The Devil's Banker

Chapter 60

The couples passed through the front door of the White House, the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Upon entering, each presented their engraved invitation to the social secretary, who in turn read the name to one of the younger, handsomer agents assigned to the White House detail. The agent checked the name against the list of invitees and nodded his approval that they enter. Heightened security demanded that all handbags be passed through a metal detector, neatly disguised to resemble a polished oak hutch. Vapor detectors, designed to sniff out conventional explosives and radiation sensors remained hidden.

Michael Fitzgerald kept his distance from the arriving guests. For most, attending a state dinner was the invitation of a lifetime. It was to be an elegant affair, and security, though rigorous, was to be invisible.

“Hey, Fitz,” came a voice in his earpiece. “The Frenchie’s here. Black dress, white jacket, pearls. She’s a looker.”

“She got Glendenning in tow?”

“Don’t see him yet.”

“Hold her,” said Fitzgerald. “I’ll be right there.”

Fitzgerald moved out of the shadows and approached Claire Charisse. She was a dazzler, he thought. Those flashing brown eyes were capable of luring the most faithful husband away from his wife. He was more concerned, however, about Glendenning’s absence. Putting on his diplomat’s smile, he took the woman’s arm.

“Excuse me, Miss Charisse, but would you mind coming with me?”

A broad smile greeted him. “Certainly.”

“You are the guest of Admiral Glendenning?”

“I’m afraid Glen’s been delayed. Work.”

“Will he be arriving soon?”

“Frankly, I do not know. It concerns the terrorists in Paris. One of his men has been arrested.”

Zee terrorrr-eeests. The accent was a little too strong for Fitzgerald’s ear. He wondered if she was pouring it on for his behalf.

He steered her toward the doorway that permitted access to the elevators that would take the guests upstairs. A knot of guests was backed up at the checkpoint, cheerfully presenting their handbags for inspection, allowing his agents to run metal detectors over their bodies. He thought he’d clear her through security and have her take a seat until Glendenning arrived. Just then, he remembered that she was ill and receiving radioisotope therapy. His deputy had spoken with her doctor in Geneva and confirmed her course of treatment. Metastron. Doxorubicin. Cyclophosphamide. She was a walking radioactive cocktail. The moment she got near one of the Investigator Radiation Screeners embedded in the wall, the alarm would start screaming like a banshee. Fitzgerald changed direction. He had no intention of causing a scene. Safer to take her up the back way. He’d screen her himself.

“Would you mind if I phoned him to confirm?” he asked.

“Not at all.” Claire rattled off his work number at the CIA. “If there’s any problem at all, I’d be happy to stay with you until he comes. To tell you the truth, I’m not quite up to such a radiant affair. Glen insisted. Perhaps I can sit down while you call.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” Fitzgerald had to catch himself. He’d almost addressed her as “madame.” He led her up two stairs to a bank of Louis XV chairs set against the main stairwell. “If you please… oh, and watch your step. The carpet’s come up a bit-”

It was too late. As soon as he uttered the warning, she caught her heel on a bulge in the carpet. Fitzgerald reached for her arm a second late and could only bear witness as her ankle turned beneath her and she collapsed to one knee. The woman let out a pathetic cry.

“Miss Charisse, please allow me to…” Then he saw it, and he knew he had to get her out of the entry hall PDQ. The wig. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

She was holding her ankle and her cheeks had grown taut and pale. “I’m so sorry,” she said, dazed. “I’m so clumsy these days.”

Christ, thought Fitzgerald, how do you tell a sick dame her wig’s coming off? “Ma’am, please excuse me for saying it, but your hair… it’s uh…”

The woman’s hands flew to her head. Appalled, he could see her eyes dashing from one guest to the next, anticipating their impolite stares. She tried to stand, but fell back again. He heard an angry sniff, and he thought, No, not on my watch. He wasn’t going to have another Mrs. Hersh start bawling in the main entrance of the White House with fifty of the country’s most important movers and shakers on their way to what was supposed to be the dinner of their lives.

Gently, he lifted her by the arm and guided her past the brace of agents blocking access to the stairs, around the maroon velvet rope behind them, and directly upstairs to a private bathroom off the Blue Room restricted for “Buckskin” himself. When she emerged a few minutes later, Fitzgerald had forgotten all about phoning Admiral Owen Glendenning. He was thinking that it had been a stupid idea even to question the woman. She worked at the World Health Organization. A do-gooder. And Glendenning? The man was a medal winner. The goddamned medal. As close a thing to a hero as they minted these days.

“Enjoy yourself, ma’am,” said Fitzgerald, all but doffing an invisible cap as he escorted her into the throng of guests enjoying predinner cocktails and the music of the Marine Band in the Blue Room. “If you need anything, just ask for me. Michael Fitzgerald. The boys all know me.”

“You’re most kind, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Fitzgerald watched her until she’d disappeared into the crowd. Quick recovery, he thought. She barely had a limp.