Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 21

“Easy for you to say,” Larry mumbled to himself as he got off the phone with Edward. “I’ve got the whole of the U.S. intelligence community out to get me, and you want me to walk into the Secret Service and persuade them that I know what’s best for the president.”

In a universe where no one was where he was supposed to be but wanted you to leave your name and number after the beep and they would get back to you soon, Larry in his precarious situation was somewhat constrained. He had to make direct contact on a personal level with a person he couldn’t reach. There was no one he could leave his name and number with, no one he could trust not to send in the crew-cuts to pick him off. As regards all the legitimate channels, Larry was persona non grata.

He had one hope. Years back, he had shared a convivial evening with an up-and-coming Secret Service operative, his wife, and a few other guests at their home in Silver Spring. James Fenton and Larry had always gotten along well when their professional paths had crossed, something that happened quite frequently after Larry was transferred to headquarters at Langley and saddled with a desk. Larry knew that if the whole damn world went berserk, Fenton would be standing there against all odds, defending his president.

Larry had no phone number and wouldn’t have risked it even if he had. But maybe, if he could just remember where the house was…

By the time Jean-Pierre had the minibus fueled and ready to go, Mario had already rounded up the platoon, and they were getting ready to move.

Standing in the living room was a group of people who until only days ago had been strangers to one another, with nothing in common except a shared background. They were now a cohesive unit. They could read each other’s gestures and had an abundance of the inside jokes that were the fruit of tough training and mutual trust.

Larry opened an attaché case and handed each of them an envelope. “There’s a grand apiece,” he said. “We’re going to the airport together. You’re all going to catch the same flight, but you each buy your own ticket. We don’t want to attract any attention. You can leave behind whatever you don’t need for the operation. It will all be here when you come back.”

“If we come back,” Doug Findley said.

They all laughed in approval.

“Okay,” said Larry, playing along, “if you come back your stuff will be here. If not, we’ll have a garage sale, okay?”

Within half an hour, they were on their way to LaGuardia Airport, still telling morbid jokes and laughing. Larry gave them the location of the airfield where the stolen 747 was waiting. One of the pilots was still with the plane, and Larry assured them that once they got to the airfield they would have quite a bit of work to do. “Get some rest on the flight over, and don’t get yourselves plastered.”

Larry dropped the somewhat rowdy bunch at LaGuardia, reminding them to be on their best behavior as there was no time to bail anyone out of trouble. “If you get yourselves into shit, you’re out of this game and on your own.”

Next, Larry drove Sparky to JFK Airport, with instructions to call Edward from London with the details of his flight into Moscow. Then he got on the road again, heading southwest.

Traffic was heavy on Highway 95, and it seemed to take much longer than usual to drive to Washington. Larry’s chest was aching, and at times he had the feeling he was not going to make it. He would have preferred to fly, but not having any false documents to buy tickets, he wasn’t going to risk the registration. Flying from Utah to New York had been a calculated risk, but flying into Washington was asking for trouble. He was too well known on the Beltway to pass unnoticed.

By the time he got to Silver Springs, it was already midafternoon. Now to find the house. He drove through a maze of suburban streets, following a vague memory and a clear instinct. Almost without conscious effort, he found himself on a quiet street with large, red brick houses nestling in deep green foliage. Which one was it? He remembered asking himself the same question the first time he had come here. Then he remembered that it was the house with the tall pine tree in the front garden. He rang the bell.

When the door opened, she was exactly as he remembered her: brown bob of hair, lots of teeth, a friendly face. It took her a moment to place him, but then she was all smiles.

“Larry! Yes, of course I remember. Come right in. Here, let me take your coat.”

She sat in a leather armchair and waved Larry to the sofa.

Larry remained standing. “Sorry I can’t stay,” he said. “It’s business, you see. Is Jim around?”

She frowned slightly.

“I really need to get ahold of him. It’s urgent.”

Mrs. Fenton made a face. “You just missed him, I’m afraid. He’s going to England with you-know-who. He left about a half hour ago.”

“I see. Oh, boy.”

“Can I help? I mean, what’s this all about?”

“Nothing, just business.”

“Don’t give me that, Larry. Jim doesn’t bring his work home. Tell me, maybe I can help.”

“I need to talk to him. It has to do with the president.”

Her expression became serious. “Why don’t you call the office?”

“I don’t know who I can trust. It’s a long story, but I know I can trust your husband.”

“That you can, but you better not be playing games with him, Larry. He can be very mean if you play games with him.”

“This is not a game.” He walked over to the door, then turned back to face her. “I understand your concern, but you have to trust me. I believe it was your husband who kept saying that good security is ninety percent gut instinct.”

She nodded, smiling, as if she enjoyed her husband’s sayings even when repeated by others.

“I need to talk to him in person, and not some aide or another. Do you know where he’ll be staying in London?”

“Larry, I’m surprised at you. You know I couldn’t tell you that, even if I knew. The best I can do is talk to him about you when he calls. If he wants to speak to you, he’ll give me a number for you to call.”

Larry knew she had an emergency number she could call and reach him. It was one of the few perks of being married to the president’s praetorian guard. He also knew she couldn’t tell him about it. He decided to play along. “That’s great.” Larry smiled and gave a little bow. “I would very much appreciate that and will be in your debt forever.”

“Don’t overdo it, Larry. By the way, is the president in any immediate danger, I mean in the next few hours?”

He realized she’d been around this block more than once. “No, not in the next few hours.”

“So call me back later tonight.”

“Thanks again.” Larry walked out with a degree of hope, which was something.

He headed back to New York, but after an hour of driving he realized it was going to be too much for him. His chest was hurting and he needed to take his medication, which in itself was draining his strength. He checked into a roadside motel and decided it was as good a place as any to while away the time until he could make the call.

By 7:45 he could wait no more. He called back Mrs. Fenton. She had spoken to her husband, who had said he could be reached at the Grosvenor Hotel in London the following day. Larry thanked her again. He set his alarm for 3 a.m. That, he estimated, should give enough time for the president and his entourage, which included Mr. Fenton, to get there. He then grabbed a few hours’ sleep.

When the alarm went off, Larry was already awake. His inner clock and the importance of the job in hand combined to make a very potent wake-up call. He showered and got coffee and doughnuts from the all-night diner. Then it was time to call. Using Edward’s phone card, he dialed the Grosvenor Hotel in London.

“I believe you have a guest there by the name of James Fenton?”

“Just a moment, sir, I’ll check.”

Larry thought Richard Townes and Bud Hays were probably along for the trip. He was convinced that at least one of those two men would sooner see him dead than succeed in what he was trying to do. It was still hard for him to believe that someone so close to the president could be working against him. But a question arose from that: Was the man knowingly working against American interests, or did he believe that it was precisely those interests he was working for? Or was it all just money?

Larry’s only chance to get something done was Fenton. He had to make the man listen.

The receptionist came back on the line. “We do have a guest by that name, sir, but he’s not answering his phone. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, I’ll call back.”

By the time dawn broke, Larry was back on the road.