White House Office of Clarence Dunne—June 21
“I said no, Clarence.”
Jake Grayton, the deputy director of the FBI, pressed his palms together, Buddha-like, to signal the discussion was over. He stood behind the chair in front of Dunne’s desk.
“I just want to tag along and hear what the wife has to say,” Dunne said, sitting at his desk.
The two were in Dunne’s office in the underground Secret Service bunker below the West Wing.
“This is our job. And, to be frank, Clarence, I don’t want you or your crew even stepping on our shadow.”
Crew? Dunne thought. Did he use street language when he talked to his white colleagues?
Dunne knew Grayton well. In his late forties, Grayton was a riser in the security establishment. The FBI director, a former senator, cared more for tennis and Georgetown parties than briefings and task forces. So Grayton got to call the shots. Last year, Grayton had organized a special interagency SWAT team to counter threats against government targets. When a few skeptical House members raised questions about its budget, a story suddenly appeared in the Washington Post: “New Unit Thwarts Drug Cartel Bomb Plot in D.C.” The source was obvious: Grayton. His outfit won an extra $13 million from Congress. Slick, smooth, he played the game well. He was ever up-to-date on current developments in the security world: computers, advance weapon technology, the latest in terrorism neutralization. In various meetings, Dunne had watched Grayton hail one “new era” after another—in interagency cooperation, in internal communications, in international liaison. Dozens of times, Dunne had heard Grayton mouth the motto, “Drive the change; don’t be pushed by it.” He knew
the younger agents mocked Grayton’s can-do-ism: Dry the rain; don’t be sussed by it.
Dunne stood up. Grayton was taller. He had electric blue eyes, jet black hair combed straight back, and utterly straight teeth. He spoke in bursts, as if his words were coming out of a teletype.
“Listen, Jake,” Dunne said. “We fucked up, and I want to know how that happened. You’re looking to solve a case. But we also need to figure out what went wrong security-wise. So I’d like to know what she can tell us about her husband.”
Dunne knew he was bullshitting. This wasn’t about security. It was about finding a way in.
“Listen, my friend,” Grayton said, “in the prelim, a very upset Mrs. Sandlin told us she doesn’t know where the fuck her husband is anyway. So why do you want to go over to J. Edgar and sit in on the three-oh-two?”
Grayton glanced at a photograph on the wall that showed Dunne, as a young man, being sworn in as a police officer in Atlanta.
“Because that’s all there is right now.”
In a gesture of compromise, Grayton sat down and waved his hand toward the chair behind Dunne’s desk. Dunne accepted the invitation to sit and looked hard at Grayton. The man never blinked. And he kept his line of vision at a perfect ninety-degree angle to his erect, perfect-posture torso. Grayton was one of the Game Boys. That’s what Dunne called them. They loved the covert game. They relished concocting schemes. They got off knowing they possessed grand secrets. In the security-intelligence world, there were those who enthusiastically embraced secret-keeping and clandestine actions. They might occasionally concede that it was just too bad that god-awful means had to be used to protect free society. But they were in it as much for the means—if not more so—than the ends. Then there were the reluctant ones who considered the dirty work necessary but who pondered the consequences of official lies and secrecy-by-bureaucracy. Grayton and Dunne were in different camps.
“Okay, sure,” Grayton said. “Sit in. Enjoy. But I want your agreement.”
Dunne tried to keep his face expressionless.
“I know the inclination here. You feel like shit. And you should. After all, you did let someone place two bullets into the face of the most powerful man on the planet.”
Don’t react, Dunne told himself.
“Now, you want to do something,” Grayton continued. “Because you think that will keep you from feeling like shit. So you want to keep busy. And think about what you’re doing, not what you didn’t do. So here’s the promise you’re making to me right now: You will do nothing without
letting me know. You will not take one breath of our air—without first telling me about it.”
Dunne nodded. “You’re the man.”
“And once an agent always, right?”
Grayton was referring to Dunne’s seventeen-month stint in Hoover’s FBI. After six years on the police force, he had joined the feds. Dunne’s career in the Bureau ended when he punched a fellow agent who had thought it was amusing to call him a nigger during a training session. He subsequently found a job with the Secret Service and now was into his twenty-eighth year.
“Oh, by the way, let me tell you,” Grayton said, an accommodating smile on his face. “Our missing Mr. Sandlin said nothing unusual in his office before he left. In fact, so far—nothing unusual about him. Just covering the White House for a crummy, dying Midwest chain of small-town, asswipe papers. And not doing such a hot job, his boss said. Drinking. Problems at home. No oddball friends anyone knows of. No Arabs, no kooks—right-wing or otherwise. We’re still waiting on the phone calls. Damn phone company. They made us go to a judge.”
Grayton leaned forward in his chair.
“I’ve spent enough time on this. I have to go.”
Dunne escorted him out. In the elevator, Dunne asked if Mumfries had made any decisions about the assassination investigation.
“Not yet,” Grayton said. “But I expect I’ll be in charge. The President and I get along well.”
“Good.” Dunne felt stupid for saying that.
“On the intell committee, he always backed us. Has respect for the professionals. Lets them do the job. One of the few guys in his party who believes in us. I like that. He understands.”
The door opened.
“Glad we settled everything,” Grayton said. “We are, after all, on the same squad. If you have any ideas for the investigation, do bring them to my attention.”
Grayton spotted the national security adviser passing by and headed off to catch him. This is a man who does not walk, Dunne thought; he strides.
Outside the West Wing, Dunne paused to watch the the limousines dropping off Cabinet members for a meeting with Mumfries. In his earpiece, he heard the watch command tracking Mumfries’s movements. Dunne somberly greeted passing Cabinet officials. The Defense Secretary bit his lip and shook his head. Out of sympathy or out of blame? Only Louis Alter, the septuagenarian Treasury Secretary, stopped to talk.
“I’ve already heard from Mumfries,” he said. “That is, Hamilton Kelly. He wants a replacement for the White House security unit.”
“That’s understandable.”
“And an investigation of how—”
“Of course. I’ve begun to—”
“An outside investigation. We’ll figure out all these details later.”
Alter placed a thin, withered hand on Dunne’s shoulder.
“It’s a heavy load to bear, Clarence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Plenty of people will be looking for heads. There’ll be hearings, commissions, Monday-morning media harrumphing. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I’m no miracle worker. Remember that.”
Alter drew back his hand. He signaled to an aide, who brought him a cane, and he slowly shuffled into the White House.
Dunne’s car was waiting. As he got in, a message came from the watch commander: Brady Sandlin had been found.
“Up the street, to the Mayflower,” Dunne told the driver.