I Do Solemnly Swear (23 page)

For how long could he lie to himself? His life on Earth would soon be over. Moments after he killed the president, Secret Service bullets would tear into his flesh and turn his organs into oatmeal. So why worry about cleansing the world of two more misfits? Why not accept this unexpected windfall as a divine gift? To deal with these inferior ones could only endear him to his Aryan god. Perhaps his noble deed would redeem his mother’s wanton behavior.

A door slammed. Guenther jumped off the bed, tiptoed to the door, and opened it enough to poke his head in the hall. Ivory was strutting her way to the exit door. Her blonde ponytail rhythmically swayed to her stride. Her plump ass wiggled with purpose, just begging for something only Guenther could give her.

Guenther sat on the bed and scratched the back of his head. How was he was going to do it?

He put on his Levi’s, stuffed the Colt in front of the jeans, and slipped on his red flannel shirt, letting it hang out to conceal the gun. He stepped into the bathroom, rinsed his face with cold water, checked his smile in the mirror, and headed for the door. Before he stepped into the hall, he put on his Redskins baseball cap. To his delight, the corridor was empty. Guenther was happy they occupied the room next to his. He tapped his room key on the door. The door swung open, and Ebony’s six-foot-six torso towered over him. His head was shaved clean as an eight ball, and he was wearing a white tank top and orange Syracuse University sweatpants. His deltoids were deeply cut, isolating them from his well-pumped triceps. His dark skin was as waxy as a semisweet chocolate bar.

“Howdy, neighbor,” Guenther said. “My telephone ain’t workin’. Any chance I can use yours to report it?”

Ebony stepped to the side. “No problem.” His voice was deep, gravelly. He extended his hand. “My name’s Jerome.”

Guenther would have preferred to stick his hand in a meat grinder. “Bill Thompson. Appreciate you lettin’ me use your phone.”

Jerome’s huge hand swallowed Guenther’s skinny fingers. The big man jerked his arm like he was pumping water from a well. Guenther pulled his hand away and as inconspicuously as possible wiped it on his jeans. Keeping his back toward Jerome, he walked into the room and listened for the door to close, then Guenther turned around. “You here alone?”

“You said hello to my wife and me in the hallway, remember?”

Wife? Should’na told me that
.

“Oh yeah. Your wife’s real pretty. Where she at?”

“She ran to the liquor store. I’ve been offered a professorship at Georgetown, so we want to celebrate. But not enough to shell out eighty bucks for a bottle of hotel champagne.”

“Congratulations.”

“What brings you to Georgetown?” Jerome asked.

Guenther looked into the man’s slick-black eyes. “Gonna assassinate the president in a couple days.”

Jerome let out a resonant guffaw. “That’s a good one, Bill.” His eyes widened and locked on Guenther’s face.

Ain’t sure if I’m jokin’, huh
?

Jerome’s pearly smile melted to a catatonic stare; his shiny brown cheeks blushed red. Guenther waited for him to make a move.

Still standing in the foyer, Jerome leaped for the doorknob and yanked hard. Guenther tore the Colt from his jeans and, with one fluid motion, pulled back the slide and pointed the gun at Jerome.

“Open that door, motherfucker, and I’ll decorate the walls with your black brains.”

The doorknob slipped from Jerome’s moist fingertips, and the metal door clicked shut. Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes. He blinked furiously. “All I’ve got is thirty or forty dollars, Bill. Take it. Take my credit cards.”

“My name ain’t Bill, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fuckin’ credit cards. I ain’t no common thief.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanna meet your...
wife
.”

***

Kyle Stevers estimated that he’d covered close to four miles. A few mouthfuls of water sloshed around in his canteen; he’d already drunk two of the three reserve bottles. He’d made better time than
expected, but his right knee was swollen and inflamed, and he was certain his feet were covered with blisters. He’d found four ibuprofens in his first aid kit and swallowed them with barely enough water to prevent them from lodging in his throat. The anti-inflammatory might have helped if he were able to sit down and elevate his leg for a while, but that was a luxury he could not afford.

Along the way, the only sign of life he’d noticed were striped snakes and lime-green lizards. He hadn’t seen an Iranian soldier, civilian, car, truck, or aircraft. It was like being stranded on the moon. Although the sun had not been as intense as he’d expected, he buried all nonessential items that would slow his pace. He tore the legs off his pants just above the knee, stuffed one in his back pocket, and wrapped the other around his head to protect it from the sun. Only food, water, flight jacket, first aid kit, knife, and shovel remained in his knapsack. He tried to pick up the pace, pushing his body to its limit. But his throbbing knee had suddenly grown to nauseating pain, so the best he could do was shuffle along and pray he didn’t throw up. In this barren desert, every horizon looked the same. As he hobbled along, Stevers checked the compass often to be sure he was headed toward the Kuwaiti border. After thirty more minutes, at a snail’s pace, Stevers could no longer endure the pain. He almost fell onto the hot sand. With great care, he extended his legs. By gripping the back of his thigh and pulling it toward his chest, he tried to bend his right knee. He’d hardly moved it before the stabbing pain became nearly unbearable. Keeping his right leg straight was the only position that yielded minor relief. He had to find a way to immobilize his leg.

Stevers craned his neck and searched the landscape. The sandy soil did not offer any extraordinary solutions. He remembered an emergency technique he’d learned in basic training. He
removed the shovel from the knapsack, unfolded it, and laid it on the ground beside his right leg. The concave blade appeared to be the same contour as his thigh. Keeping the shovel parallel to his leg, he rested the back of his thigh on the curved blade and positioned the handle behind his right calf. Using the shovel as a splint, Stevers tore the extra pant leg into strips and secured it to his leg in three places. He rolled to his stomach, pushed up his torso, bent his left knee, and struggled to stand. He took several steps, swinging his right leg like a pendulum as he walked. The makeshift brace would slow his already snaillike pace, but by keeping his leg rigid, he hoped to reduce the pain and minimize further damage.

He struggled forward, often dragging his right leg, other times swinging it. He focused his thoughts on Debra and Todd, trying not to think about his knee, hoping he could will the pain to subside.

A strange sound broke the desert silence. A whining. A thumping. He swiveled around. In the distance, he could see what he believed was a helicopter heading toward him. He surveyed the landscape. There wasn’t a tree in sight. Only miles of flat, sandy earth. He considered running, but how could a gimp outrun a chopper? For an instant, he thought about digging a hole in the loose soil and burying himself. If he exposed only his nose he could breathe. He looked back at the helicopter. It was closing in quickly. Stevers dropped his knapsack on the ground and gripped his holstered weapon with his right hand. He used his left hand as a visor and shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched the helicopter’s rapid approach. As the chopper came into clear view, he could see a tricolor rectangle painted on the side of the hull. Red, white, and green. Islamic emblem in the center.

The Iranian flag
.

He covered his eyes as the chopper kicked up a swirling sand storm. It hovered for a minute just above his head, then descended to the ground, twenty yards away. The engine stopped whining, and all Stevers could hear was a slowing
wop-wop
sound. He opened his eyes and watched four soldiers charging toward him as if he’d just caught a punted football. They pointed their rifles his way. Now, of course, he regretted his decision to walk during daylight hours.

Brilliant strategy, Lieutenant
.

For a fleeting moment, foolhardy heroics nearly compelled him to draw his weapon. But in his mind’s eye, he could see the picture of Debra and Todd stuffed in his back pocket. He placed his hands behind his head and prayed they wouldn’t open fire. If he had to die for his country, he wanted it to be on American soil.

***

Following Carl Kramer’s strict orders to forward any calls related to the White House directly to him, his assistant buzzed Kramer on the intercom and told him a police captain was calling.

“What’s he want, and how did he get to
me
?”

“It has to do with the White House, and he said it was urgent.”

Just what I need today
. “Go ahead and put him through.” Kramer cleared his throat. “Carl Kramer speaking.”

“Mr. Kramer, Captain Teddy Daniels ringing you up from the Grand Cayman Islands. You in charge of the CIA, mate?”

“I’m deputy director.” Kramer recognized the Cockney accent. Daniels was a Brit.

“We’ve found an American. His throat was slit ear to ear—execution style. Lad’s got two names.”

“What do you mean, two names?”

“A bloody mystery. The young chap had two Maryland driver’s licenses. Could be Richard Crandall or Joseph Vitelli.”

“Why did you contact the CIA?”

“The bloke had a White House ID. Should I be chatting up a different agency?”

“No, Captain Daniels. You’ve done the right thing by calling me.” Kramer chose his words carefully. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

“We found a passport and three airline tickets. One to Miami. Miami to New York. And one from New York to Rome, Italy. All one-way.”

“Any suspects or witnesses?”

“Not a bloody clue.”

“What will you do with the body?” Kramer asked.

“Unless next of kin pay for his transport back to the US of A, I’m afraid he’ll be cremated. Not much room for cemeteries on the islands.”

Kramer knew that Vitelli’s only family was somewhere in Italy. “Have you contacted anyone else?”

“Just you, mate.”

“I can’t explain why he had an alias, but the man’s real name is Richard Crandall. If you release information to the media, please be sure you use his proper name. If there
is
a living Joseph Vitelli, we wouldn’t want to write a premature eulogy, would we?”

“What shall we do with the lad’s body?”

“He has no family. Have it cremated.”

Kramer could tell by the silence that Daniels was taken aback.

“If you need to phone me,” Daniels said, “you can ring me up at police headquarters in George Town.”

Kramer scribbled the number on a legal pad. “Please call me immediately if
anyone
contacts you regarding Mr. Crandall’s murder.”

“Be happy to, mate.”

Kramer expected the police captain to say good-bye, but he could hear heavy breathing.

“I do have a bit of a pebble in my shoe, Mr. Kramer. Why did the White House ID identify him as Vitelli? Seems a bit daft.”

“Mr. Crandall may be the only one who can answer that, Captain.”

After a long silence, Daniels conceded. “Have a cheery good day.”

Kramer couldn’t dial the number fast enough.

“
Washington Post
, how may I direct your call?”

“Tommy Luciano, please.”

As he waited for the call to be transferred, sweat trickled down Kramer’s forehead. Tommy was one of those journalists who didn’t always walk a straight line—the kind of reporter Kramer relied on for “special” assignments.

“Newsroom. Luciano speaking.”

“This is Carl Kramer.”

“Long time no see. Got something juicy for me?”

“I need a favor, Tommy—just between you and me.”

“It’s not going to put me in the slammer, is it?”

“No. But it might make you a hero.”

“I’m listening.”

***

Guenther Krause made himself comfortable on the king-size bed. He propped a pillow against the headboard and rested his back. He wondered why Ebony and Ivory’s mattress was firmer than his. Did black professors get some kind of preferential treatment? Ebony sat in the corner of the room on the plaid love seat. Pools of sweat dripped off his shiny skin. Ebony had been silent since
Guenther had said he’d wanted to meet his wife. Guenther could tell by his twisted facial expression that Ebony’s thoughts were raw with fear. He had good reason to be frightened.

When Guenther heard a key click in the door, he jumped up and stood with his back against the wall, positioning his body perpendicular to the entryway. When Ivory entered, he concealed his body from her line of vision. He pointed the Colt at Jerome. “A big smile, tar baby.”

The door opened. “Found a chilled bottle of Moet, sweetheart,” Ivory said.

Guenther listened for the door to click shut. The room filled with a sickening-sweet perfume smell, as if a ten-dollar-an-hour hooker had just come in. Unable to see Guenther with her peripheral vision, she walked toward Jerome holding the bottle out in front of her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“Boo-hoo,” Guenther yelled.

The woman pivoted around. Her eyes were fixed on the Colt.

“Scream and I’ll blow your fuckin’ face off!”

The champagne bottle slipped from her fingers. She covered her mouth with both hands and muffled a yelp. The bottle bounced on the carpet, spun around like a bowling pin, then rolled under the bureau. She gaped at her terrified husband. He shrugged his shoulders and clutched her hand.

“Ain’t that cute. Ebony and Ivory. Just like the song.”

“My
name
is Joanne.”

Ah, the bitch is spunky
. “As long as I got the gun, your new name is Ivory. Or would you prefer White Bitch?” He shook the Colt at Jerome. “And your hubby’s name is Ebony. Got it?”

Guenther checked his Timex. To allow ample time to hide the gun in the toilet reservoir before the lecture began, he had to be in the auditorium by seven p.m. A lot could happen in three hours. He was glad he’d bought some duct tape to secure the gun to the toilet reservoir.