LITMIR.BIZ

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flying off in the helicopter. They were given about four hours’ notice.’

      A member of the cleaning crew stopped at their table, a dignified-looking Hispanic. He asked Emma politely if she’d be leaving soon so his crew could finish cleaning up. Emma just stared at the poor guy until he backed away, bowing, making apologies in two languages.

      ‘And there’s something else that’s bothering Banks,’ DeMarco said.

      ‘Oh?’ Emma said.

      ‘Yeah. Patrick Donnelly. He says Donnelly’s response to the warning note was out of character. I don’t know how long Donnelly has been director of the Secret Service but—’

      ‘A long time,’ Emma said.

      ‘—but according to Banks he doesn’t have a reputation as a guy who goes out on a limb and he certainly doesn’t go out on a limb for his agents. Banks said he was surprised that Donnelly didn’t try to get the Chattooga River trip canceled just to cover his ass. At a minimum, he should have switched out the agents assigned to the inside ring, but he didn’t do that either.’

      ‘I agree,’ Emma said. ‘So why didn’t he?’

      ‘Banks doesn’t know, but it’s just one more thing that’s making him nervous.’

      ‘I’ll tell you another thing that would make me nervous if I was Banks,’ Emma said.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Why didn’t the person who wrote that letter send it to Donnelly, the guy directly in charge of the Secret Service, instead of Banks?’

      ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ DeMarco said.

      Emma was silent for a moment before saying, ‘So why doesn’t Banks just call up the FBI, tell ’em about the warning letter, and let them investigate?’

      ‘He says he’s not willing to unleash a media hurricane about Secret Service involvement in the assassination attempt based solely on his gut feeling. And he’s particularly not willing to do that now that they’ve got Edwards’s suicide note.’

      ‘So he wants you looking into this instead of the Bureau?’

      ‘Yeah. At least I won’t leak the story to the Post. Well, maybe not.’

      ‘I guess you’re better than nothing,’ Emma muttered.

      ‘Thanks for that vote of confidence, Ms Emma, but frankly I agree with you and that’s what I told Mahoney. But once I told him Donnelly was acting weird on this thing, he insisted I get involved.’

      ‘What’s Mahoney have against Donnelly?’

      ‘I don’t know. And there’s one other thing: Banks doesn’t think Donnelly really had that note analyzed.’

      ‘He thinks Donnelly lied to him?’ Emma said.

      ‘Yeah. Banks doesn’t think there was enough time to check the letter out, not if they analyzed for DNA and questioned people and stuff like that. And when I told Mahoney that, his big ears really perked up.’

      ‘From what I’ve heard about Donnelly,’ Emma said, ‘I suppose anything’s possible.’ She ran a hand through her short hair as she thought over everything DeMarco had told her. ‘Tell me something, Joseph,’ she said. ‘That note said the inside ring had been “compromised,” whatever the hell that means. Exactly how could any of those four agents guarding the President that morning have compromised his security?’

      ‘Good question, Emma, and I don’t know. They certainly protected him when the shooting started, and the dates and location of the trip were hardly state secrets. And if the FBI had found some major hole in the Service’s security procedures, that would have been all over the news by now. So far no one is blaming the Secret Service for misconduct, dereliction of duty, or anything else. Not yet, anyway.’

      ‘Well,’ Emma said, gathering up her purse, ‘this is all very interesting, Joe, but as I said earlier, I have a lovely friend waiting for me. Is there anything else you wanted?’

      ‘Yeah. How ’bout asking your buddies to do a records check on Mattis? See if he knew Harold Edwards. Check out his finances, his history, that sorta thing.’

      ‘He’s a Secret Service agent, sweetie. I doubt the databases will be revealing.’

      ‘We gotta look.’

      ‘We?’

      DeMarco shook his head in despair. ‘Why in the hell would Mahoney want me fooling around with something like this, Emma? I mean, Jesus. If he wants to cause Donnelly a problem all he has to do is leak this shit to the Post.’

      ‘Honey, I think the Speaker is playing a zillion-to-one long shot. I don’t think he believes there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that Mattis or anyone else in the Secret Service was involved in the assassination attempt. But he hopes they were. And if they were, he can destroy Patrick Donnelly – not just annoy him with some unflattering press.’

      ‘That damn Mahoney,’ DeMarco said.

      ‘Come on, Joe, quit whinin’ and let’s get crackin’. You have to take me someplace where they sell fresh strawberries.’

       7

      DeMarco passed under the Capitol’s Grand Rotunda without an upward glance. To reach the stairway leading to his office he had to excuse his way through a cluster of tourists, their sunburned necks straining skyward as they gazed reverently at the painted ceiling above them. The tourists irritated him. He was in a bad mood already because of this nonsense with Banks, but it bugged him, every day when he went to work, these rubberneckers in their baggy shorts blocking the way.

      He descended two flights of stairs. Marble floors changed to linoleum. Art on the ceiling was replaced by water stains on acoustic tile. The working folk dwelled on DeMarco’s floor. Here clattered the machines of the congressional printing office and directly across from his office was the emergency diesel generator room. The diesels would periodically roar to life when they tested them, scaring the bejesus out of DeMarco every time they did. And just down the hall from him were shops occupied by the Capitol’s maintenance personnel. Considering what DeMarco did some days, being located near the janitors seemed appropriate.

      The faded gilt lettering on the frosted glass of DeMarco’s office door read COUNSEL PRO TEM FOR LIAISON AFFAIRS, J. DEMARCO. The title was Mahoney’s invention and completely meaningless. DeMarco entered his office, took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and checked the thermostat to make sure it was set on low. Adjusting the thermostat was something he did from force of habit, for his psychological well-being; he knew from experience that twisting the little knurled knob had absolutely no effect on the temperature in the room. He could call his neighbors, the janitors, to complain but knew he would rank low on their priority list. Who was he kidding? A guy with an office in the subbasement didn’t make the list.

      In his office squatted an ancient wooden desk from the Carter era and two mismatched chairs, one behind his desk and one in front of it for his rare visitor. A metal file cabinet stood against one wall, the cabinet empty except for phone books and an emergency bottle of Hennessy. DeMarco didn’t believe in keeping written, subpoenable records. On his desk was an imitation Tiffany lamp – a redundant appliance as strips of harsh, fluorescent lights provided all the illumination needed – and on the black-and-white tile floor was a small Oriental rug, the predominant colors being maroon and green. On the wall opposite his desk were two Degas prints of dancing ballerinas. His ex-wife had given him the faux-Tiffany lamp, the rug, and the ballerinas – a futile effort on her part to ‘warm the place up.’ Only an arsonist, DeMarco had concluded long ago, could give his office any warmth.

      DeMarco took to the chair behind his desk. He put his feet up, laced his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

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