Paramour (7 page)

To make doubly sure they couldn't be overheard, Powers took the transistor radio from his pocket and turned it on, adjusting the volume to a deafening high. Nassiri, as if he'd expected Powers to take such a precaution, cupped his hands and spoke into Powers's ear. "Very clever," he said.

"What did you want to tell me?"

"May I see your credentials again?"

Powers took out the case in his pocket and flipped it open. Nassiri studied it carefully.

"Who is the only French citizen employed by the U.S. Secret Service?"

"I didn't come here to answer questions."

"If you're really a U.S. Secret Service agent and not a CIA impostor, you'll know the answer to that question," Nassiri said.

"Pierre Le Denmat. He's the Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Secret Service liaison office in Paris."

Nassiri nodded. "I apologize for the little test."

"Fine. Now what is it you want to tell me?"

"I am a colonel in the Syrian intelligence service-"

"I've been briefed on who you are."

"Of course. Then I'll get right to the point. Syrian intelligence has someone in the White House."

"How do you know this?"

"I was assigned to the intelligence briefing staff, and I saw copies of Presidential Eyes Only papers. We had them regularly."

"Describe these papers you're talking about."

Nassiri rubbed his eyes for a moment. "Bond paper marked TOP SECRET and OVAL OFFICE EYES ONLY - PRESIDENT OF THE U.S. There was a presidential seal on the paper."

"What was their content?"

"Operation Desert journey. The papers mentioned confidential U.S. sources in the Syrian, Jordanian, and Iranian governments."

"Was there a date on these papers?"

"The ones I saw were dated April sixteenth and May ninth of this year."

"Where was the date printed on the papers?" Powers said.

"The date was on the cover sheet only."

"The presidential seal-what color was it?"

"I was looking at black-and-white copies ... made by a copying machine. I couldn't tell."

"Who stole the documents?" Powers asked. Nassiri was right about the placement of the date and, as far as Powers knew, no one other than the President and a few others would even know sensitive presidential documents bore the Oval Office stamp. Such documents were hand-carried to him by high-level CIA briefers and picked up at the end of the day.

"A U.S. Secret Service agent attached to the White House Detail."

Powers felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle.

"Why didn't you want to tell the CIA about this?"

"I'm a career intelligence officer, and I've been sitting on the American desk for twelve years. I'm aware that Mr. Patterson, the Director of your CIA, is a politically ambitious man. I thought he might leak this information to the American press and harm your President. I don't want to tumble the walls of the house that takes me in. It's difficult enough just being a defector."

"What's the agent's name?"

"Pardon?"

"The special agent who you said stole the documents."

"Raymond Stryker."

Powers felt his stomach muscles tighten. "When was he recruited?"

"I'm not sure."

"What else do you know about this, colonel?"

"Stryker may have had help from another White House employee, one with high access," Nassiri said. "The Stryker operation is known to only a few high-ranking officers in my service."

"Do you have any other information you want to give me?" Powers said coldly.

"If you check, you'll see what I am telling you is true."

"Is there anything else?"

"The rest I have given to the CIA people," Nassiri said, in his precise military manner.

Powers clicked off the transistor radio. His ears were ringing from its tinny sound as he shoved it back into his pocket. He and Nassiri walked across the sand to the beach house, and the men who'd been positioned on the beach followed.

Miller met them at the rear door and led them back to the bedroom. He unlocked the door and shoved it open. Nassiri nodded at Powers and, without offering his hand, entered the room. Miller closed the door and locked it.

Anxious to get back to DC and report what he'd learned, Powers moved down the hallway.

"What did he have to say?" Miller said, as if they were old friends.

"Nothing significant."

"May I offer you a drink, Jack?"

"Thanks anyway, but I have to be going."

"Is there some reason why you won't tell us what Colonel Nassiri said?"

"My orders were to interview him and report back to my own chain of command."

"I can understand your reluctance to share the information. But I'm sure you understand that eventually all intelligence information filters up the chain to us."

"Yes," Powers said, though it was common practice for both the CIA and the Secret Service to hold back sensitive White House information from each other. "But you understand I'd need authorization from my superiors to tell you anything at this point."

"Jack, I'm not trying to cause a big flap, but I'm sure you can understand that the information would help us get a better picture of the colonel. Like you, we're just trying to do a job."

"Sorry, but I can't help you."

Miller glared at him. "I understand your position," he said coldly. He turned to Green, who unfastened the latch and opened the front door.

Relieved the confrontation was over, Powers walked outside, imagining what the neighbors would think if they knew the house next door was filled with spies. He unlocked his car, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine. The air was still hot. He stopped at a traffic light. A tanned man and woman in swimsuits crossed the street in front of him. They were holding hands. Powers told himself that even with the West Coast trip coming up it was a good time for a beach vacation. But though he had the names of plenty of women in his black book who would gladly join him, there were none he liked well enough to spend a week at Rehoboth Beach with, holding hands. Nor was the idea of vacationing with the other bachelors on the detail-playing poker and carousing at beach singles bars to see how many women they could pick up and seduce-particularly appealing either. He decided to save his vacation days.

During the drive back to DC, Powers reviewed his conversation with Nassiri. Overall, if he had to guess he would say that Nassiri's information was too cut and dried. That wasn't to say it wasn't true, but there was a lot more he wasn't saying.

****

FIVE

Secret Service headquarters was situated less than a block from the White House on the top five floors of a modern office building that had a branch of the Maryland National Bank and a dingy snack shop on the first floor.

Powers stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor. A black Secret Service Uniformed Division officer sitting at a reception desk recognized him and pushed a button. There was the sound of a lock buzzing. Powers opened the door and headed down a long hallway past office doors with plastic government-issue name tags:

William J. Kelly, Vice Presidential Protection Division Agent-in-Charge

Francis C. Donahue, Foreign Dignitary Protection Division Agent-in-Charge

Rexford J. Fogarty, Director, United States Secret Service

Though in recent years the Secret Service had been opened by government affirmative action programs to allow a few super-qualified blacks, Hispanics, and women into supervisory positions, the top slots were still held by a self-perpetuating hierarchy of New York Irish Catholics built by Director Fogarty, an obsequious bureaucrat who'd managed to hold his presidential appointment through four administrations.

Fogarty and his hand-picked aides were known as the "Potato Head family." Kelly, in fact, was related to Fogarty by marriage. And Donahue might as well have been; his wife owned the Century 21 franchise in Fairfax, Virginia (known to agents as "Fairfax Headquarters"), where Kelly's wife, Claudia, was employed. All Secret Service agents stationed in field offices outside the District of Columbia knew that receiving a Fairfax Century 21 brochure meant they would soon be receiving official orders transferring them to the White House Detail. Not surprisingly, 87 percent of all Secret Service special agents used Claudia's services and lived in Fairfax.

Deputy Director Peter Sullivan's office was next to Fogarty's. The door was open and Powers went in.

Lenore Shoequist, Sullivan's pert receptionist, greeted him. A fiftyish woman favoring high heels and tight skirts, she'd married and divorced three high-ranking special agents, none below the GS-15 supervisor classification, during her twenty-year Secret Service career. She was a notorious gossip, relishing the juicy morsels of information she gleaned from the Director's circle and sharing them whenever it benefited her personally. Powers often wondered how she would feel if she knew her regular daytime trysts at the Mayflower Hotel with the Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Inspection Division, Elmer Cogswell, were common knowledge to everyone in the Secret Service.

She told him to go right in.

Powers entered Sullivan's inner office. Sullivan was sitting behind a wide desk covered with paperwork. There were bags under his eyes that reflected loss of sleep. Though jealous Secret Service pundits referred to Sullivan as an egotist, Powers respected his leadership abilities. In fact, Sullivan was one of the cleverest men he'd ever met. In the Secret Service Training School where they'd been classmates, Sullivan had maxed the final test. On the White House Detail, Sullivan had singlehandedly revised the top secret
Manual of Protective Operations
, thus gaining attention from Director Fogarty. Fogarty, a former Boston transit policeman who had difficulty composing even a simple government memorandum, always made a point of appointing a good writer as his deputy. On the Secret Service management fast track, Sullivan was promoted rapidly. Assigned to Technical Security Division as a first-level supervisor, he revamped the entire White House electronic security system, allowing the Director to take the credit. His latest project was designing the security system for an international conference facility under construction inside the presidential retreat at Camp David.

Sullivan motioned for Powers to close the door. Powers complied.

"Cup of coffee, Jack?"

"No, thanks," Powers said. From the street below came the sound of a distant siren.

"What does this defector look like?"

Careful not to omit any details, Powers related what he'd learned from Nassiri, including the dates on the documents Nassiri said he'd seen. Without a word, Sullivan left his desk and moved to a large Diebold safe in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer, took out a folder, and thumbed the pages quickly. "Was Nassiri sure about the dates?"

"He didn't hesitate-"

"The shift reports show the President in residence at Camp David on April sixteen and May nine," Sullivan said softly. He closed the file and slid it back in the drawer. "What was the reaction of the spooks when you refused to tell them what Nassiri said?"

"Pissed off."