Conspiracy

148

The presidential cavalcade whipped through the Paleys’ gates, sweeping by the armed Secret Service agents and their black SUVs flanking the road and driveway. The President’s car was admitted past a small barricade formed by police cars and Secret Service vehicles to a courtyard in front of the house. The rest of the fleet had to park on the driveway, aides and then reporters disgorging through a gauntlet of security people as they were shuffled toward the house.

Dean, sitting with the President in his car, could tell the aides were baffled by his decision to talk to the senator. It was obvious that, with the exception of Cohen, they didn’t know Marcke’s real reason for coming.

They probably wouldn’t have approved even if they did, Dean realized. They looked at things from a political point of view; it was their job, after all. But having spent his time watching Marcke, Dean had come to believe that the President wanted to confront McSweeney not because he was a political rival, but because Marcke was personally outraged that a senator could have betrayed his trust as an officer and a Marine during the war. He was going to call McSweeney on it.

It was, Dean thought, an overly idealistic, perhaps even naïve idea. And yet he completely agreed.

A pair of he li cop ters whipped overhead. While the Secret Service had already secured the house for McSweeney, they had redoubled their efforts because of Marcke. Agents armed with high-powered rifles with night scopes stood nearby.

While they were always present when the President traveled, generally they were a bit more subtle.

The head of the Secret Service detail came to the President’s car. Marcke, talking to a donor on the phone whom he was disappointing by changing his schedule, raised his finger for the agent to wait. The agent glanced at Dean wistfully, as if to say, Does he do this to you, too?

“What do we have?” Marcke asked when he got off the phone.

“Senator McSweeney is at the gate.”

“Well, let him through. He’s why we’re here.” The President made another call. By the time he was done, McSweeney’s car was parked a short distance away.

“Stay close, but in the background,” Marcke told Dean.

Then he got out and went to meet the senator.

“Senator, looks like we beat you here!” shouted Marcke.

“Mr. President,” said McSweeney, leaving his aides and bodyguards in the dust.

“Gideon, you’re looking very well,” said the President.

“Campaigning agrees with you.”

“It does, Jeff. As with you.”

The two men shook hands.

“I understand you’re not going to make the dedication tomorrow,” said McSweeney.

“No, the attempt on the Ira ni an prime minister has complicated the situation out there im mensely. The Israelis are being blamed and they’re bracing for an attack.”

“Were they behind it?”

“Not that we know.”

“Obviously, we have to support the Israelis,” said McSweeney.

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Come on in,” said McSweeney. “Have a drink.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal your thunder?”

“Ah. I already have their checks. Come on,” added McSweeney. “We can talk about this some more.”

“I do want to talk to you, yes,” said Marcke. He turned and motioned to Dean. “Charlie, come along with us.”

McSweeney froze for a second as soon as he saw Charles Dean step out of the shadows.

Good God, he thought to himself, Marcke knows everything.

Does he? Or was this some sort of bluff, designed to un-nerve him?

McSweeney glanced to his right, looking for Jimmy Fingers.

“I’m here,” said the aide.

“Actually, I think this would be better discussed between you and I,” said Marcke.

“Well you have your aide,” said McSweeney, smiling tightly. “I don’t want to be outnumbered.”

“Mr. Dean is along for informational purposes only.”

“I have a few things to do inside the house,” said Jimmy Fingers.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” said the President.

Jimmy Fingers, his back toward Marcke, rolled his eyes.

“Go ahead,” said McSweeney.

Maybe it was better that it was just him, he thought.

“So what’s this about, Jeff?” he asked the President. “Iran and Israel?”

“I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things,” said Marcke, starting toward the house.

When in doubt, deny, deny, deny, McSweeney told himself, hustling to keep up.