Parker says, “I just want to verify that there are no new developments.”
No answer, as the person on his private payroll hangs up.
Parker stares at the phone and then glances at a printed piece of paper carefully placed at the side of his desk. He picks up his White House phone and reaches the President’s secretary.
He lets out a big sigh as she answers the phone. He says, “Mrs. Young, I need fifteen minutes of the President’s time this morning … so tell the Better Business Bureau delegation they’re going to have to make do with the secretary of commerce.”
CHAPTER 33
IN A CRAMPED, windowless interview office adjacent to Room W-17, I finally meet with Jackson Thiel, the head of the President’s detail, the agent most often at President Tucker’s side. There’s no decorations, no plants, no framed photographs in the office, just a telephone and a metal desk and two chairs that seem to be leftovers from the Carter administration.
I sit down, and Jackson sits across from me, impeccably dressed as always, face impassive but slightly troubled, and I decide to get right to it.
“When did it start?”
Jackson doesn’t hesitate. “When did what start?”
I make sure he hears my audible sigh. “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, I’ll let you be. In a day or two, the usual congressional knuckleheads are going to demand a special prosecutor to find out what laws were broken while CANAL was stepping out on his wife. Then the Secret Service and Homeland Security are going to decide whether to defend you rogue agents, or toss you all under the nearest Metro bus. When that happens, you’re going to be on your own, Agent Thiel. In other words, if some agents who’d take a bullet for CANAL have their lives and careers destroyed, so be it.”
Jackson makes to speak, and I roll right over him, no patience at all. “Your work in sidestepping proper procedures and enabling the President to bed his mistress was completely rogue and unauthorized. You work for me, and the moment I found out was yesterday morning. Do you think I’m going to let that slide? Or that the director will?”
“But I—”
My rolling over him continues, and maybe I’m not being fair, but I don’t care. “You know your history. You know what happened to the agents caught up in the Clinton-Lewinsky mess? They had to hire private lawyers. They lost their homes, their savings, their college funds. And their careers crumbled like dust. You know a good lawyer, then?”
I gather my notepad and bag, stand up, and Jackson’s face softens. “Eight months ago.”
I sit down. “Where and how?”
“It was a post-fund-raising get-together in Denver,” Jackson says, voice quiet. “Miss Doyle was part of the group. There were about two dozen there, a meet-and-greet, photo taken with CANAL, that sort of thing.”
“Go on.”
“Then CANAL asked if we could delay getting back to the hotel for a while,” Jackson says. “He and Miss Doyle went into a private room off the banquet hall for about a half hour.”
“Was this the first time they ever met?”
“To my knowledge, yes.”
“Did she entice him in any way?”
“Entice?”
I lose my patience again. “Crap, Jack, you know what I mean. Did she have a low-cut dress on and drop some cottage cheese down her cleavage in front of the President? Did she laugh a lot and touch his shoulder, touch his hair? Did she turn and flip up the back of her dress to show him she was wearing a thong? Anything like that?”
Jackson shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Miss Doyle … she’s a class act.”
That’s a comment too far. “Excuse me for being rude, but she’s banging a married man, and not just any married man.”
Jackson is stubborn. “She … makes him happy. That’s all I know. And a happy President … well, it’s a good thing.”
“Was she a stalker? Hanging around the Man’s campaign events? Trying to sneak into Camp David? Send him books of love poetry?”
“Not at all. Like I said, she’s a class act. A fine woman.”
I bite my tongue and say, “How often did they get together?”
“Two, three times a month.”
I can’t believe it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jackson shakes his head. “Nope.”
“How in the hell did … how did you think you were going to get away with it? How did you think he was going to get away with it?”
He says, “You know how it is. CANAL goes to a campaign event, or some political meeting, and at some point the press secretary, he says, the lid’s on, no more news for the night, the President’s gone to bed. And the hotels he stays at … secure, staff discreet, we rent the floor the President’s on and the floor above and the floor below. After-hours … easy enough to go out a back entrance, or a service area, or any other place for a … meeting.”
“So you helped arrange these … meetings.”
“We did.”
“Not really in your job description, is it?”
He shrugs. “Just following orders.”
I say, “This Tammy Doyle … you think she has violence in her heart? Wants to hurt the President? Or the First Lady?”
“Absolutely not.”
I wait for a moment. “Anything else?”
He waits for a moment as well. “I’m hearing … rumors. About the First Lady. That she might be … well, someplace where she can’t be reached.”
I get up. “That’s all, Jack.”
“You asked about Tammy Doyle and the First Lady. There’s something going on, isn’t there?”
“Jack, your career has already been bombed into destruction. What, you have an appetite to make the rubble bounce?”
He stares up at me. “But if you’re doing something about the First Lady being … unavailable … it’s not our job. It’s the FBI, DC police, whole lots of other agencies.”
I say, “You know the drill. Just following orders.”
CHAPTER 34
AFTER THREE HOURS of purging her emails and phone messages, Tammy Doyle finally sits back in her office chair and takes a breath. She managed to slip into the K Street building holding Pearson, Pearson, and Price by going into an adjacent structure and walking through a maintenance hallway.
In her office, there’s been looks, a few smiles, but mostly she’s been left alone, which is fine. The firm’s receptionists are screening any incoming calls, the media can camp out on the sidewalk for as long as they want, and she’s in a little cocoon of safety here.
Tammy’s feeling better, even though her face is still tender from yesterday’s car accident and that side of her body is achy. The bruise on her cheek has been covered up with some foundation, and no one’s noticed a thing. She’s ignored the news this morning, and right now, all she wants is a third cup of coffee, and then there’s a knock at her door.
“Come on in,” she calls out, and Ralph Moren, her group’s admin aide, steps in and says, “Tammy, there’s a woman here to see you.”