“This is how you found it?” he inquired.
“That’s correct,” Wasowitz acknowledged. “It was clean as a whistle. There wasn’t so much as an empty beer bottle in the trash.”
“Fingerprints?”
The FBI agent nodded. “Plenty of them… Most of which belonged to Secretary Walker and his wife. The rest were a match to the building manager, the maintenance man, and previous tenants.”
Dentweiler nodded thoughtfully. Originally, when the Walkers were reported missing, everyone assumed that the couple had been kidnapped. But without a ransom note, speculation turned to the possibility of a double homicide, or a murder-suicide, as an all-points bulletin went out to street cops everywhere.
Then, as the investigation continued and photographs of the couple appeared in the papers, a man reported that a woman who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker had purchased a used station wagon from him. Except that she gave a different name, paid for the car with cash, and was tight-lipped about her plans.
As more details emerged, the likelihood arose that the power couple had fled Washington voluntarily. A possibility that was of considerable concern inside the Grace administration, due to Walker’s knowledge of and his opposition to Project Omega. If Walker went public with his allegations, it would feed the flames of public discontent already being fanned by Freedom First.
All of which explained why Dentweiler had been ordered to work with authorities to find out what had taken place, and report back to President Grace. The secret hideaway was the latest piece of a larger puzzle.
“So they took off,” Dentweiler concluded as he polished his glasses with a white handkerchief.
“That’s the way it looks,” Wasowitz agreed soberly. “We have an APB out for the car… But no luck so far.”
“Okay,” Dentweiler replied, settling the glasses over his ears. “But if you find the station wagon and/or the Walkers I want to hear about it immediately. And no leaks to the press. Understood?”
“Understood,” Wasowitz replied solemnly.
“Good,” Dentweiler said as he turned toward the door. Then he turned back.
“And Milt… When you go home tonight, try taking some flowers with you. Who knows? You might get lucky.”
President Grace didn’t like the British ambassador, and never had. Mostly because Lord Winther was an aristocrat and Grace didn’t trust aristocrats. So as Grace circled his desk to greet the diplomat, he had what his staffers referred to as “the number one smile” firmly in place.
“Ambassador Winther,” he said warmly, “it’s a pleasure to see you! Please, have a seat… Some tea perhaps? I know how Englishmen love their tea.”
Winther was an austere-looking man, with gray hair that was parted in the middle, wintry blue eyes, and a carriage reminiscent of the Army officer he had once been. He was wearing a three-piece Savile Row suit, complete with a restrained bow tie and a gold watch chain that formed the letter V across a flat stomach.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Winther replied gravely. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
The two men were joined by members of their staffs, including Secretary of State Moody for the Americans, and Canadian Ambassador Pimm on behalf of the beleaguered Commonwealth. A world-spanning organization which was more imaginary than real in the wake of so many Chimeran victories.
The first fifteen minutes of the meeting were spent on tea, pastries from the White House kitchen, and small talk. Then Winther launched into what was clearly a carefully rehearsed plea. The essence of which was that rather than have the allies remain on the defensive, the British government hoped to interest the Americans in a joint task force which would attack Chimeran assets in Canada before the aliens could settle in there. Then, if successful, the effort could be extended to England and beyond.
It was a good idea, or might have been years earlier, before the death of 150 million people in Russia, 450 million in Europe, and untold millions in Asia. But like many governments around the world, the United States had been slow to react to the Chimeran menace, and the British plan was no longer realistic.
It was something Winther and Pimm already knew, deep down. Grace could see it in their eyes. So he heard them out, promised to give their proposal serious consideration, and was grateful when the pair left.
Grace’s secretary had an office that adjoined his, and once the visitors were gone, and Moody with them, Dentweiler entered from there. Grace was back behind his desk by that time and nodded as his Chief of Staff appeared.
“Good afternoon, Bill. What were you up to last night? You look tired.”
“I had to work late,” Dentweiler lied smoothly. “How did it go with Ambassador Winther?”
Grace made a face. “I can’t stand the man, but I still feel sorry for him. And the other displaced diplomats as well. The city’s full of them. How about you? Any progress on the Walker thing?”
Two guest chairs were positioned in front of the antique desk, which was made of timbers from the British vessel Resolute. Dentweiler chose the seat to the right. “Yes, Mr. President, I have. Based on all the available evidence, it’s clear that Walker and his wife left voluntarily. And given the way they went about it, I think it’s safe to assume that they mean us harm.”
“Damn the man!” Grace said as he brought his fist down hard onto the surface of the desk. A photo of Mrs. Grace jumped and fell flat, and Dentweiler could see the anger in his eyes. “What will Walker do?” the chief executive demanded.
Dentweiler shrugged. “I suspect he’s been in touch with the Freedom First people, who will be eager to take him in. Walker is from Chicago, and Freedom First’s radio broadcasts originate there, so that’s a likely destination. Once he arrives, my bet is that he’ll be on the air fifteen minutes later.”
“But Chicago is occupied by the Chimera,” Grace objected.
“True,” Dentweiler agreed, “but that’s where the Freedom Firsters get their credibility. They live underground, in basements and sewers, and come up to fight. The stinks have made repeated efforts to root them out, and so far they’ve failed to do so.”
Grace looked thoughtful. “Even if Walker goes on the air, so what? No one would believe him… Especially after we accuse him of treason.”
“Unless Walker has something we don’t know about,” Dentweiler put in. “Detailed notes from the cabinet meetings, perhaps. That might be credible enough to do some real harm.”
“Then we need to stop Walker before he can reach Chicago,” Grace said darkly.
“He’s got a healthy head start,” Dentweiler cautioned.
“Then what are you waiting for?” Grace wanted to know. “Get ahold of the FBI, the Domestic Security Agency, and all branches of the military. Put them to work. I want Walker arrested, and failing that, I want him dead! Do I make myself clear?”
Light glinted off Dentweiler’s glasses as he nodded.
“Yes, Mr. President. Very clear.”
“Good,” Grace said, as he came to his feet. “My schedule says we’re due at the Lincoln Memorial in half an hour—and you know how I feel about punctuality.”
The Lincoln Memorial was intended to resemble a Greek temple, and thanks to tons of Yule marble and thirty-six Doric columns, it succeeded. That—plus the brooding presence of the statue within—made it a favorite with tourists and politicians alike. And now, after a million-dollar-plus renovation, President Grace himself stopped by to inspect the repairs and say a few words.
Which was why radio reporter Henry Stillman and freelance cameraman Abe Bristow were waiting outside, and they weren’t alone. About thirty other journalists were present as well, along with a crowd of roughly fifty tourists, all of whom hoped to catch a glimpse of the President.