Paramour (8 page)

Sullivan returned to his desk. For a moment he just sat there, going over the notes he'd made as Powers briefed him. Finally, he swallowed. "Nassiri said Stryker may have had someone helping him, someone with high access?" he said, avoiding eye contact.

"Right."

"Maybe Marilyn Kasindorf."

"You know her?" Powers asked.

"The Special Projects Unit where she works is responsible for preparing intelligence summaries for the President, using information from the most sensitive CIA sources." He turned his swivel chair toward the window. "Was there anything else of hers in Stryker's place, anything other than the parking pass, that could tie him to her?"

"No. We checked everything."

"The kind of briefing documents Nassiri says he saw are stored in the Special Projects Office," Sullivan said numbly, as if traumatized. "Memoranda the President reads before every foreign policy meeting or visit by a head of state. National Security Council stuff. If this kind of information has been compromised it could explain the failure of the last summit meeting . . . For that matter, it could explain a lot of this administration's foreign policy problems in the Middle East."

Gloomily, Sullivan turned back to the desk and reached into his IN box for a folded copy of
Time
magazine. He handed it to Powers. On the People on the Move page, Sullivan's photo was in the upper right-hand corner under the caption THE PRESIDENT'S MAN. "I'm the youngest Deputy Director in the history of the U.S. Secret Service," he said flatly. "I didn't get here by being out on the running board with you, Jack. I made compromises."

"Aren't you being a little harsh on yourself?" Powers wondered why Sullivan, a most direct man, was suddenly turning the subject to himself.

Sullivan picked up a half-empty coffee cup and studied it. "There are three types of agents in Uncle Sam's Secret Service. Those like you who work the White House, those who work field investigations, and power-seekers like me, who scrape and scratch their way up the promotion ladder." He took a sip of coffee and set the cup down. "As a supervisor, my duties have little to do with the Secret Service, really. Hell, I could be working for General Motors-or the post office, for that matter-managing people, putting out fires, catering to the people above me on the ladder. What I do has little relation to protecting the President. Sometimes I wish I had just remained on the detail as a working agent."

Powers fidgeted uncomfortably. He'd never heard Sullivan, a formal man, bare his feelings in this way.

Sullivan stood up and sauntered to a steel office door at his right. Stenciled on the door in red letters were the words SECURE FACILITY. He tapped numbers on a cipher lock above the doorknob. There was a snap as the bolt opened electronically. The door was the thickness of a bank safe. With some effort, Sullivan pulled it open. He turned and motioned Powers to follow him inside.

In the soundproof 20-by-20-foot room was a long conference table with a thick see-through acrylic top and some clear plastic chairs. In the comer was a gray Diebold filing cabinet safe. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with a silvery metallic cloth called an "ear blanket." The material had been invented after years of research conducted by the Secret Service Technical Security Division to find a way of shielding the White House from intrusion by electronic eavesdropping. The fabric was reputed to be the ultimate protection from all known electronic eavesdropping equipment transmitting on any frequency in the world.

Sullivan flipped a wall switch activating the air conditioning, pulled the heavy door closed, and turned a bar latch locking them in.

The air conditioning came on in the room, and Powers felt a chill.

"Sorry about the air, but if I turn it off we'll suffocate in here," Sullivan said.

"No problem."

Sullivan rubbed his hands together briskly and looked up at the air-conditioning vent. "I've had GSA here to fix this air conditioning three times. They fiddle around with the thermostat for a while, then say it's fixed. But nothing changes." He coughed.

Seeking refuge from the air conditioner's direct breeze, Sullivan moved to the corner of the room and leaned back against the wall. "I want to thank you for the professional way you and Landry have been handling everything."

"No problem."
What the hell is going on?

"I've been playing the political game in this town ever since I became an agent," Sullivan said. "Maneuvering, backstabbing, playing both sides of the fence, making deals to get ahead. Four years ago, I made a decision as to who I thought had the best chance of being elected President. I pulled some strings and got myself assigned as a supervisor on his campaign protective detail and made a point of ingratiating myself with the staff-with the hope that after the election I would be their Secret Service man. Well, it worked. Since the President was elected I've had the inside track. The White House staff has come to confide in me more than they do the Director."

For Powers, the room seemed to grow smaller.

"Last week David Morgan informed me that when Fogarty retires I'll get the Directorship," Sullivan continued.

"Congratulations," Powers said, wondering what Sullivan was leading up to.

"It's everything I ever wanted, the culmination of all my hopes." Sullivan looked Powers in the eve. "It also means I'll be promoting people I trust. Like a guy named Jack Powers."

"Pete-"

"I consider you the best protection man in the outfit, Jack."

"I don't know what to say."

Sullivan cleared his throat. "I guess what I'm saying is that the immediate future is extremely bright for both you and me. That is, if we can get past this obstacle."

"Obstacle?"

"Over the years, David Morgan has come to trust me completely," Sullivan said. "He calls on me to handle sensitive tasks he doesn't even entrust to the closest members of his White House staff." He picked up a pencil and tapped it rapidly on his desk blotter. "If I let you in on this, there's no way back. You understand?"

"You'll have to transmit that in the clear for me, Pete. Are we talking about something more than Stryker's suicide?"

"We're talking embarrassment to the President," Sullivan said. "Actually, maximum embarrassment. I need you to conduct an in-house investigation ... a political chore. A varsity political chore so sensitive that once I let you in the tent you have to stay in."

Powers's throat suddenly felt dry. "You're saying that if I allow you to tell me, there's no backing out?"

Sullivan nodded.

Powers swallowed. "Is what I'll be asked to do legal?" he said after a pause.

"The mission itself isn't covered under specific Secret Service jurisdictional authority, if that's what you mean. But I can assure you it's not illegal. It will have to be handled on a strict need-to-know basis, but there's no hidden agenda, no trapdoor waiting to spring open. And if the going gets tough, I promise you won't get dropped like a hot spud."

Powers had been in the Secret Service long enough to fear the potential mire accompanying all unofficial or quasi-official investigations. "You and I were still in Training School during Watergate, Pete," he said. "I don't want to get involved in anything political now."

"This has political ramifications, but it's a matter affecting the national security."

Powers trusted Sullivan. Besides, being promoted to Agent-in-Charge of the White House Detail would mean a raise, a government car with home-to-work driving privileges, and the opportunity to set his own work schedule. "I'll handle the assignment," Powers said.

Sullivan swallowed twice. "The President has been having an affair with Marilyn Kasindorf," he said, in a barely audible tone.

Powers felt utter astonishment. Like all Secret Service agents, he knew a wealth of inside information about the personal lives of the Presidents and Vice Presidents and, for that matter, their wives and families and members of the cabinet and White House staff. Agents of the White House Detail discussed these tidbits among themselves, but never with anyone else. All special agents knew enough-hell, had forgotten enough-to fill any number of bestsellers with the details of White House behavior. But no agent had ever written a White House kiss-and-tell book.

The unwritten code inculcated in young Secret Service agents from the first day they came on duty was to listen a lot and say very little. In violation of civil service regulations, talkers, egotists, and braggarts were quietly transferred out of the White House to field duties in order to preserve the integrity of the detail: secrets within secrets protected by the secret keepers. But even on the scale of White House secrets, a presidential affair was a definite ten. Powers had never heard so much as a word about Marilyn Kasindorf or, for that matter, even any idle speculations about a presidential paramour.
 
In fact, the President was known among the jaded detail agents as "Pa Kettle" because of his preference for family life over flashy social functions. Powers couldn't remember him even telling an off-color joke. A private man more similar in personality to Nixon and Carter than, for instance, to Reagan or Bush, the President bored easily and was in the habit of leaving official functions early, a trait that pleased Powers and the other members of the White House Detail. They could count on getting off on time.

"Where?"

"Camp David."

How could the President manage an affair when all cars entering Camp David, including those of cabinet members, were inspected by the shift agent posted at the front gate? "I've never even seen her."

"David Morgan gives me a time and I arrange to be at the Camp David front gate when his limousine arrives. I wave him through. Even though the agent posted there is supposed to search all vehicles entering, he isn't going to countermand the Deputy Director."

Powers felt cold. "And she's behind smoked windows."

Sullivan nodded. "Right in the back seat. Morgan has used me to arrange meetings between the President and this woman since shortly after the inauguration."

Powers's palms felt sweaty. He took a deep breath and let it out.

"Presidents can withstand rumors about their personal life, but balling a spy at Camp David? Jesus. Watergate and Iran-gate would be nothing compared to that," Sullivan said glumly. "We're talking resignation or impeachment. Aces and eights. The sewer. An absolute presidential tits up." Sullivan was staring at him. "We need to put the lid on this, Jack. Lid on and screwed down tight. But at the same time we need to investigate--determine whether or not this woman is a spy. That'll be your job."

"How'd she meet the President?"

Sullivan sat back in his chair. "Morgan never told me, but I assume they've known each other since he was Director of the CIA," he said regretfully. "As you can imagine, I didn't grill Morgan as to the details of how the man and his girlfriend began their affair." He ran his hands through his hair.

"CIA employees are hidden in official records," Powers said. "If I conduct even routine records checks on her the word will get back."

"I don't want you to do any records checks."

"How can I investigate her without doing background-"

Sullivan interrupted. "Surveillance. I want you to surveil her. It's not going to be easy to do alone, but this matter is too sensitive to bring in anyone else."

"And if I prove she's a spy, what then?"

Sullivan swallowed. "The President himself will have to make that decision."

Powers allowed his eyes to shut for a moment. He imagined himself saying, Pete, with all due respect, I'm afraid I have to decline this assignment after all. It's a hot potato, and the risk of getting embroiled in a political adventure and ending up sitting in front of some hostile congressional investigating committee outweighs the lure of promotion. You can trust me not to say a word, but I'll just have to pass on this.