Free The President's Assassin by Brian Haig Page B

Charles and said, “Agent Wardell will be responsible for the cocoon of security around the administration.” He pointed at Jennie and announced, “Agent Margold will direct the team investigating the murders.” He smiled at me and said, “Drummond will head the team looking for any international connections...specifically, who put the bounty on our President’s head, and whether there are international ties.”
    I said, “I have a question.”
    He studied my face, suspecting I was going to say something nasty.
    Rather than disappoint George, I asked, “What are
you
going to do?”
    “Glad you asked, Drummond. I’ll oversee the overall operation. It’s my philosophy to power down—to put direct responsibility on my subordinates. It encourages initiative...and accountability.”
    This sounded like an excerpt from some New Age management text. But nobody missed the subtext here. In Washington jargon and practice, accountability means shit flows downhill. George was going to be sure everybody had a little skin in the game, and if the ship hit an iceberg, the captain of this good ship wasn’t going to be waving bon voyage from the forebridge to the crew in the life rafts. There would be no life rafts. If George had his way, there would be no survivors.
    I glanced at Jennie. She rolled her eyes.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    T HE SIGN ON THE FRONT DOOR OF F ERGUSON H OME S ECURITY ELECtronics declared, “Closed for inventory and product liquidation.”
    Yet the parking lot was already filled with official-looking cars and unmarked vans, and guys and gals wearing fretful expressions and blue and gray suits were parading in and out of the entrance.
    It struck me that the locals might find all this activity a little distracting, uncharacteristic perhaps, even mysterious. To belabor my aforementioned point, had they pursued my quirky yet ingenious suggestion to make this a VD clinic, the sign could read, “Incurable airborne gonorrhea discovered—enter at invitation only.” For sure this would explain the odd visitors with stricken faces, and nobody was going to be sniffing through the garbage or absently wandering into the building.
    I was happy to see Lila, our receptionist, seated at her desk, disguised as usual as a sexy front-desk clerk. She looked up as I entered, but I detected no hint of recognition on her face. To my surprise, she said, “All right, pal...stop right there.”
    “What?”
    “Hands where I can see them. Remove your ID slowly. I have a gun under this desk—it’s pointed at your balls.”
    “But, miss, I’m a CIA bureaucrat. I have no balls.”
    She laughed.
    I leaned across her desk and in all seriousness said, “If you haven’t received the warning, there
is
a guy running around town impersonating an FBI agent. He’s got real-looking creds, he’s armed, and he’s dangerous.”
    “I hadn’t heard.”
    “He’s using the alias George Meany, and if he shows up here and flashes his creds, you
should
blow his balls off.”
    She laughed again and informed me, “Special Agent Meany arrived nearly an hour ago.”
    “And did you at least kneecap him?”
    “Please. He was very nice and charming. Also cute. Is he married?”
    “No. But you’re married.”
    “Oh...”
    She laughed again. Women are such bad judges of men.
    But appearances aside, Lila was a smart and perceptive lady. Which was a prerequisite for her job, since she belonged to the Agency’s security service, and probably knew ten ways to kill me with her eyelashes. She signed me in, commenting, “I hear you had a fun morning.”
    “I had an
interesting
morning.”
    “It’s sure getting weird around here.”
    “It was weird here before this morning.”
    She shrugged and said, “Phyllis is in her office with Mort. She wants you to join her right away.”
    So I left Lila, and by the door that led into the converted rear warehouse I noted that some tidy and efficient soul had already installed a bulletin board showing the temporary