I Do Solemnly Swear (12 page)

She bit her tongue.

Kate waited long enough for him to leave the West Wing. She pushed her intercom button. “Emily, find McDermott for me.
Immediately
.”

***

Along with other luxuries of flying first class, American Airlines made available an unlimited assortment of alcoholic beverages the minute the plane left the gate. Although Peter Miles
was always searching for a reason to overindulge, he rarely drank while flying. Today, however, was different. He was deeply troubled, unsettled about his decision to leave Kate. How do you walk away from a marriage with complete peace of mind?

He looked over his shoulder at the two Secret Service agents cramped side by side a few rows back, seated in the terribly uncomfortable economy section. He chuckled to himself.

You got what you deserved, assholes.

Peter wanted to sit alone. But a young man jogged down the gangway, stepped onto the plane only minutes before they secured the door, and plopped down next to him, out of breath. Peter ordered his third Bloody Mary.

The young man’s name was Tony Martino. He was on his way to LA, worked for IBM, just got transferred, born and raised in Maryland, never been to the West Coast. He was a hyperactive, nonstop talker who couldn’t relax if he overdosed on Valium. After his autobiography ended, the grand inquisition began.

“Where you from? Where you headed? Married? Children? What do you do for a living?”

Peter had always been suspicious of over-friendly strangers. In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn’t really trust anybody. Two decades as a litigator could taint even Mother Teresa. But alcohol had a tendency to loosen Peter’s tongue, regardless of his cynicism.

“My wife works in Washington,” Peter said. He wasn’t drunk enough to tell Martino who she was. “Things have been a little shaky lately, so I’m taking a hiatus from the marriage. Going back to my hometown. Topeka.” He was surprised the young man didn’t recognize him. Then again, wearing a Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap and tinted glasses might have had something to do with preserving his anonymity.

Martino excused himself, said he’d had too much coffee. Peter took advantage of the peace and quiet, rested his head against the seat, and closed his eyes.

***

President Miles sat alone in her private office waiting for Carl Kramer, deputy director of central intelligence. She rescheduled her meeting with Olivia Carter for tomorrow morning. Olivia hadn’t sounded pleased, but a conference with Kramer, head of the assassination commission, was her top priority.

The day had sailed by. Ten hours had never passed so quickly. Reflecting back on her conversation with Vice President Owens, Kate presumed that McDermott’s observation had been correct. Owens
had
tried her on for size. But for what purpose?

She hadn’t told McDermott that Owens had maligned him, but thought it wise to observe her chief of staff more closely. He had been acting a bit peculiar of late.

Kate swiveled her chair and faced the window. Leaves of russet and pale yellow tumbled across the lawn. A beady-eyed black crow sat pompously on the white birch tree, staring at Kate. His head was cocked to one side, critically studying her. She remembered the Poe tale “The Raven.” It seemed that this crow knew something. She could see a foreboding message in his black eyes.

They were close. She could feel it. Evil was on its way.

***

Jakob Hoffman placed his hands on top of his blood brother’s shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. “We got the call. You fly to Washington tomorrow.”

“Trust me,” Guenther Krause promised, “the bitch is as good as dead.”

The melatonin was not working its magic. Weary and restless, Kate again glanced at the clock radio. Three thirteen a.m. The last three hours had felt like a decade. Her skin ached the way it did when she had the flu. Without Peter lying beside her, the king-size bed was cold and lonely. She sat up and punched the center of the pillow, digging her fist deep into the down feathers. Her stomach was beginning its insidious acrobatics act again. Terrified that the unexplainable cramp would return, she shook a Tagamet out of the box laying on the nightstand and popped one in her mouth. A glass of lukewarm water sat next to her lucky 1898 silver dollar. She gulped a mouthful and washed down the medication. She lay back down and buried her head in the pillow.

How could the president of the United States feel so completely detached from the world? Droves of people surrounded her every day, yet their presence seemed alien, as if the rest of the world occupied a different plane of existence than she. This was not the first time she’d felt dislocated. Did she need a psychiatrist? A straitjacket? Or perhaps Peter had been right. Maybe she didn’t belong in Washington.

Lying in bed alone, plagued with uncertainties, strangely missing Peter’s snore, evoked unsettling memories. Her father’s lengthy and frequent business trips had forced Kate to become intimate companions with loneliness long before she could spell her name. She’d learned that loneliness wasn’t merely a three-syllable word or a fearful emotion. Loneliness was a living, flesh-eating beast. For most of her childhood, the beast sucked the life out of Kate, savored every drop of her.

Kate reached for her lucky silver dollar. She rubbed its smooth texture between her thumb and index finger. For her fifth birthday, her father had pressed this lucky coin to his heart before giving it to her. He’d promised that whenever she needed him, all she had to do was hold the lucky coin to her heart, and he’d come to her in spirit. She’d decided right then that she’d forever treasure it.

***

Carl Kramer’s boss hadn’t said much to him lately. But Kramer expected he’d get an earful today. Ellenwood had been simmering for a while. Kramer’d witnessed his infantile behavior for almost eight years. He knew why Ellenwood was fuming. President Miles had stepped over the DCI’s authority. When she’d appointed Kramer head of the assassination investigation—Kramer couldn’t help but chuckle at this—it was like rubbing Ellenwood’s face in dog shit. He’d been humiliated in front of his peers, stripped of his authority. Kramer understood Ellenwood’s attitude, but he didn’t want to stare at his sulky puss at seven a.m. and listen to him whine. Maybe that’s why Kramer’s nerve endings were aflame. To pacify the old coot, Kramer had agreed to this early meeting without protest. As long as the DCI didn’t interfere with Kramer’s primary agenda, he’d respect Ellenwood’s authority.

Kramer had a more serious concern than his boss. Yesterday, he’d been forced to postpone his afternoon meeting with the
president. A conference of paramount importance. Carl Kramer had placed himself in an embarrassing predicament with the last person in the world he wished to alienate. He couldn’t afford to anger the new president, but Ellenwood had insisted he cancel the meeting. The deputy director was beginning to understand the twisted irony of politics.

Kramer sat opposite Ellenwood, crossing and uncrossing his legs, fidgeting. Why wasn’t the air-conditioning working? Then he remembered it was October.

“When are you meeting with the president?” Ellenwood asked.

“In about an hour.”

“What’re you going to tell her?”

“Not a great deal more than she already knows.”

Victor folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair. “How long have you been working for me, Carl?”

“Eight years next month.”

“Like your job?”

At first, he thought it was a rhetorical question, but Ellenwood’s eyes demanded an answer. “I love it.”

The DCI sat forward. “I’ve been considering early retirement, Carl. With my recommendation, you’d be a natural to step into this office. As long as you continue playing by the rules. You’re not feeling those patriotic oats, are you, Mr. Kramer?”

Carl shook his head. “I don’t follow, sir.”

“The CIA enjoys a unique privilege. An exemption from conventional rules. That’s why the department works so effectively. But I don’t have to remind you of that, do I, Mr. Kramer? You know that confidentiality within the agency is gospel. I’d like to remind you of your priorities. You have a responsibility to the president, and I’d never ask you to compromise yourself. But your
first loyalty is to the agency. Sometimes you have to make choices, Carl. Difficult choices.”

Carl could feel perspiration trickling down his breast bone.

Ellenwood continued. “Before you advise the president of any new findings, be certain that I’m informed first.”

“Sir, I’d never jeopardize the integrity of this office.”

“Then we understand each other, Mr. Deputy Director?”

“Clearly, sir.”

***

Kate sipped a cup of tea while waiting for Carl Kramer. She didn’t know the DDCI well, but his first report card was looking grim. Yesterday, Kate’d postponed her meeting with Olivia Carter to meet with Kramer. But fifteen minutes before it was scheduled, Kramer canceled. Not the conduct she expected. Perhaps he didn’t feel accountable to her? In the past, she’d witnessed the omnipotent arrogance of the CIA. If he dazzled her today, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

Emily knocked. “Carl Kramer is here.”

The stocky DDCI entered the Oval Office and stood by the door at attention. The erectness of his body led Kate to believe that he’d been in the Marines before joining the CIA.

She stood and walked around her desk. “Good morning, Carl.” She pointed to the chair.

Kramer had an awkward gait, more like an ape than a man. “Good morning, Madam President.” He sat in front of her desk and maintained his rigid posture. She noticed his outdated suit and too-wide tie.

“I’ve been anticipating this meeting with great anxiety,” Kate said. “Enlighten me, Carl.” She sat behind her desk.

Kramer began to reiterate points she already knew: President Rodgers’s blood pressure problem, his medication, the jellyfish poison,
and facts that were merely public knowledge. She wanted to interrupt him but waited patiently. As he chattered on, Kate compulsively tidied her desk. Crooked lampshade. Stapler askew. Paper clips scattered about. She passively listened, noticing dots of perspiration beading on his forehead. Kramer talked so expressively with his hands he looked like a traffic cop at the Washington Monument.

He paused to take a breath.

“It’s old news, Carl. I want to know
how
David Rodgers was poisoned and
who
did it.”

The DDCI shook his head. “It wasn’t from his food.”

“How can you be sure?”

“When President Rodgers and Elizabeth sat down to dinner, the First Lady’s steak was larger than the president’s. So they
traded
dinner plates.”

Her eyes widened. “So if the food had been poisoned, Elizabeth would have died?”

“Exactly.”

“Then how, Carl?”

“Mrs. Rodgers doesn’t drink, but the president had a glass of wine with dinner.”

“I’m sure the wine was tested by the Secret Service,” Kate said.

“It was an unopened bottle from his private stock.”

“He had a private stock?”

Kramer nodded. “He had a thirty-five-bottle wine cooler with a selection of vintage wines he personally selected. The cooler was locked at all times, and only President Rodgers had a key.”

Kate stood and walked around the desk. She folded her arms and sat on the corner. “Am I missing something? How did the assassin get into the locked cooler?”

“The cooler stores wine at about fifty-five degrees. This is to preserve the integrity of the wine. But red wines—like the
one President Rodgers selected—should be drunk at room temperature.”

“What does this all mean?” Kate asked.

“President Rodgers removed the wine from the cooler about two hours before dinner so it would be room temperature by the time Elizabeth and he sat down to dinner.”

“So, anyone who had access to Rodgers’s quarters could have tampered with the wine?”

“Exactly.”

Kate thought about that for a minute. “That still doesn’t explain how jellyfish poison got into an unopened bottle of wine.”

“That puzzled me at first. Until I did some research. Most fine wines use foil to cover the cork, and the foil has two tiny pinholes. Three different vineyards verified that. They puncture the seal so the top of the cork can breathe. Otherwise, mold can grow.”

“How could anyone tamper with a vineyard-sealed bottle of wine?”

“With a hypodermic needle. One puncture hole to remove some wine, another to inject the same amount of poison. No one would ever know that the wine was tampered with.”

President Miles chewed on her cracked fingernail; her eyes darted around the room. “You said President Rodgers had one glass of wine?”

He nodded.

“What happened to the rest of it?”

“That’s a mystery, Madam President. After President Rodgers’s death, the FBI combed every inch of his private quarters. Every grain of sugar and salt, every drop of ketchup and mustard,
anything edible from M&M’s to balsamic vinegar was tested and retested for poison. Everything was clean.”

“Everything except the missing bottle of wine.” She analyzed his words for a moment. “Did you ask Elizabeth Rodgers about the wine?”