“Please come in, Ben,” Alfonse invited, lacking his customary gusto.
Ben glanced at his notes to see where to begin. “First, you’ll want to know that Charles Vickers will be here any moment. Emerson Palmer has also agreed to look into the case. He’ll be able to address your questions about the cleaners.
“All the staff’s assembled in case we need anything at all,” he continued, trying to anticipate the senator’s questions. “Everyone’s been briefed about the personal nature of the problem and has sworn to keep everything that happens today strictly confidential. Any media calls will be directed to me. LaDonna is also preparing a statement for your approval. Is there anything else you immediately want to know, Senator?”
Al was massaging his forehead, fighting a nasty headache. “Yes, Ben…explain what we’re doing about Sela?”
“We’ve contacted the DC Metro Police and filed a missing persons report. So far no one at Johns Hopkins has heard anything from anyone demanding ransom or otherwise. We don’t have any leads at the moment, sir. The police visited her home and although the front door was smashed in, everything else appeared normal. There was no evidence inside suggesting a physical altercation. That’s good news, Senator. At least we think Sela’s okay.”
“None of this is good news from where I sit, Ben. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but damnit…I want better answers than this. Is that all Sarah could give you last night?” Al asked, looking uncharacteristically harried.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so,” Ben said apologetically, feeling ineffective. “We’ll know more as the day progresses. At some point, the kidnappers will make contact with ransom demands and we can formulate a response. I know this is difficult, sir, but the authorities need time to gather evidence. The people responsible will eventually make a mistake, and when they do our guys will be there.”
At that moment LaDonna entered the office and announced that Director Charles Vickers had arrived. Ben asked that she not keep the Director waiting.
Vickers was a portly, balding man of tall stature, which seemed odd for the director of the Secret Service. The stereotypical agent was usually in excellent physical shape, of medium build, with a full head of closely cut hair. But Agent Vickers was an anomaly. He was a veteran of the service, having served in the Reagan, Bush, and Clinton administrations. Vickers was a young agent when President Ronald Reagan had been shot by John Hinkley, Jr. coming out of the Washington Hilton Hotel in May of 1981. He steadily rose through the ranks and finally landed the top government job charged with protecting the president of the United States. Vickers was known as a no-nonsense agent with a low tolerance for superfluous meetings that wasted his time. His presence meant that he considered the senator’s problem significant enough for him to personally respond.
“Good morning, Director Vickers,” the senator said crossing in front of his desk to shake hands as he entered. “I appreciate you responding on such short notice.”
“Not at all, Senator. I’m happy to be of service. Sorry to hear about your daughter.”
“Well, let’s get right to it then,” Alfonse said. “Under the circumstances, what can you do for me? I understand your authority is limited to providing security for the president, but is there anything you can do to help locate my daughter and grandson?”
“I’m sorry, sir. You understand correctly that my power is centrally focused on the executive branch. I don’t have much latitude to investigate anything beyond this very limited scope,” Director Vickers said, folding his arms across his chest, looking somewhat defensive. “However we do routinely work with local law enforcement and I don’t see any reason we wouldn’t do that in this case. I’ve assigned a couple of agents to follow up with the authorities investigating your daughter’s disappearance, and I’ll do the same with the authorities in California. But I regret to inform you that the service’s involvement will be limited only to inquiries, Senator. I wish I could be of more service.”
“What about a cleaner?” Alfonse asked. “I’m certain you could get in touch with those guys. Can they help in any way?”
Director Vickers looked askance at Ben, frowning as he did so. “I see Mr. Dare has been spreading rumors. I assure you, in my official capacity as director of the Secret Service, I know of no such organization within our government. That is my unqualified statement on the matter and I would so testify if asked about the subject under oath.”
He paused to let the statement sink in.
“But unofficially, Senator, yes, I know about the organization. They’re a group of men and women outside the government who routinely work beyond the usual channels. I have no idea how to contact them, Senator, and would advise you to think carefully before you attempt to do so.” Vickers’ rigid body language spoke volumes about his thoughts on the subject.
“The cleaners get their name from mopping up messy situations that require deniability through official government channels. It’s unclear to me who has authority over this clandestine group…certainly not Secret Service or even the FBI. The CIA also disavows any contact with them, although their agency is the one most likely to warrant this type of activity. They are independent and work outside the law-they’ve been rumored to carry out assassinations, rip-off drug dealers, and incite riots. Anyone associated with them will be guilty of conspiracy at the very least. Please, sir, tell me you aren’t considering this course of action.”
“What I’m doing is my own business,” Al replied, returning the director’s scowl. “Your offer to make inquiries about my family members is most gracious, but I need more help than that. If you were in my shoes, you might see things differently.”
At that moment LaDonna quietly re-entered the office and handed Ben a note, alerting him that Emerson Palmer was waiting in the vestibule. Ben passed the note to the senator and asked LaDonna not to admit Palmer until after Vickers cleared the room.
“Director Vickers, you’ll have to excuse me but I have another appointment,” Al said, abruptly standing to hasten the man from his office. “I appreciate your offer; please keep Mr. Dare apprised of any developments.”
“Sir, you have my promise to do all that I can. Please think carefully about what we’ve discussed,” he said, shaking the senator’s hand as he rose. “I appreciate your leadership on the Intelligence Committee,” he added, moving toward the door, and taking the opportunity to lobby the senator as he departed. “I hope you continue to consider me a worthy source of information any time your committee has questions, Senator.”
Director Vickers moved into the anteroom of the senator’s office and was mildly surprised to see Emerson Palmer. The director had never been particularly supportive when Palmer was with the service. Vickers recognized his considerable talents for counterespionage, but fell in league with other, more regimented agents who didn’t appreciate Palmer’s unorthodox ways.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” Vickers said as they passed one another without shaking hands. “I might’ve known…smell blood, Palmer?” he taunted. “Of course, ambulance chasing does suit you.”
“Buzz off, Vickers,” Palmer retorted. “Go find someone else to harass.” He was determined to get in his own dig at the man he held partly responsible for his early dismissal from the service. “Hell… you look terrible, Chuck,” he goaded as Vickers was leaving. “I’d see a doctor.”
Palmer was archetypical of a private eye: medium build, exemplary shape, non-descript features, and modest dress. Nothing about him really stood out. The man entering the senator’s office could easily pass for any number of nationalities. He was a genuine chameleon.