Severe Clear

11

At seven P.M. sharp, the doorbell rang, and Mike Freeman went to the door. A Secret Service agent in his early forties, athletically built, with salt-and-pepper hair, stood there.

“I’m Steve Rifkin,” the man said, offering his hand.

Mike shook it and pulled the man through the door, closing it behind him. “I’m Mike Freeman, Steve. It’s good to meet you at last. I’ve heard about you. Would you like a drink?”

“Well, since I’m not protecting anyone early tomorrow, I’d love a scotch on the rocks. How could you have heard of me?”

Mike mixed two drinks and handed his guest one. “We draw a lot of our people from various federal agencies, including the Secret Service. It’s part of my job to know who many of them are. I’ll tell you, I was very impressed that you were given this assignment. You’ve been in the protection end only a couple of years, haven’t you?”

“That’s correct,” Rifkin said. “I was doing investigative work before, but when I was assigned to the White House detail I took to it right away.”

“And the right people noticed,” Mike said, “including the president.”

“That’s the best reference I could have,” Rifkin said, “since it’s his life he’s putting in my hands.”

“Come outside and let’s enjoy the California evening,” Mike said, leading the way to a walled patio off the living room.

“I smell orange blossoms,” Rifkin said.

“Were you based in Florida for a time?”

“Oh, yes, Miami, working on counterfeiting cases. Funny how scents can be so evocative of times and places.”

“I hope you don’t mind, I’ve ordered onion soup and steaks for us. I’m told you like yours rare.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Rifkin replied. “That’s fine with me.”

The two men chatted idly for a few minutes, then Mike got down to business. “I hope my people have kept you sufficiently briefed on our end of this.”

“They’ve done a very good job of that,” Rifkin said.

“I’m afraid your people haven’t done all that good a job of briefing mine.”

“You’ll have to forgive us, Mike, we’re unaccustomed to sharing with outsiders, even those from other federal agencies. The more people who know our methods, the more leaks there could be.”

“I assume you’ve run your own checks on our people.”

“On your people and on every person who will be employed by this hotel or who will be a guest while the two presidents are here. By the way, I’m impressed with the backgrounds of your people, Mike.”

“But not sufficiently to be open with them.”

“The way I see it is you and I are running parallel but separate operations here. Your concern is for the safety of The Arrington’s guests and property, and ours is for the safety of the president of the United States and his guest, the president of Mexico. Where those operations overlap, we’ll be as helpful as we can, but it’s part of our standard operating procedure to see that our duties overlap with others’ as little as possible. It’s true of local police departments when the president travels, and it’s true of your people in this particular situation.”

“I understand that, believe me, and I’ll do my best to respect that view, as long as my people can do their jobs efficiently.”

“Of course. Two people have been hired in the past couple of days that I’d like to ask you about. One of them belongs to you.”

“Let me guess: Rick Indrisie.”

“Good guess. Can you guess why I’m concerned about him?” Jeff Rifkin asked.

“Because he’s to be right at the nerve center of our surveillance security, and because he’s so young.”

“Correct on both counts,” Rifkin conceded.

“You’ll have to take our word for it that Rick is qualified for his job,” Mike said. “We screen our people just as carefully as you do yours, and he has met or exceeded every qualification we’ve assigned to that task. As for his youth, I think that someone who has risen through a government bureaucracy sometimes has difficulty perceiving how a privately owned company can bring someone up through the ranks so quickly.”

“I take your point,” Rifkin said.

“From our point of view, Rick’s education and work experience make him a seasoned professional at twenty-eight, while in your operation, someone of that age might be thought of as green.”

“There’s truth in what you say, Mike. I myself managed to move up more quickly than is common in the Service.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen our file on Rick.”

“I have.”

“Then you’ll have to take our word that he’s the right man for the job-at least until your investigation of him turns up something to contradict that.”

“Fair enough,” Rifkin said.

“And I think the other man you’re worried about would be the German national, Hans Hoffman.”

“Once again, you’re ahead of me. Even though he’s not your employee, I’m sure that you’ve verified his educational and employment history,” Rifkin said, “but I wonder: have you investigated his political history?”

“One of the items on his employment application questioned that history, and Hoffman denied ever having been a member of any organization, not even a political party. In interviewing the people he’s worked for over the years, none of them has said anything to indicate that he’s not telling the truth. But the Secret Service should have access to various databases that we don’t, including the German intelligence services.”

“We do to some extent,” Rifkin agreed, “but we don’t always get the answers to our questions as quickly as we would like.”

“Then you should have a chat with somebody at Langley, to see if there’s anything about him in their databases.”

Rifkin smiled ruefully. “Of course, though we don’t always get from Langley even as much cooperation as we get from some foreign services.”

“Ah, yes: interagency rivalry rears its ugly head. Is there anything in particular that troubles you?”

“If anything, it’s because he is so outstandingly clean. There’s very little meat on that bone.”

“Well, I think you have to accept that there are outstandingly clean people in the world, Steve. Tell you what, I’ll see what our Berlin office can discover about Herr Hoffman.”

“That would be very helpful, Mike.”

The doorbell rang. “That will be our dinner, I think,” Mike said. “Shall we dine outside?”

“A little chilly for me.”

“Then let’s do it inside.” Mike led the way.

When they had finished dinner and Rifkin had left, Mike looked at his wristwatch. It was nine hours later in Germany, so, using his cell phone, he dialed the direct line for the head of his Berlin office.

“Peter von Enzberg,” a voice said.

“Peter, it’s Mike Freeman.”

“Good morning, Mike.”

“I have something I’d like for you to do, and as quickly as possible.”