Blowback, page 13
Liam feels he’s in one surreal world where the mental health of the President of the United States is being discussed out in the open in a popular tourist district.
Spencer looks to his feet, then looks up at Liam, eyes troubled and burdened.
“Just this once, and don’t ever dare bring it up, ever again.”
“I promise.”
Spencer speaks quickly, like he wants to limit the possibility of getting caught. “We only look into his physical condition. Only. Weight, height, blood pressure, cholesterol level, that sort of thing. We wouldn’t dare ask him how he’s feeling, or thinking, or his moods. I mean … what the hell would we do if he said he was suicidal?”
“But he didn’t say that, did he?”
“No,” Spencer says. “He started talking about his health, and how as the most important man in the world, he always has to be on guard for his health. He said that’s why he works out every day, watches his diet, and how the Secret Service protects him at the White House with a special ventilation system that can detect viruses, microbes, or even radioactive materials.”
Spencer stops, takes a breath.
Liam says, “Was this before or after the vice president got sick in Vegas?”
“Well before,” Spencer says. “The president said the Secret Service worked with the White House Mess to check the quality of the food coming in, and he didn’t think they went far enough. He … started talking quickly, very quickly, like this had been bothering him for a while. He said that there should be another level of defense for him and his health.”
Liam feels frozen in place. “Like what?”
Spencer shakes his head, like he can hardly believe what he was about to say.
“He said the old regimes used to have food tasters in court, to make sure the kings or queens wouldn’t be poisoned,” Spencer says. “The president thought it was time to do that again. Hire food tasters at the White House, to make sure he was never poisoned, or attacked. An important man like him, he said, needed every level of protection. He had lots planned for the months ahead, and he wanted to eliminate any chance of an illness striking him down before he could achieve what he wanted. Food tasters made sense to him.”
Liam says, “Food tasters? Did he say where he would find such people?”
A thin smile. “Death row prisoners in federal prisons, where else. Serve as presidential food tasters for six months, and then get their sentences commuted.”
Liam knows there is traffic behind him and people talking, but all he can hear now are Spencer’s words.
“God, Spencer, he must have been joking.”
Spencer shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The way he talked, his loud voice, the look in his eyes …. Liam, I’ve done some residencies at mental institutions as part of my training. It’s my judgment that the president has what’s known as a ‘Cluster A’ personality disorder.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.
The next six words from his friend seemed to punch right through his mind.
Spencer says, “Our president is a full-blown paranoid.”
CHAPTER 43
BEFORE HE BROKE his sister’s jaw two years ago, Michael Balantic put up with her calling him a mercenary at holidays and gettogethers. Again and again, he tried to gently explain to her that he was a security consultant, until one day at a family reunion in Milwaukee, he had just had enough of her teasing and socked her one.
It put a bit of a damper on the reunion, but nobody—even her wimpy husband Ross—did anything about it, and that had been the end of being teased.
This night Michael is working a shift in Arlington, keeping track of a man that he was told to follow and record. That’s been his entire focus, all night long. It’s been a pretty easy job, because instead of using his own equipment, he’s been piggybacking on the host of surveillance gear that’s spread out through this heavily federal part of Arlington, from local police to state police to the FBI and a number of other agencies.
Some of the surveillance equipment and wiretaps out there are even legal.
He’s in a dark-red Mercedes Benz SL with Virginia license plates that would trace back to an actuarial firm, and never in the history of the world have the police ever rousted a driver in a Mercedes-Benz in a rich neighborhood like this.
Michael’s confident he’s just fine.
But the evening is turning into something not fine indeed.
He’s wearing Apple earbuds that are connected to a classified drug interdiction program being run by the DEA and a Virginia State Police task force, and listening in to a conversation between two men standing in the doorway of a closed store, just yards away from a Mick restaurant.
“Well, damn,” he says.
He goes to the side of the front seat, picks up a cell phone, dials a programmed number.
It’s answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
Michael says, “We have a problem.”
“Tell me more,” says Carlton Pope, special assistant to the president.
CHAPTER 44
SPENCER TRIES TO walk away but Liam blocks him.
“Wait, wait,” Liam says. “What are you going to do?”
“Didn’t you hear me earlier? What the hell can I do?”
“You’re a doctor, you should be able to tell the president’s personal physician what you found out.”
Spencer says, “Commander Prentiss? Sure. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow and we’ll have a nice little chat. Maybe I can convince him that the president has a Cluster A personality disorder, presenting as paranoia. What then?”
Liam says, “Well, there must be some sort of plan, or protocol, or—”
“Or nothing,” Spencer says. “What, you think this is some sort of Third World country where a cadre of doctors can get together and declare the president is insane? Do you?”
Liam says, “There has to be something …”
Spencer says, “Ever read a book called Night of Camp David?”
“No,” Liam says.
“It was published back in 1965, written by Fletcher Knebel, half of the writing team that did Seven Days in May. I read it a couple of weeks ago. Not a bad thriller for its time, but damn, the situation is similar. A senator is close friends with the president and is convinced that the president is paranoid, imagining enemies everywhere.”
Liam says, “What happens in the book?”
“You looking for a way out, a resolution?” Spencer shakes his head. “It doesn’t end that way. The senator tries to convince the secretary of defense, a Supreme Court judge, other officials, that the president is increasingly unstable. But who makes the decision? The Cabinet? A congressional subcommittee? And imagine the firestorm if anything got leaked to the press that members of President Barrett’s administration are concerned about his mental health? It’ll make the Trump administration seem like an Amish barn-raising by comparison.”
Liam says, “Answer the question. What happens in the book?”
Spencer says, “A bit of a letdown, honestly. The president … he seems to realize that he’s not well, and he resigns. End of book. Unfortunately for you, me, and the nation, I don’t think President Barrett is going to follow that plotline.”
Liam sighs, runs both hands through his hair. “Something has to be done.”
“Like what? Look at our history. Kennedy had enough drugs in him to open a pharmacy. Johnson was so paranoid that he thought his Secret Service detail—all JFK appointees—were out to get him. Nixon had a drinking problem, on top of his paranoia. And we don’t have to go too far back in history to find another president who had questions about his stability.”
“But something has to be done.”
“Certainly,” Spencer says. “But not by me, friend. Nope.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“Of course I am, but at least there are guardrails out there. Nixon’s folks kept it together until he resigned. And there are safeguards in place when it comes to declaring war. As much as he may want to do it down the line, POTUS can’t launch a nuclear attack on his own. Even if he is a paranoid.”
Somewhere a car honks.
Spencer says, “So that leaves it to you, doesn’t it, to do something about it.”
“Me?” Liam asks. “Why does it have to be me?”
Spencer walks away, gently tapping him on the shoulder. “Because it has to be somebody.”
CHAPTER 45
IN AN ISOLATED alleyway in Georgetown off M Street Northwest is an unmarked wooden door that leads to the Button Gwinnett Club, with access only allowed through a numbered keypad lock.
The code to the lock is given upon a payment of $100,000 to the club, and in exchange, the club offers something rare in the District of Columbia.
Pure privacy.
No cell phones or electronic devices are allowed into the club, and there is a warren of corridors that lead to private dining rooms so the shakers and movers of the nation’s capital don’t bump into each other while making off-the-record deals with their supposed opponents.
In one room this morning is Hannah Abrams, President Barrett’s nominee for director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who is working through a breakfast of tough pancakes and greasy sausages with Senate Majority Leader Cleveland Hogan, trying to get her appointment back on track. She’s sixty, unmarried, with big-boned features that make her look striking, but not pretty in the typical sense. Her most remarkable feature is her pale-blue eyes, which look like they’ve seen a lot over the years and are ready to stare straight through you.
The Senate majority leader is poking at a cold omelet with a fork, looking like a first-year medical student dissecting his first human brain. He says, “Hannah, look, for the moment, my hands are tied.”
“Why’s that, Cleve?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light and innocent. “I know the votes are there for you on the floor … bipartisan, which is hard to believe. But what’s the holdup in the Intelligence Committee?”
Cleveland picks up a piece of omelet, chews, and grimaces. The Button Gwinnett Club is not known for its décor, food, or service.
Just privacy.
“Well, Hannah, it’s like this … the holdup really isn’t in the committee. It’s from me.”
Years of working in different government departments, intelligence agencies, and overseas undercover have given Hannah many talents, including keeping her face bland and calm when the time calls for it.
Like now.
“Cleve, for real?” she asks, trying to keep a balance of sadness and surprise in her voice. “What could possibly be the problem? When I served as deputy director, I always worked well with the Intelligence Committee and the Gang of Eight, and I’ve never been reluctant to testify or pass along information about current operations. And us … Cleve, I always thought we had more than just a professional relationship.”
Senator Cleveland Hogan looks embarrassed, which is a good start. He’s sixty-four years old, wearing a dark-gray suit that cost a thousand dollars and cut to look like it came off the rack at Walmart. A lifetime politician, he has thick, black hair and cold, intelligent eyes behind round spectacles. He’s been majority leader for twelve years, is a senator from Tennessee, and like most senators from the South, his unofficial motto is, “The United States Senate: the most exclusive club in the world, with more than 250 years of history unimpeded by progress.”
Cleve chews another piece of his breakfast and says, “Oh, Hannah, it’s nothing personal, honest.”
“Then what is it, Cleve?”
“The president asked me for the delay, that’s all.”
Hannah is now struggling to keep her composure. “But the president nominated me. He’s been public in support of my approval. Why would you let him put the blame on you?”
Cleve says, “He said it was something important, something about Terrence Grant and his role. It seems … well, Terrence thought the job should have gone to him and President Barrett wants to find the right position for him in government, to sort of ease the pain of his not being named director.”
Her right hand is gripping the fork so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t bend. “Terrence’s been director of National Intelligence for two years and if he’s accomplished anything, it’s been one of the most well-kept secrets in Washington. You and I both know that. And he’s tried several times to take control of the CIA, when that’s been a dead issue since Leon Panetta was director and cut off the DNI at the knees with such force he walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”
The majority leader looks miserable and Hannah pushes her advantage. “Senator, you know your reputation both here and abroad, as one who takes the Senate’s responsibilities seriously. How many times have you gone on the Sunday talk shows and in front of microphones on Capitol Hill to say that Congress, the legislative branch of government, is equal to the executive and the judiciary? True?”
“Hannah …”
“Senator, are you telling me that you’re allowing the president to set your agenda? To take control of the Senate’s prerogatives and responsibilities? To push you around?”
The Senate majority leader’s eyes grow cold and hard. “That’s not what’s going on, Hannah.”
She says, “Perhaps. But what do your colleagues think? Or the minority leader? Or the op-ed writers once they figure out what’s driving the delay in my confirmation? Do you think they’ll see the entirety of the situation, or see a majority leader who’s letting the president interfere?”
The cold look remains. “I don’t care what any of them think.”
“That’s very honorable of you,” she says. “I know how much President Barrett values unquestioning loyalty.”
He stares at her, carefully wipes his fat fingers on a white napkin, and says, “If you’ll excuse me, Hannah, I’ve suddenly remembered that I need to get back up to the Hill.”
Hannah says, “I see.”
He backs his chair away from the table. “And if I were you, I’d keep the rest of your day’s calendar clear.”
Her inner voice is whispering victory, and she says, “Why, thank you, Cleve, that’s quite thoughtful of you.”
Cleve smiles. “You’re welcome, Director Abrams.”
CHAPTER 46
AFTER RECEIVING HIS morning briefing from Carlton Pope, his special assistant, President Keegan Barrett pours himself another cup of coffee in his second-floor office in the family quarters of the White House and says, “Well, ain’t that a kick in the head.”
“Agreed, sir,” Carlton says.
“I want increased surveillance on them both, especially that doctor, Captain Webster.”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
Barrett sips at the coffee, the finest he’s ever tasted. “The White House Mess is one of the best, don’t you agree?”
Carlton says, “Agreed, sir.”
“But there was a time when it wasn’t so,” Barrett says with reflection. “Back in FDR’s day, his wife Eleanor wanted the kitchen to serve simple food, to show that they were all sharing the pain of the Great Depression. And the food was horrible! There are memoirs from that time of prime ministers, kings, and generals being served crap like cold jellied bouillon, salmon salad, and bread-and-butter sandwiches for lunch. At the White House!”
He puts his coffee cup down. “I’ll miss their great food when I leave after my second term is complete. That’s a state secret, Carlton, just so you know, because even though I’ve been in the job less than six months, I intend to run for a second term. And win. I know the American people love me, support me. All of the poll numbers reflect that. I won’t disappoint them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because there’s so much to do … and I’ve been chosen at this time and place to finally take care of America’s enemies,” Barrett says wistfully. “Do you see what I mean, Carlton? Call it kismet, fate, or God, but when I was running second in the primaries and Governor McCall died of that brain tumor, clearing my way to get the nomination and eventual victory, I knew that something larger than me—than all of us—wanted me to become president.”
Carlton says, “You’ve done a tremendous amount of work in such a short time, sir. You should take satisfaction in that.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But I don’t want to start feeling any true sense of accomplishment, not yet.” He takes a look around his spartan office. “Some successes, but not nearly enough. Which is why I do most of my work here, or at the Hay-Adams Hotel, or Blair House, and not the Oval Office. When I leave office, there will be some who think what I did was so monstrous that if it had been done in the Oval Office, it would be forever tainted. And those who oppose me …”
He pauses, like he’s trying to come up with the correct words, not wanting to tell even the trusted Carlton, the voice inside of him from years ago that’s promised him greatness. He says, “They will probably nail the door shut here to this office, to ensure it’s never used again,” Barrett says. “I expect that. But the next president, whoever they might be, they can go into the Oval Office clean, knowing it’s unsullied, that certain orders were never issued from there. The Oval Office can return to being a shrine, and my successor—though they will never admit it—will secretly thank me for handing over an America devoid of its most ruthless enemies.”
Carlton starts to speak and the phone rings. Barrett picks it up and says, “Yes?”
“Mr. President? It’s Quinn Lawrence.”
Barrett smiles at Carlton, who smiles right back. He says, “Quinn, always a pleasure to hear from you. What’s troubling my chief of staff this morning that you need to call me?”
