A Clear and Present Danger (6 page)

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 joke.

“I don’t know,” Posten finally said, drying his eyes.

“Find it.” Slayton’s tone was firm, even commanding.

“Just a minute—”

“Find it,” Slayton repeated.

Posten was about to draw himself up to full height, which was some three inches more than Slayton, but knew it was a ridiculous
gesture. Clearly, Slayton was correct to express concern. This was no time for pulling rank, no time for taking umbrage at
the sound of a man’s voice.

“Come on,” Posten said. Slayton followed the supervising agent to the main reception desk of the Embassy.

“Keys to the desk,” Posten told a Secret Service agent stationed near the desk. The agent produced a ring of keys.

From the center drawer, Posten produced a log book. He thumbed open the list of entries for January 25. Slayton checked his
wristwatch. He calculated he had fifteen minutes before guests would begin milling about.

Slayton’s finger ran down the day’s entries. He recognized several of the names. His eye returned to the first name, at the
top of the list: Edward Folger.

“This was before opening hours,” Slayton said, noting the 8:15 a.m. time of arrival at the desk. “Why?”

Posten took a look.

“Robbery victim,” Posten said. “See?” He pointed to the secretary’s cramped handwriting.

“Probably slept outside overnight,” Posten explained. “It happens all the time. Kids get in trouble and head here when they
haven’t got any cash. We get them back home and collect from their parents.”

Slayton felt a little sick to his stomach. It passed. He had no time to be less than his most efficient.

“We’ve got to check this one out, sir,” Slayton said.

“I know,” Posten said.

Slayton sat down at the receptionist’s desk and picked up the telephone. He dialed the Embassy switchboard.

“Get me the home telephone of whoever worked at the main receptionist’s desk this morning,” he said to the operator. “And
put a wiggle on it. This is an emergency.”

He replaced the telephone and looked up at Posten.

“Organize a very discreet search,” he said.

Posten was about to say something like, “Who’s in charge here, anyway?” but thought better of it. Instead, he said, “I’m going
to make a very quiet search throughout the building. I want you to let me know what you find out from the receptionist.”

“Right, skipper.”

The telephone rang. Posten scurried off to attend to his search as Slayton answered.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“This is Agent Ben Slayton, Secret Service,” he said. “Your name, please?”

“Naomi. Naomi Wyatt… why?”

“You were working at the main receptionist desk in the embassy this morning at about eight o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“And you attended to someone named Edward Folger?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Tell me about him.”

She did as she was told, relating how the young man had been the victim of pickpockets, how he had shown up at the Embassy
penniless and frightened.

“How did you handle the problem?” Slayton asked.

“In the usual way. I telephoned his parents, back in the States, and had them arrange to meet him at an airport near the place
of residence, which in this case was, as I recall, Kennedy, in New York. Then I—”

“Is there a record of all this?”

“In the upper left-hand drawer. It’s a typed form, about eight-by-ten.”

Slayton tested the keys in the lock of the upper left drawer until he found the proper one and opened it.

“Okay, Naomi, I’ve found it,” he said. “Right on top.”

“I told you,” she said testily.

Slayton ignored the remark. He didn’t care about diplomacy.

“Thomas Folger of Yonkers, New York. That’s the father’s name?”

“Right. I remember it now. The telephone number in the States should be right there on the form.”

Indeed it was.

“Tell me, Naomi, what happened when you telephoned Yonkers?”

“Well, it was the middle of the night to them, of course. I woke them up. I explained that their son was stranded in London,
and then I asked if they would guarantee repayment if we booked him on the next flight home, and they agreed, and that was
that.”

Slayton thought for a moment, and then said, “And how long did this Edward Folger stay here in the embassy building?”

“Oh, not long, Mr. Slayton. I was able to get him on a 10 o’clock T.W.A. flight to Kennedy from Heathrow, so he only had time
to clean up a bit in the men’s room here before leaving for—”

“He used the men’s room? Which one?”

“The one down around the corner from my desk.”

“There is a men’s room near the doorway leading into the ballroom on the main floor of the Embassy. Would that be the one?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Good-bye, Miss Wyatt.”

Slayton clicked off. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he dialed the Stateside number of Thomas Folger, Yonkers,
New York.

There was a scratching at the other end of the line, then some clicking noises and finally a recorded voice:

“We’re sorry we are unable to complete your call at this time. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. There is
no new number… .”

More scratchings, then the recorded voice repeated the message.

Slayton checked his watch. No time to lose.

He dashed from the receptionist’s desk to the corridor, but slowed to a purposeful walk when he encountered the first streams
of British dignitaries sweeping into the Embassy, on their way to the ballroom and an evening with the new American Vice President,
“Sir Prep.”

The ballroom had begun to fill as he entered. Glasses full of champagne began tinkling. Cigarette smoke and small talk filled
the air. A pianist was playing something from Gershwin, softly, with just enough volume to start people speaking to one another
slightly louder than usual. The Embassy social staff knew all the tricks of the trade.

Slayton masked his frantic feelings. He had to assume the worst, that Edward Folger, whoever he was, was a saboteur. He had
left the premises. That much Slayton knew. But had he left a little surprise behind? That was what he feared.

Across the ballroom, Slayton could see Posten. It looked as though the supervising agent was sweating. Posten spotted him
and crossed the room.

“What have you got?” Posten asked.

Slayton told him what he had learned from Naomi Wyatt, the receptionist.

“Possible saboteur,” Posten said.

“You’re telling me.”

Both men swept the room with their eyes.

“I imagine you’re going to have to evacuate,” Slayton said. “Have you contacted Heathrow yet? You can’t let Sir Prep in.”

Posten slapped his forehead.

“Oh my god,” he said. He walked briskly from the room, leaving Slayton to wonder if he had signed on with the Keystone Kops
or with the U.S. Secret Service.

Again, Slayton scanned the room. All his training taught him to seek out the most obvious. Better than ninety percent of the
time, he had learned from his own investigative experience, criminals would take the easy route.

His gaze fixed on a heating duct built into the wainscoting of the wall. Each wall was so equipped, he further noticed. They
would all have to be searched. Slayton walked to the one nearest the entrance doorway.

He knelt down on the floor and peered into the grating of the duct. He could see nothing. He drew a match from his pocket
and lit it. He could see only dark shapes inside. Nothing unusual. He pressed an ear to the grating. For a moment, he couldn’t
tell if he actually heard ticking or imagined he heard it.

Then, with a dull horror and a quickened beat of his own pulse, Slayton realized he had found a bomb.

He looked up. Incredibly, no one in the ballroom paid any heed to his kneeling before the heat duct, his ear to the wall.

Slayton reached into his pocket and removed a pen knife. He opened it and began working at the screws holding the grating
into place. The screws came off easily, a further indication that something was amiss. Someone had taken off the grating this
day.

A line of perspiration broke across his forehead and upper lip.

Finally, he removed the grating.

There it was, neatly taped into place, softly ticking.

Slayton carefully cut the heavy tape with his knife blade and pulled the square bomb package from the wall. He stood up slowly
and covered the bomb with an edge of his coat. Then he began walking out of the ballroom.

A heavy-bosomed society matron watched him as he made his way through the corridor to a service hall leading out through the
kitchen to the rear alley.

“I say, young man,” she’ said imperiously, blocking his path. “What have you? What seems to be going on?”

Slayton grinned, just a bit wanly, and sidestepped her.

“The latest in remote control gate-crashing,” he told her over his shoulder.

Outside, finally, in the damp chill London air, Slayton set down the bomb. He delicately pulled the bits of brown cloth and
paper that covered the package.

Inside, he found precisely what he expected. Dynamite cylinders connected by fuse to a blasting cap and timing device.

Slayton squeezed the positive terminus of the double fuse, holding it taut between the fingers of his left hand. His pen knife
still open, he moved the blade to the fuse and closed his eyes. Gently, he made a slicing motion against the edge of the fuse
with his knife.

He felt the fuse sever, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief, knowing that the bomb was now useless.

But blasting caps were not to be trifled with. Slayton’s work was not yet finished.

He clipped away all ends of the double fuse, freeing the blasting cap itself from the dynamite. He sank the cap into a three-inch
deep puddle of rain water.

Slayton then made his way to the service door.

When he reached the kitchen, he sat down before he fell down. His legs were shaking. His breathing was rapid and irregular.

One of the cooks on duty, noticing how peculiar he looked, approached him.

“Sick?” the cook asked.

Slayton couldn’t say anything until he had caught his breath. Then, “Get word to Posten. Arthur Posten, supervising Secret
Service agent. Tell him to get his fanny in here to see me.”

The cook wasted no time.

In five minutes, Slayton, considerably calmer now, his mind racing with questions about Edward Folger and Thomas Folger and
Yonkers, New York, was greeted by an ebullient Arthur Posten.

“Our worries are over,” Posten said.

Slayton looked at him incredulously.

Posten continued, “The Vice President has been delayed, by word higher up. His landing was scrubbed. Right now, Sir Prep and
Air Force II are sitting quietly at Shannon Airport in Ireland.”

“What?”

“I say, the Vice President—”

“Who ordered it scrubbed?” Slayton asked.

“Honcho back in Washington. Hamilton Winship.”

WASHINGTON, D.C., 28 January 1981