Capitol Conspiracy

19

Agent Max Zimmer stared at the framed photograph in the hallway, hoping he might draw some strength from it before he proceeded with the extremely unpleasant task that lay before him. The photo was of Leslie Coffelt, the only member of the Secret Service (at the time, it was called the White House Police Force) to die while protecting the president. In 1950, President Truman was living in Blair House, because the White House was being renovated. Two Puerto Rican nationalists opened fire on the temporary residence. Even though he had taken three shots to his chest, Coffelt returned fire, killing one of the assassins and wounding the other. As a result, they did not penetrate the perimeter and the president was saved, but Coffelt subsequently died of his wounds. He was, some believed, the greatest hero in the history of the Service.

And who am I, Zimmer wondered, compared to a man like Coffelt? I’m the screwup who let the first lady be killed.

He would never be a hero. The name Zimmer would never be remembered in that way, and his photo was not likely to ever be hanging on this wall. Not after the way he’d bungled that job.

But at least he’d gotten himself out of that darkened office. He knew there was only one way he could in any tiny measure make up for what had happened. And that was to get to the bottom of the matter. To understand what had really happened, and why.

And then do something about it.

This would probably cost him his job, he realized, and maybe more than that. But it was something he had to do.

He turned the doorknob and entered Gatwick’s office.

He had expected to find the senior agent poring over reports, trying to uncover the magical lead that might finally give them some confirmation about whether Saifullah was behind the April 19 attack-or if not, who was. That’s what virtually every other available agent in the department was doing. Instead, he was sitting at what appeared to Zimmer to be a miraculously neat desk polishing his weapon-what the other agents commonly referred to as “masturbating.” Zimmer was familiar with the common association made by Freudian analysts about a man’s gun, but he thought that was carrying it a bit too far.

Gatwick looked up at Zimmer, nodded, then returned to his work. “Good to see you up and about, buddy. Guess Dr. Dobson does better work than I realized.”

“It wasn’t the shrink who got me out of my funk,” Zimmer said defensively, although privately, he knew those sessions had helped. She told him he needed to confront his guilt, rather than wallow in it. She had been right.

“What was it then?”

“My own self,” he said, considering for a moment how exactly to put it. “My personal need to see a job to its completion.”

Gatwick continued polishing. “I assume that means you’re going to join the task force trying to track down the perpetrators. We need all the help we can get.”

“That-isn’t exactly what I meant,” Zimmer explained slowly, “when I said I needed to see this job to its completion.”

Gatwick finished polishing and carefully slapped the ammunition magazine back into the handle of the gun. “What did you mean?”

Zimmer licked his lips, trying to remain steady. “I’ve been reviewing the videotape of the attack. Media stuff.”

“Yeah. The team downstairs has confiscated and reviewed every piece of tape known to exist.”

“But they aren’t looking at the same parts I reviewed,” Zimmer said. “I was looking at some outtake shots, stuff that never aired.” He took a deep breath. “I was looking at footage taken before the shooting began.”

The creases at the corners of Gatwick’s eyes evinced his puzzlement. “And you find that useful in some way?”

“I find it interesting. Specifically, the arrangement of the chairs.”

Gatwick laid down his gun. “Zimmer, you’re talking in circles, and frankly it’s making my head hurt. What is it you’re trying to say?”

“What I’m trying to understand,” he said carefully, “is why a chair had been placed on the left side of the stage for the first lady…before you announced your decision to move her there.”

“I’m not following.”

“I’ve reviewed a lot of tape, Tom. I saw the way the stage was originally arranged-with the first lady’s chair on the right where it usually is for Domino Bravo. Then I saw you step to the stage and move it.” Zimmer rested one hand on the desk. “You knew you were going to move her, Tom. Long before you did it. Or at least, long before you announced it. You had already decided to deviate from Domino Bravo.”

Gatwick appeared nonplussed. “Yeah, you’re right. I saw the moment I took the stage that the arrangement wasn’t the most advantageous, so I adjusted it to make it better. That’s my job.”

“Not exactly. We didn’t know yet that Marshall was out of the picture. So why would you override his authority? Unless you…knew something.”

Gatwick leaned forward slowly in his chair. “What exactly are you suggesting, Max?”

“I’m attempting to gather information. I’m not suggesting anything.”

“Are you sure? Because it really sounds a hell of a lot like you’re suggesting that I somehow knew that Marshall had been kidnapped and tortured at a time when I couldn’t possibly know it.” He paused, staring at Zimmer with steely eyes. “Unless I was in on it.”

Zimmer stared right back at him, not saying a word.

“And coming at a time when we’re all wondering if the assassin had inside assistance,” Gatwick continued, “this is a particularly disturbing accusation.”

“I haven’t made an accusation.”

“Then what the hell would you call it?” Gatwick’s teeth clenched tightly together. “Do you know how many years I’ve been with the Service? Do you know what I’ve sacrificed? My whole life, practically. My family. My ex-wife.”

“Is that why you lost your wife? Or was it something else?”

Gatwick’s eyes widened like fiery coins. “You filthy little-I will not be tried and hanged based on locker room rumors.”

“I haven’t done anything like that,” Zimmer said, although he knew that wasn’t entirely true. “I’m just trying to understand why you took authority that was not, at that time, yours to command. Why you violated protocol and moved the first lady.”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“Domino Bravo would’ve protected her. Your changes killed her.”

“Are you sure that’s what it was, Max?” Gatwick said, rising slowly to his feet. “Or was it maybe your own incompetence?”

“You son of a-”

“All I know is you were supposed to protect her while the rest of us covered the president. And you let her get killed.”

“Let her!” Zimmer felt his fists clenching so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “I did my best.”

“You should’ve taken the bullet.”

“I tried. I didn’t know where the shots were coming from.”

“Everyone else did. There probably was only one shooter. Were you confused because you panicked? Or because you are just fundamentally incompetent?”

Zimmer tried his best to swallow the bile and rage rising in his throat. He knew what Gatwick was doing. Trying to deflect Zimmer’s inquiries by creating phantom issues of his own. He had done everything he could to save Emily Blake. But he still felt guilty about what had happened to her and Gatwick knew it. He was exploiting the younger agent’s guilt to the best of his very great ability.

“I’m a good agent,” Zimmer said as calmly as he could manage. “You know that. I’ve been decorated twice. That’s why I’m on the presidential detail.”

“Your medals didn’t help the first lady.”

“Neither did you moving her into the sniper’s direct line of fire.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” Gatwick shouted. Whatever cool he had been maintaining was gone now. “The sniper was after the president. The first lady was collateral damage.”

“That’s what we’ve all assumed. But we don’t really know, do we?”

“Even if she were a target, we had no way of knowing the move would put her in the sniper’s path.”

“Well, certainly I had no idea.”

“You bastard,” Gatwick spat out.

“You’re getting very excited for a man who has nothing to hide. All I’ve done is state facts. If Emily Blake had not been moved, she would still be alive today.”

“Do you think I wanted her to die?” Gatwick screamed, totally out of control. “I’ve known her since I was in college. I loved her! ” His face froze the instant the words escaped. He moved his lips again, but nothing emerged. Some words could never be retracted, no matter how much you tried to explain.

Zimmer couldn’t help but notice that Gatwick was still holding his gun. Standard protocol was to unload while cleaning, but he’d seen Gatwick load it. Gatwick held the gun limply, but that could change in less than a half second.

“So it’s true,” Zimmer said quietly.

“Don’t-don’t misunderstand me,” Gatwick said, stumbling to assemble an explanation. “I’m not saying that anything…inappropriate occurred. I’m just saying I loved her. Hell, the whole country loved her.”

“Tom…”

“And don’t go spreading what I said all around the office. You know what will happen if that hits the rumor mill. Everyone will be talking.”

“They already are. Tom-I think we need to have a talk with Director Lehman.”

“I’m telling you, there was no unprofessional contact between the first lady and me.”

“Then you have nothing to fear from talking to Director Lehman.”

“I do if you try to twist this into something it isn’t.”

“Tom, you have to come clean about this. If there’s any chance-”

“If I were having an affair with Emily,” Gatwick shouted, “do you think I would want her to die?”

Zimmer paused.

“I mean, does that make any sense?” Gatwick crumbled back into his seat. “When you hold someone so…dear. So special. Do you think I would want her to come to harm? Do you think I would want her to be killed by a sniper’s bullet?” His head fell onto the desk. “I was trying to protect her. And I failed.” He drew in his breath. “It wasn’t you that failed, Max. It was me. You think I don’t know that?” His voice became barely more than a whisper. “It was me.”

Zimmer let himself out of the office quietly, unsure what to do. Should he report this to Director Lehman? Was there anything to report? Even if an affair did occur, it proved nothing. The fact that Gatwick moved the first lady proved nothing.

There had never been a turncoat, never a traitor, never once in the history of the Secret Service.

Was it possible he had just left the office of the first?

Zimmer stopped for a cup of coffee on his way back to his office, hoping a caffeine jolt would clear his head. One thing was certain: before he said anything to anyone, he needed more information. So he would find it.