The Devil's bed

He contemplated the wisdom of calling the field office in Minneapolis and telling them everything he knew and everything he suspected. Several considerations held him back. In the first place, there was the time a call like that would take. They’d have him located in a matter of moments, and they’d descend on him with extreme prejudice. If they took him into custody, NOMan would know exactly where he was. Bo wasn’t eager to become a stationary target for an organization that may well have infiltrated the Secret Service in the way it had other agencies. He could easily be killed before he had a chance to state his case. He’d end up just one more incident discussed by conspiracy theorists on the Internet.

He considered spilling the whole story to the newspapers. Again, no guarantee his allegations would make it into print. He had no proof of anything. If Tom Jorgenson didn’t offer supporting testimony and if NOMan called off the hit and nothing happened, he’d be labeled loonier than ever.

The most hopeful strategy would be to anticipate their move and intercept them. This ran contrary to all his training and to the protective doctrine of the Secret Service, which was to cover the protectee and evacuate. But evacuate where? Under assault by an organization as ubiquitous, invisible, and determined as NOMan, was any place safe?

Bo was exhausted. He lay back on the blanket, looked up at the empty night sky, and thought about Kate. He wondered what she must think of him now. Probably, she was thinking he was insane and she was lucky that he hadn’t gone berserk when they’d been alone together.

The sound of thunder came from far away, but Bo didn’t see any lightning. A few drops hit him in the face. Great. On top of everything else, it was going to rain.

chapter forty-three

President Daniel Clay Dixon was somewhere over North Carolina. Sitting alone in his private compartment aboard Air Force One, he took a moment to look up from the White House news summary and appreciate the color of the evening sky. It looked like a great fire was burning somewhere beyond the Blue Ridge. Then he took another moment to sit back and close his eyes.

He was feeling good. The Pan-American summit had gone well, ended with a signing of a good-faith agreement by all the heads of state in attendance. The president had been accorded the honor of giving the closing address, and his words had been received with a standing ovation. He felt that something significant had been accomplished. In his presidency thus far, that had been a rare feeling.

He was about to return to reading the news summary, a document prepared for him four times daily, when his phone rang.

“Mr. President, Lorna Channing is on the line.”

“Go ahead,” Dixon said. “Lorna, what’s up?”

“Have you read your news summary?”

“I’m just doing it now. Something I should know?”

“Page three.”

Dixon thumbed the summary and saw what concerned Lorna.

A brief article reported that Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru, head of the Minneapolis field office of the Secret Service, had been found shot to death in her St. Paul home. Authorities were searching for Special Agent Bo Thorsen, who was wanted for questioning in the shooting death. Thorsen’s car was found at the victim’s home, and neighbors reported that a man matching Thorsen’s description had been observed in the area just prior to the time of death. Earlier in the day, Thorsen reportedly instigated an altercation involving Ishimaru. Thorsen was currently under suspension from his duties pending a formal inquiry into the events surrounding the attempted assassination of the First Lady at her family home in Minnesota.

“Christ, what’s going on?” Dixon said.

“If you believe the reports, our man’s gone postal.”

“Has he contacted you?

“Not a word. I didn’t even know he’d left D.C. I’ve talked with Stanton. He’ll be here when you arrive. I thought it would be best if we were briefed together.” She was talking about Gerald Stanton, director of the Secret Service.

“Good.” The president glanced out the window again, at the sky that seemed to reflect a distant fire.

“John Llewellyn’s got a burr under his saddle,” Lorna said. “He’s talking resignation.”

“Maybe that won’t be necessary.”

“No?”

“Maybe I’ll just fire him.”

Stanton was a big, strong-looking man with a wide face, gray hair, and a glare that he wielded like a stone ax. A veteran of more than a quarter century with the Secret Service, he had, among other assignments, headed the POTUS detail for two presidents. While he was always respectful of the office of the chief executive, he’d seen too much of the human side of the presidency to be intimidated by the man who occupied the Oval Office.

Stanton sat in a wing chair and Channing in another. The president sat on the sofa opposite them.

“What have you got?” Dixon asked.

“From the beginning,” Stanton said. “One. Wednesday afternoon, Agent Thorsen tried to get into Wildwood. When he was denied access-”

“Denied?”