‘NAME?’
‘Colonel Joshua M. Cain, United States Air Force.’
‘Age?’
‘Forty-four.’
‘Title?’
‘Director, White House Medical Unit.’
‘A position you have held for …?’
‘Six months.’
‘How many years have you served in the United States Military?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘You are a recipient of the Air Force Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘For heroism in Iraq?’
‘For action in Iraq.’
‘Just answer yes or no please, Colonel.’
‘Yes.’
The polygraphist sitting across the table stares at his laptop screen then taps the keyboard. His face is barely visible above the lid.
It is my second interrogation of the night. The first was conducted by a Major Crimes Division detective at a Fairfax County Police Department station fifteen minutes’ drive from Clarke’s Crossroads. The cop had barely hit his stride when two Secret Service agents showed up. I called Reuben from their Suburban, on my way to the White House. He’d heard the news and was on his way back to D.C. with Thompson in Marine One.
Behind the polygraphist is a two-way mirror, beneath which is a camp bed with two folded sheets, a blanket and a pillow. I am in a basement suite in the West Wing, several doors down from Room W16. The Oval Office is almost directly above me, which is ironic, because the room I’m in looks like a CIA rendition site.
A jumble of wires connects the laptop to the polygraph, and the polygraph to electrodes on the first and third fingers of my right hand, a blood pressure cuff on my left arm, a heart-rate monitor, and a pneumograph around my chest and stomach. I’m also wearing a headset that monitors the movement of my jaw – to prevent me biting my cheek or tongue, which would send my responses haywire during the control questions. By removing my shoes, they have made sure I can’t press down on anything sharp to produce the same result.
The first of the control questions: ‘Have you ever taken anything that did not belong to you?’
I see the pleading eyes of the woman in the abaya, feel my chest constrict and my pulse rate rise. I envisage the effect this will have on the electrodes monitoring my galvanic skin response.
‘No.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Were you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have children?’
I hesitate, but only for a fraction of a second. ‘No.’
‘Next of kin?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever lied to someone who trusted you?’
Second control question. There isn’t much to imagine this time. I think of Hope, her mother and Jack, and my heart begins to hammer.
‘No.’
More tapping on the keyboard, then, except for the hum of the air-con, silence.
A beat later: ‘Regarding your role as White House Medical Director, do you intend to answer each of the following questions truthfully?’
I breathe in and think of the waves lapping on the beach in front of our house; the view from the porch, out over the point. ‘Yes.’
‘Are the circumstances surrounding the death of White House Special Agent in Charge James Lefortz clear to you?’
‘No.’
‘Is Duke Gapes known to you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you and Special Agent Henrietta Hart undertake any follow-up investigative actions into the incident at St John’s Church?’
Henrietta? My mind wanders for a moment.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you prepared to cooperate fully with all appropriate authorities in disclosing how you came to track down Duke Gapes?’
I picture the waves lapping around my ankles, feel the sand between my toes and wonder how Cabot knew ‘everything’, as Lefortz had put it. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you working for any foreign government or organization?’
‘No.’
‘Are you concerned for the health of the President?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes or a no?’
‘The question is ambiguous. Naturally, I am concerned for the health of the President. So is half the country – at least, the people who voted for him.’
Nothing, no hint of frustration or irritation creases the operator’s brow as he recalibrates. Another pause. More taps at the keyboard. Then he asks whether I am responsible for ensuring the health of the President.
Bravo.
‘Yes.’
‘Is President Robert S. Thompson presently capable of fulfilling his duties?’
‘That is a subjective question.’
This time, he lifts his eyes to mine.
I know what’s coming and breathe in.
‘From a medical perspective, is there any reason presently known to you why the President should be unable to fulfill his duties?’
‘No.’
‘Are you aware of any kind of plot to kill the President?’
‘Beyond the claims made by Duke Gapes?’
‘Do you have definitive proof of a plot to kill the President?’
‘No.’
‘Are there any reasons that might prevent you from legitimately fulfilling your duties as White House Medical Director?’
I let the feel of the beach flood my senses, look in the mirror and very clearly address my reflection. ‘No.’
I am halfway to the door, still buttoning up my shirt, when Cabot walks in. As I knew he would be, he has been behind the mirror, watching on a back-up monitor. It is the first time we’ve seen each other since the meeting in his Crisis Center. His resemblance to J. Edgar Hoover – short, overweight, energetic and suspicious – hits me again. His pig eyes narrow as they adjust to the harsh lighting.
‘You and I know that a polygraph does not constitute proof of any kind. It provides indicators. Even so, congratulations. For what it’s worth, Colonel, you NDI’ed.’
I hold his gaze. No deception indicated. He’s lying. And he knows that I know it.
‘Am I free to leave?’
‘Of course.’
‘What’ll you tell the media?’
‘What we told the cops. The truth. That the investigation into the deaths of SAIC Lefortz, Anders and Jimenez is being handled by the Secret Service. And that Jim Lefortz was killed while conducting routine inquiries into the death of the protester.’
His darting, suspicious eyes narrow. ‘Last time we met, Colonel, a man was shot dead right next to you. Now it’s happened again. I know, for reasons that are not yet wholly clear to me, that your relationship with the President exceeds the regular duties of the White House Doctor. But that’s OK, because we’re on the same team now. Reuben Kantner and I are in agreement. Amateur hour is over. You guys are off the case.’
He looks up.
Reuben appears at the end of the lobby. He is still dressed in his overcoat. ‘What the fuck has been going on?’ He’s looking at Cabot. I’ve never seen him lose it before, but he’s right on the edge.
‘The protesters by the North Fence and the –’ Cabot considers his words, ‘– residents of the Settlement represented a threat to national security, as I’ve said all along. So, I have spoken with Mayor Phillips and as of this moment, the city authorities are evicting the protesters from the North Fence and bulldozers are leveling the Settlement. Both sites will be clear by morning.’
‘Clearing the protesters was not a part of our discussion,’ Reuben says levelly.
‘Nor should it have been. It’s the Mayor’s jurisdiction, not the President’s.’
For a moment it looks as if what’s left of Reuben’s sangfroid will exit stage left.
I stare at my friend. Lefortz is dead. Two cops are dead. And I have just been through an interrogation that threatened to reveal the President’s fragility.
The thought that the pressure would get to Reuben of all people had never occurred to me before.
Our eyes meet and he seems to read my thoughts. He takes a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘The death of Lefortz has hit the President hard. Hit us all, in fact.’
‘Quite. And I have a call to make – to his wife,’ Cabot says. ‘We’ll leave the rest of this discussion till morning.’
He turns and disappears into the Secret Service command post down the hallway.
I look at my phone and see that I’ve got three missed calls from Mo.
When I glance up, Reuben is still staring after Cabot. ‘Does he know about No Stone?’
‘He knows something,’ I say. ‘But not that.’ I pause. ‘How hard is hard?’
Reuben rubs at the fatigue around his eyes.
I try again. ‘Thompson … How’s he doing?’
‘As well as can be expected. He and Lefortz had been together a long time. Shit, he …’ Reuben struggles for a moment.
‘Lefortz made him feel safe. Which is why I’d like Thompson to reconsider what I said.’
‘About what?’
‘The psychotherapy.’
He nods. ‘I’ll talk to him about it. I promise.’
I wait for the reprimand I’ve been expecting since I landed, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he asks me what happened. I tell him about the cabin, the crazy wall. Reuben listens, but says nothing. If it’s possible, he looks even more tired than I feel. I ask if he’s all right and he nods. Then I ask about Cabot.
‘Leave Cabot to me.’
‘He said you were in agreement.’
‘We are. You’re going to have to leave the investigation to him now.’
‘Did you go public on the conference being in Jerusalem?’
‘No.’
‘Well, Gapes knew about it, Reuben. He also knew about Hope. He knew about everything. You. Me. Plus a whole lot more that doesn’t add up, including a lawyer I spoke to yesterday who now denies that we ever met.’
‘All the more reason to let Cabot handle this. Anything that’ll keep that fucking nose of his out of the Oval.’
His phone pings. He looks at it. ‘I got to go.’
I take a route back to the ground floor that avoids passing the Secret Service command post.
I check my voicemail.
Nothing.
I check my WhatsApps. One from Mo. ‘You son of a bitch,’ it reads. ‘Call me.’