Iron Orchid

THREE

ROBERT KINNEY ARRIVED at his office at the Federal Bureau of Investigation promptly at nine a.m., still warm from the praise of the president at the news conference of the day before, announcing the resolution of the Theodore Fay affair, and from the extended sexual activity with his paramour, Nancy Kimble, following his proposal of marriage, which had been accepted.

His secretary, Helen Frankel, was just hanging up the phone as he walked past her desk. “Stop where you are,” she ordered.

Kinney stopped. “What?”

“That was the White House on the phone. The president wishes to see you immediately.”

“Right now?”

“Mr. Kinney,” Helen said, sighing.

“Okay, immediately is right now.”

“There’ll be a White House car waiting for you by the time you get to the garage.”

Kinney turned on his heel and headed for the garage. As he was entering the elevator, someone shouted his name. He turned to see one of his agents, Kerry Smith, walking rapidly toward him. “Later, Kerry,” he said, and the elevator door closed before Smith could reply.

There was, indeed, a White House car waiting for him in the garage. He folded his six-foot-five-inch frame into the rear seat, and twenty minutes later he was sitting in the office of Cora Parker, the president’s secretary.

“It won’t be long, Mr. Kinney,” Parker said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kinney replied.

“As I recall, you take it black with a carcinogenic,” she said, walking to a coffee pot nearby.

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but yes,” he replied.

“That stuff will eat your insides out,” she said.

“If that were true, Ms. Parker, I would have no insides.”

She handed him the cup. “If you don’t have time to finish it here, just take it in with you,” she said.

Kinney took a sip of the coffee, then looked up as the door to the oval office opened. His boss, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, stalked out of the office, red-faced and blinking rapidly. He glanced at Kinney, and his expression changed to one of hatred, then he was gone.

“You may go in now, Mr. Kinney,” Parker said.

Kinney stood up and tried to figure out what to do with his briefcase and the coffee in his hand. He set the coffee on her desk and walked into the Oval Office.

William Henry Lee IV, president of the United States, stood up to greet him. “Good morning, Bob,” he said, extending a hand.

Kinney shook it. “Good morning, Mr. President. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Lee waved him to a sofa and took a chair opposite him, while Cora Parker set down Kinney’s coffee on a table next to him.

“Well, events move quickly sometimes,” the president said. “Once again, my congratulations on wrapping up the Fay affair so well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kinney didn’t bother with any self-deprecating talk about the teamwork involved, since he considered himself principally responsible for the outcome.

“Anything new on the search for wreckage and a body?”

So this was why he had been called over here, Kinney thought. “The Coast Guard has found numerous pieces of the wreckage, none bigger than the size of your hand. It was, apparently, a very powerful bomb. Chances are, the body is in pieces just as small and is fish food by now, so there’s not likely to be an autopsy.”

“Bob, I’d like you to be the new director of the FBI,” Lee said, “effective immediately.”

Kinney tried not to choke on his coffee. “Sir? Is James Heller ill?”

“If he says he is. Figuratively speaking, he’s dead,” Lee replied. “I accepted his resignation five minutes ago for personal or health reasons. Whatever he decides. He’ll be out of the Hoover Building inside of an hour.”

“I see,” Kinney said.

“Do you accept?”

“Mr. President, I’d like to know what my brief as director would be.”

Lee gazed at him. “To shake the organization to its roots; to improve every facet of its operations, particularly criminal and terrorist investigations; to build bridges to the CIA and other intelligence organizations; to change its self-serving and standoffish culture with regard to those organizations and law enforcement agencies all over the country; to weed out the deadwood and promote the able. I think that about does it. Sound familiar?”

Indeed it did, Kinney thought. It was virtually a quote from a memo the president had recently asked him to write to him. “It sounds very good, Mr. President. I’d be honored and very pleased to accept.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Lee said. “I’ll be issuing a formal appointment today, and someone will be in touch to iron out the details. One other thing: in view of the constant threat of terrorist attack, I want your first order of business to be a thorough review of the Bureau’s own security, both in Washington and at every field office. I want it strengthened, where necessary. And I’ve decided that the director should live in secure government housing, so someone will be discussing a few choices with you. I hear you live in some awful bachelor digs, anyway, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy the change.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m sure I will, especially since I’m planning to be married very soon.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Her name is Nancy Kimble. She lives in Chester, South Carolina, and I met her when I went down there to investigate Fay’s murder of Senator Wallace.”

“Oh, the innkeeper you were bunking with?”

Kinney blushed. “Sir?”

“Relax, it was in your file. I think Heller took some pleasure in noting it.”

Kinney gulped. “I see.”

Lee shrugged. “Everybody’s entitled to a sex life, but don’t quote me as having said that; I’d be explaining for weeks.”

“Of course not, sir.”

Lee slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and stood up. “Well, why don’t you and I take a stroll down to the White House Press Room and surprise the boys and girls with an announcement, then you can get back to the Bureau and move into your new office.”

Kinney stood up and grabbed his briefcase. “Yes, sir.”

They walked out of the Oval Office, and Cora Parker snatched Kinney’s coffee cup as he passed.

“By the way,” the president said as they walked down the hallway, trailed by Secret Service agents, “I hope you’ll make a special effort to get along with my wife.” Katharine Rule Lee was the director of Central Intelligence. “Because if you don’t, there’ll be hell to pay at home.”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

“See that you do.”

The president’s press secretary fell into step with them, and they continued on toward the press room.

Kinney couldn’t wait to call Nancy.