The Devil's bed

The president smiled and nodded his head. “Every morning when I get out of bed I have to pop things back into place that got knocked out playing ball. I know about sore.” He indicated a door to Bo’s left.

“Lunch is ready. Shall we eat?”

They were served by a navy steward in the president’s private dining room just off the Oval Office.

“I hope you like fish,” Clay Dixon said. “It’s Chilean sea bass.”

“I understand the White House kitchen staff works miracles with everything.”

The president laughed. “So you don’t like fish. Honest but diplomatic. An admirable combination for D.C. I wish there were more of it here, especially the honest part.”

“I lived and worked in the capital for a lot of years. I know men and women here honest to a fault. On the other hand, not one of them is a politician. The sea bass is excellent, by the way.”

The president sipped from a glass of mineral water. “I understand the First Lady and my daughter had a wonderful time playing football with you yesterday.”

“You have a fine family, sir.”

“Thank you. I think so, too. If I recall correctly, you were adopted, yes?”

“Not legally. But official papers don’t always tell the whole story.”

“They don’t, do they,” Dixon said.

After they’d eaten, the president suggested a walk in the rose garden, which was odd, for it was a muggy day out. After a bit, Clay Dixon removed his suit coat and slung it over his shoulder as they strolled. In a few minutes, they were joined by Lorna Channing.

“Bo,” the president said, “you came close to being killed saving my wife. How do you feel about that?”

“About protecting her, pretty good. Not so good about some of the rest of the incident.”

“The agents who were killed, were they friends of yours?”

“Some, yes.”

The president paused and stared across the bright green lawn, beyond the Ellipse, toward the Washington Monument, jutting like a bony finger above the trees.

“I asked you here because I believe you’re a man of great integrity, and I need your help. I was supposed to leave for the Pan-American summit first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve delayed departure so that I can attend Robert Lee’s funeral.”

“I was sorry to hear about his death.”

“I know Lorna explained to you already that I don’t think Bobby’s death was an accident.”

“I thought the FBI determined it was.”

“As you said, official papers don’t always tell the whole story. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I think there’s something going on that may have compromised the integrity of the FBI investigation.” He glanced at the White House. “And the integrity of my own security as well.”

For the next dozen minutes, Dixon related the events that had brought him to that startling conclusion.

“What is it you want from me?” Bo said.

“To find out what Bobby knew or was about to learn that made it incumbent on someone to have him killed.”

“Someone? Mr. President, from what you’ve told me it sounds as if you think your father is involved.”

“I do. I’m concerned about the integrity of the White House staff as well.”

“Why me?”

“You’re a trained investigator. You risked your life in the line of duty. And you’re outside the network here.”

“There’s no one here you trust?”

“Someone I trust may already have betrayed me.”

Bo looked behind him. Under the pillared colonnade, two Secret Service agents stood post near the French doors that opened into the Oval Office. He didn’t know them. They looked grim and focused. He wondered what they thought of Dixon, the man whose life might someday require the sacrifice of their own.

Dixon said, “I don’t know what you think of me personally, but this situation transcends any personal consideration. It’s a matter of national security, with implications far beyond who I am as a man or as a president. Your country needs your help, Bo. Will you give it?”

Bo said, “Yes.”

“Thank you.” The president warmly shook his hand.

Bo glanced at Channing. “I’ve given this some thought. I’ll need a way to communicate with the White House that doesn’t raise suspicions.”

“You can communicate with me directly,” Channing said.

“I should use a code name,” Bo suggested.

“All right.”

“How about Peter Parker?”

Channing cast him a questioning look.

“Are you familiar with the comic book hero Spider-Man?” Bo said.

She shook her head.

The president smiled. “Peter Parker is Spider-Man’s real name, Lorna.”

Channing said, “Peter Parker it is.”

Bo left the White House carrying a large manila envelope, and he went straight to his hotel. He took off his blazer, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his white shirt. He bent to the small refrigerator and took a bottle of Heineken from the refreshments supplied by the hotel. He popped the cap off and carried the cold beer to the desk near the window. He picked up the envelope, dumped out the contents, and sat down to work.