A Clear and Present Danger by Buck Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

until the time he left the White House, was pardoned of Watergate crimes,
     and became “Sir Richard of San Clemency.”
    Slayton repaired to the men’s room on the main floor to check his appearance.
    Appearance was important to Slayton. Vital, in many cases, especially when he was assigned to the A.T.F. A man’s dress and
     carriage, be knew, could signal all manner of impressions. It was helpful to control those impressions.
    Tonight he was in black tie for the state affair. He examined himself in a mirror. He looked every bit the up-and-coming young
     diplomat, every bit a man of the world involved in far more intrigue than he would or could let on. Women loved it. Only the
     tiny earphone and the bright green metallic lapel button betrayed him as a Secret Service agent. Women loved that, too, as
     he had discovered on more than one occasion.
    The point was, he looked as if he belonged. Ben Slayton could just as easily blend in with a gang of Puerto Ricans shooting
     craps in the South Bronx.
    “Is anybody in this outfit besides me ever going to see how fucking good I am at my job?” he thought to himself.
    Slayton left the men’s room, satisfied finally that his dark red tuft of handkerchief in his breast coat pocket and the pearl
     studs of his snowy shirt were properly aligned. He wondered if he would have to sleep alone tonight.
    To his right, down the corridor, was the entrance to the ballroom, where the reception would take place in an hour or so.
    “Through with the check list?” Slayton asked of a Secret Service agent named Nelson who stood by the door filing his nails.
    “Yeah,” Nelson said, not looking up. “You want to go over it yourself? Help yourself.”
    Slayton picked up the day’s duty sheet from a table. On it were the various Secret Service functions prescribed for that period
     beginning at 0:00 hours and ending at 24:5999 hours. Each segment of time had to be accounted for, signed and countersigned.
     Radar sweeps, food inspections, kitchen searches, outside personnel checks, press affiliation verifications, identification
     tag distribution, and detailed furnishings examination.
    All seemed to be in order.
    Slayton next perused the check-list column marked “guard watch.” He didn’t see the customary signatures attesting for a proper
     guard at the reception room door from 7:30 to 8:30 that morning.
    “Look at this, Nelson.”
    Slayton roused Nelson’s attention by shoving the duty sheet below his nose.
    “Where’s the signatures here?” Slayton was pointing to the sixty-minute morning period.
    “Beats me,” Nelson said. “We’d better check with Artie.”
    “Wait here,” Slayton said when Nelson started to join him in leaving the reception room doorway to find Arthur Posten, the
     Secret Service supervising agent. “If there really has been an interruption in guard detail, we don’t want to be responsible
     for another one.”
    “Yeah,” Nelson said. A scribble of worry played across his face.
    “It’s probably nothing,” Slayton said. “But let’s play by the book.”
    “Yeah.”
    Slayton walked briskly down the corridor to the main lobby of the Embassy building, where he knew he would find Posten. He
     presented the check list, pointing to the one-hour gap.
    “Could this be a mistake, or was the reception room door actually unguarded this morning?” Slayton asked.
    Agent Posten studied the paper, made a telephone call to a subordinate, and slammed down the receiver angrily. His face went
     red.
    “Crocker, my counterpart on the morning watch!” he spat. “Know him?”
    Slayton shook his head no.
    “Should have retired that old man long ago. Seems he excused one of the agents who called in complaining of the runs, and
     he forgot to replace him at the post in question. Crocker forgot! Can you believe it? He ought to have his armpits set on
     fire.”
    “Where’s the visitors list for today?” Slayton asked, ignoring Posten’s laughing at his own