretchvane knew he wasn't crazy - something he would have to prove to any other reporter who didn't know him.

"I'll be there in a few minutes. Joe, don't contact anyone in the Secret Service about me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I know that is the kind of thing writers do to check out stories. I'm telling you that if you do, you'll lose out on the biggest story of your life."

"I like the sound of this."

Garrison pressed OFF and told the driver he'd changed his mind and gave him Kretchvane's address.

The driver made a U-turn.

Garrison glanced at his wristwatch. He had three hours to warn the President, enough time for Kretchvane to call a press conference and get the attention of the President and the entire White House staff, forcing them to cancel the trip to the Kennedy Center.

Arriving at the Promenade Towers a few minutes later, Garrison had butterflies in his stomach. He paid the driver and got out of the taxi. On a pole turning slowly in the middle of the fountain was a PROMENADE TOWERS sign in silver, three-dimensional letters. The apartment house was a sterile-looking multistory place with a quadrangle and a small fountain in front.

Inside, Garrison found Kretchvane's name on the first-floor resident index and dialed his apartment number.

"Hello?" Kretchvane said.

"It's Pete Garrison. I'm downstairs."

"Wait there."

Garrison looked about. There were few cars parked on the street.

A minute later, the elevator doors opened.

"I told you someday you'd have a story for me," Kretchvane said.

"Let's go up to your apartment."

"What's this story you have?"

"You want to stand here and talk about it?"

"Just a few questions, then we can go upstairs."

"What's wrong, Joe?"

"I don't want you to think I'm inhospitable, but I can't take the chance that you might plant a listening device in my apartment. Frankly, I don't trust the government. For all I know, the First Lady sent you over to see what you can find out about my book."

Garrison blinked a few times in frustration.

"Listen carefully, Joe. I don't have much time. I'm ready to tell you some facts that involve a problem with Presidential security. A danger to the President. I'll give you the information on one condition: if you promise to spread information across the news wires immediately - like within minutes. I give you my word I won't talk to any other reporter. You'll have the exclusive. But I have to get the information out. Now. The President is in danger of being assassinated and there is no other way I can get him to listen."

Kretchvane stared at the tiled floor. "Why?"

"Because someone is trying to frame me."

"For what?"

"For the planned assassination. I've tried to warn them but they won't listen to me."

"They don't believe you?"

"Exactly."

"Then why should I?"

"You know I'm not crazy. You know I would never make something like this up."

"Do I?"

Garrison let out his breath. "The Marine helicopter that went down near Camp David was sabotaged. There is a plot to kill the President involving Secret Service Director Wintergreen-"

"You're talking about Wintergreen?"

Kretchvane glanced over Garrison's shoulder, toward the street.

"Right."

A car was parked down the street, in the direction Kretchvane had been looking.

"Let's take a walk, Pete."

Garrison got a sudden chill - a tingling sensation at the back of his head that spread through his body like ice water being flushed into his veins. Kretchvane was just going thorough the motions with him. He must have called someone in the Secret Service the moment after they had talked on the phone. Someone must have convinced him that Garrison was either guilty or crazy or both.

"You double-crossed me, Joe."

"I don't know what you're talking-"

Garrison drew his gun.

"I don't have a lot of time, Joe. What did they tell you to do?"

Kretchvane stared at the SIG-Sauer.

"They told me that you were wanted for murder-"

"I asked you a question, Joe."

"They asked me to get you to walk out to the street. To the curb. They were afraid you would see them-"

"Where is your car?"

"The underground garage." Kretchvane's voice was hoarse with emotion. "They told me to do this. It wasn't my idea-"

"Give me the keys." Kretchvane complied, his eyes on the street. "We're going to your car."

"It wasn't my fault, Garrison."

"Don't think I won't kill you."

Following him to the elevator, Garrison pressed the down button. The elevator doors opened.

From the street came the sound of running. Agents with guns out were heading in his direction.

"Help!" Kretchvane shouted.

Garrison pulled his gun and straight-armed Kretchvane into the elevator. Grabbing Kretchvane's hair, he put the gun it to head.

"Hit the wrong button and you're a dead man."

"I don't want to die, man." Kretchvane touched a button, and the doors closed and the elevator began to descend.

The doors opened into a large underground garage parking area. Holding Kretchvane in front of him, Garrison walked out of the elevator. To Garrison's right was a wide driveway that led to the street. The security gate was open.

"Which one?"

Kretchvane pointed to a sports car. "There, the Porsche."

Garrison got behind the wheel, reholstered his gun, and started the engine.

"You're going to kick yourself when you find out I was telling the truth."

The stairwell door opened and agents streamed out, running in his direction with guns out.

"There he is!" Kretchvane shouted.

Garrison sped toward the exit and onto the street. Rounding the corner at a high rate of speed, he pressed the pedal to the floor. He sped to the Capitol Center South Metro station. Looking behind him, he saw no pursuers. Parking the car in a red zone, he jumped out and ran down the steps to the station as a train was pulling in.

He hurried into a crowded car and stared at the station as the train pulled out of the station and into a tunnel. He took a deep breath and let it out. There was little time to warn the President, and nothing he could do to get him to cancel the Kennedy Center visit. Eleanor would see to it that he was there.

Considering the time and the overall situation, Garrison decided that he would disarm the bomb himself. He knew the Kennedy Center and he had a copy of the advance security report. With a little luck, he would be able to make his way through security. And with a little more luck, he would be able to find the bomb. As he saw it, it had to be planted somewhere in the holding room, the only place where the President would be alone while he was at the Center. He got off the train at the McPherson Square station.

****

CHAPTER 33

AT THE STATION, Garrison walked up the steps to the street. Victoria's Cleaning and Laundry was across the street. He went inside. Victoria stood behind the counter. She was a middle-aged Syrian woman, short and rail-thin, whose lined, prunish complexion was the result of years of exposure to presser steam.

"Nick Torricelli asked me to pick up his uniform for him."

Garrison figured Torricelli, a uniformed officer who worked the White House Northeast Gate, would have at least one uniform in the shop that he hadn't picked up. The shop was a couple of blocks from the White House, and Garrison had patronized it for years. He recalled seeing Officer Torricelli in the shop. Many Service Uniformed Division officers frequented Victoria's to take advantage of her Secret Service discount, a welcome Help in defraying the cost of the freshly cleaned and starched uniform shirt required for every White House shift.

"You got his laundry ticket?"

"I lost it. Sorry."

"Ever lose your gun?" she said facetiously.

"Not lately."

"Maybe someday I can't find the ticket and Torricelli won't get his shirt."

"He's standing at the east gate right now wearing only his trousers."

She chuckled, opening a small wooden file box, and thumbed through laundry receipts. She pulled out a receipt, then turned and pressed a button. As the overhead clothing rack began moving, Garrison glanced toward the door again, fearing Torricelli or some other Secret Service officer or agent might walk in and see him.

She stopped the rack, reached up, and took down a Secret Service Uniformed Division shirt and trousers.