The Sentinel by Gerald Petievich Read Free Book Online Page A

riding the running boards. It's about diplomacy. That's the word for it. Diplomacy. I understand you have something you want to discuss-"
    "A threat case."
    "Shoot."
    Garrison recounted what he had learned from informant Frank Hightower: that an unnamed Secret Service agent assigned to the White House Detail and a hired assassin from Europe were involved in an Aryan Disciples plot to assassinate the President. Garrison handed Wintergreen copies of a code card Hightower had given him. Wintergreen licked his lips and formed an expression of concern on his face as he studied the items.
    "Frank Hightower. What can you tell me about him?"
    "When I was working PRD he provided reliable information - enough to make four solid convictions. He has connections with dealers of illegal weapons and other paramilitary types both here and in Canada and Europe. He likes to think of himself as a soldier of fortune. His motivation has always been money. He wants a million dollars for the case."
    "I'm glad he's not greedy," Wintergreen said facetiously.
    "He's not asking for cash until after the arrests are made."
    Wintergreen picked up a plastic pitcher from his desk. He poured water into a glass and took a drink. "That's encouraging."
    "Hightower is reliable."
    "Pete, how do you see this?"
    "Going by what he has done for us in the past and the fact that he turned over a Commo Card, I think he may be telling the truth."
    Wintergreen coughed. "Frankly, this sounds like a case where the information and the informant sound a little too good to be true. But we have to move on the information. I want you to stay with your normal duties but continue handling Hightower. You've worked with him in the past. You know him. If there is a demand on your time from the First Lady Detail, take vacation days and I will recredit them to you later. You'll be point man on this. That way no one in the world will know what we're up to. In case the information may fit with the Meriweather murder, bring Martha Breckinridge up to speed."
    "Okay."
    "Keep this top secret, Pete."
    "I'll open an internal investigation file-"
    "I don't want a formal internal investigation opened at this point. If we have an insider working for the Disciples, he might smell a rat and pull back into his shell. Handle this off the record until something jells. Keep me informed at every step."
    "Will do."
    "Any questions?"
    Garrison said there wasn't, then left the office.
    Wintergreen felt pleased. He sensed that time was condensed. He could handle difficult situations, while others, the brown-baggers in life, sat on the steps and ate their measly stale sandwiches, whining and crying in their beer. Wintergreen remembered an incident when he'd been a junior agent. He'd been on Air Force One returning from a Presidential trip to the West Coast, and the shift leader had told the entire shift that they were continuing on duty after working twelve days straight. When he and the others had complained, a veteran shift leader had told him: See the President sitting up there sipping whiskey, with the newsies? He doesn't give a damn about how many, hours you work. In fact, unless you get promoted to Director, you can stay twenty years and no President will ever know your name. Get used to it. And get used to the long hours. You're not the President, and in the White House you are lower than the lowliest appointed assistant, and only slightly higher than the steward who serves coffee in the Red Room. You're nothing but part of the woodwork.
    Now that Wintergreen had achieved the rank, he figured he owed no one. In the paramilitary U.S. Secret Service. he had the power of an Army general. He gave orders and his White House Detail agents jumped to carry them out. The White House was a good place to be.
    A sign on the wall behind his desk read, "THE PRIORITY IS PRESIDENTIALSECURITY."
    He got up and straightened it.
    ****
    CHAPTER 5
    IN THE WHITE House private quarters dining room, President Russell Jordan