The Sentinel (44 page)

"You got some ID?"

Garrison took out his Secret Service identification, holding it out as she copied his name on the laundry receipt. He paid the bill, said thanks, and headed for the door.

"Hey, Garrison."

He stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"What do you think the President will do about Albania?"

"I'm not sure."

"Ask him for me."

"Sure."

At a police equipment store on New York Avenue, Garrison showed his Secret Service badge and identification card to purchase a Uniformed Division hat and a black leather gun belt. He paid with his credit card.

Carrying the items and Torricelli's uniform, Garrison walked down the street to a cafeteria. In the men's room, he locked the door, changed into the uniform, and then put his suit jacket on over the uniform shirt and gun belt. Carrying the uniform and hat in the store bag, he departed.

Down the street at 13th and H Street, Garrison darted into the Metro Center subway station. He boarded the first train that arrived and took a seat facing forward. As the car pulled out of the station, he found himself thinking about Martha Breckinridge. He wanted to call the hospital to check on her condition, but forced himself to put his concern for her out of his mind to concentrate on his plan.

Minutes later, he disembarked at the DuPont Circle station. Taking the escalator to the street, he turned right and walked to the White House garage at 21st Street near R, an aging two-story brick building where all the limousines and other Secret Service vehicles were housed and serviced. To avoid being filmed by the surveillance cameras he knew were on the garage roof, he approached the entrance by walking along the wall and ducking behind tall bushes adjacent to the building. Reaching the garage's roll-up door, he stopped to wait for the Presidential limousine.

The Secret Service manual required that all motorcade vehicles be serviced shortly before they were used. He knew that it was customary for one Presidential limousine to be brought to the White House garage, where it would be switched for a newly serviced limo. There were eight identical Presidential limousines, enough so that they could be used for Presidential transportation even on multiple-stop foreign trips. After picking up the newly serviced limousine, the driver would then return to the White House, parking it near the South Portico, where the motorcade would be formed.

As Garrison hid next to the building, behind some tall cypress trees, the lawn sprinklers came on. With water spraying his shoes, socks, and trousers, he tried not to think of how slim his chances were of succeeding with his mission.

A few minutes later, a black Lincoln limousine turned the corner and swerved into the wide driveway. The license plate "W-2" told him it was the backup limo. Parking near the garage door, Agent Andy Collins climbed out from behind the wheel. He wore a shoulder holster over a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Collins was heavyset, middle-aged, and balding. Garrison thought he looked tired. Collins walked to the garage lock box and inserted a key. There was a creaking sound as the metal security door began rolling upward in its track. Collins got back behind the wheel of the limousine and drove inside the garage. The door remained open.

Garrison crept to the edge of the door and peeked inside. The garage agent walked out of his glassed-in office and stood eating an orange and watching Collins park the limousine at the service bay. The garage was a dank, four-walled cavern housing shiny-black armored limousines, sport utility vehicles, and four-door sedans, all parked in precise, slanted rows facing the walls.

Garrison's heart rate and breathing increased. All his planning and contemplation were over. This was it. All or nothing. If he failed, both he and the President were finished.

As Collins and the other agent chatted, Garrison darted inside. Staying low, he turned right, and moved along the wall for a few feet. Then he slipped between two black Mercury Mountaineers to wait.

Minutes later, Collins and the garage agent walked into the office.

Garrison watched as two Secret Service mechanics standing near the hoists went through the vehicle-safety checklist. The procedure took about ten minutes. When they were finished, they headed toward the office. Garrison crossed to the facing wall. Staying low, he scurried to the rear of the newly serviced limousine. Using his Secret Service master key, he opened the trunk. He crawled inside among the emergency equipment and closed the trunk lid. He could open the lock from inside by feel-a technique he'd practiced diligently in Secret Service undercover school.

Lying between a canvas bag of gas masks and a folded metal stretcher, he tried to relax, using his imagination to avoid thinking about how uncomfortable he was in wet shoes and trousers, concentrating instead on the positive: He'd made it into the trunk without getting apprehended or killed.

Garrison heard bits of conversation between Collins and the garage agent.

"He must have gone completely nuts," Collins said.

"The Director put out the word-shoot him on sight - if he shows at the House."

"Hard to believe..."

"He sold his ass out to the Aryan Disciples. He asked for it. Orders are orders. If I see him, I'll fill his ass full of lead."

"No other way."

Garrison felt like shouting. He heard footsteps approaching the limousine. The driver's door opened and closed. The engine turned over. The limousine was moving.

****

CHAPTER 34

DURING THE SHORT drive to the White House, Garrison became slightly motion-sick, aggravated by the fact that the trunk smelled of motor oil, gasoline, and car rugs. He hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours.

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself back home in Bisbee, driving a 1960 Chevrolet he'd restored to mint condition, his father's old car. He'd had it painted candy-apple, metal-flake red, and he'd lowered it an inch all around by torching the springs. He'd installed a four-barrel carburetor, dual exhausts, and had the engine heads ported and milled. The Chevy was a slick machine, a polished charger, and he'd done all the work himself. He'd cruised Bisbee with pride. He wondered what his boyhood pals would think now if they knew he was hiding in the trunk of the President's limousine and was probably going to get killed by one of his fellow Secret Service agents....

The limousine stopped briefly, then continued on for a few seconds. Another stop. Garrison guessed they were at the White House Northeast Gate.

The driver's door opened, then closed. He figured they must be in the Executive Office Building courtyard. The sound of Collins's footsteps came toward the rear of the limousine.

Garrison tensed. The footsteps continued on. He heard radio traffic: other agents and some White House staff members sharing last-minute details about the Kennedy Center visit. A cold fear seized him. What if, for some ungodly reason, they'd decided not to use this particular backup limousine? If so, if the limo remained within the White House compound when the Presidential motorcade departed for the Kennedy Center, Garrison would be trapped inside the White House grounds.

Someone, probably Collins, got back in the limousine and started the engine. The limousine pulled away, stopping again about thirty seconds later at what he hoped was its place in the Presidential motorcade forming along the White House South Portico. He heard footsteps and radio traffic. The right rear limousine door opened. Someone got in, followed by a second person. The door closed. It had to be Eleanor and the President.

Garrison curled uncomfortably in the trunk. He wanted to stretch his legs, but there wasn't enough room. He imagined the route along Pennsylvania Avenue to Virginia Avenue. The motorcade would be guided by a pilot car containing a police officer and a Secret Service agent. Traveling a quarter mile ahead of the motorcade, it served to make sure that the roadway was clear. Next in line was a lead car driven by a police officer and commanded by a Secret Service supervisor. Behind it was the spare limousine that, because of its tinted windows, served to confuse assassins as to the President's exact location. Behind the President's limousine was the Secret Service follow-up car: a van carrying six heavily armed agents whose mission was to protect the presidential limousine if it was attacked. Behind the follow-up car was a van filled with more agents. Their mission was to return fire in the event of paramilitary attack. The other cars in the motorcade were staff and press cars and a Secret Service intelligence car that carried two agents whose responsibility was to gather and relay intelligence information.

Garrison wanted to shout, to tell the President what was going on. But he knew that to warn him - to convince him - he had to be alone with him, face-to-face. He would wait until they got out of the car and he could make his way into the holding room, where they would be alone. Garrison told himself that he had time, that there was no way to rush it. He had to stick with his plan. He couldn't just shout to the President and get arrested hiding in the trunk of the limousine. Then it would be over for sure. He willed himself to remain calm.

Garrison felt a bump and assumed the motorcade was pulling into a driveway, probably the one at the Kennedy Center that led into the underground garage.

The limousine came to a stop.

He heard footsteps next to the car and the right passenger-side door open and close, then the right rear door open. Eleanor and the President were climbing out.

A woman greeted them, and the sound of their footsteps moved away from the limousine as they walked inside. Garrison knew the limousine would remain where it was and Collins would stay with it. With the sound of the commercial radio in the front seat of the limousine being turned on, Garrison reached for the trunk lock. He pulled back on the latch. He knew that there would be little movement of the car as he got out due to the limousine's reinforced undercarriage.

Hearing no footsteps or voices, Garrison opened the trunk about two inches and peeked out. There was no one nearby. He put on the uniform hat and slid out of the trunk. Squatting to remain out of the camera view, he quietly shut the trunk.

He stood and walked briskly to the service entrance. He was aware of a surveillance camera mounted on the wall of the Kennedy Center loading dock near the limousine. He hoped that the Secret Service supervisor responsible for monitoring the security television screens in the Kennedy Center Secret Service Command Post would miss him as he made his way inside. He knew this was possible because the surveillance camera's view was facing the front of the limousine and the trunk area wasn't in direct view of the camera. Also, with the supervisor having multiple screens to watch, there was a good chance a brief movement of the trunk opening and closing would not attract his attention. All he would see was a Uniformed Division officer cross the black-and-white screen.

Inside, Garrison turned left and made his way to an elevator, where he pressed the button and waited. Two women were coming down the hall in his direction. He knelt to tie his shoe so they wouldn't see his face. They passed by. He stepped inside the elevator and pushed a button. The door closed. The car descended one floor to the basement. He exited and hurried along a zigzag hallway that he knew was used only by stagehands and Center musicians.

Entering a storage room, he closed the door and turned on the light. He picked up a wooden bench and placed it underneath an air-conditioning duct. He spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes using the screwdriver blade on his pocketknife to remove the duct's metal-grid cover. Hiding the cover under a large trashcan, he returned the bench to its original location, and then turned off the light. Anyone entering the room wouldn't see anything amiss other than the missing duct cover.

Returning to the duct opening in darkness, he grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled himself inside. The duct was smaller than he thought. Slowly squeezing himself out again, he dropped to the floor. He removed his bulky uniform jacket, stashing it in a corner. Hoisting himself back into the opening again, he made his way forward, coughing from the thick layer of dust lining the constricted passageway. His arms were tight against his sides. He could barely move. A wave of claustrophobia came over him and he began to panic, fearing he would pass out and die, to be found days later when some ticket holder complained to an usher that the odor of rotting flesh was emanating from the air-conditioning system.