I Do Solemnly Swear (24 page)

He reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out his room key. “Hey Ivory, fetch me the gray duct tape on the bathroom vanity. If you ain’t back in two minutes, I’m gonna stick this gun up Little Black Sambo’s ass and blow his guts all over the room. Got it?”

She reached for the key, but Guenther closed his fingers around it. “Two minutes is all you got.”

She snatched it from his hand and looked at Guenther as if he were a cockroach needing to be stepped on. He knew exactly how to tame feisty bitches. The scent of her perfume reminded Guenther of the blue-haired women at the bingo hall his mother’d taken him to when he was young. The old hags loved to mess his hair and pinch his cheeks red and tell him what an adorable little boy he was. If they could only see him now, he thought, they’d be turning over in their graves.

The second hand swept past ninety seconds. She walked back in the door and handed Guenther his key and the roll of tape. He handed the duct tape back to her and wiggled the gun at Ebony. “I want your tar-black ass in that chair. And face it toward the bed.”

The man swiveled the wooden chair and sat down. Guenther shook the gun at Ivory. “Tape Ebony’s legs to the chair. Nice and tight.”

She unwound the gray tape in circles and taped his right leg, then his left.

Guenther watched her closely. “Ain’t enough for this big boy. Don’t be stingy with my tape.” He didn’t want to underestimate
Ebony’s strength. “Now his arms. All the way around his body. Tape him to the chair real good.”

He let her wrap the tape around his body until he was certain Jerome couldn’t move.

“Now tape those big lips.”

Ivory tore a six-inch piece and gently placed it over his mouth. Guenther checked the tape and made certain the muscular black man was securely immobilized.

She stood next to her husband and gripped his shoulder. Her face was as pale as skim milk. “What do you want from us?”

Guenther looked at her purple Georgetown sweatshirt. Her Guess jeans were skintight, cutting deeply into her, leaving little for his imagination. “We’re gonna play a little game of Q&A. If you tell the truth, Ebony lives. If you don’t, he eats a bullet. Got it?”

She looked at Jerome, apparently searching for guidance.

“Are your boobs real, or did Dr. Silicone give ya them?”

“
What
?”

“Your tits. I wanna know if they’re
gen
-u-ine.”

“You’re
disgusting
!”

Guenther pointed the Colt at Ebony. “Are they?”

“Of course they are.”

“With that baggy sweatshirt and all, you might be fibbin’. And a fib is a lie where I come from.”

She glanced at her husband.

He shook his head.

“Go fuck yourself,” the blonde said.

Guenther stormed toward Ebony, flipped the gun in the air, and caught it by the barrel. He smacked the side of Jerome’s head with the handle. Jerome closed his eyes and let out a muffled moan.

Guenther clenched his teeth. “I
ain’t
playin’ with ya.”

She crossed her arms, grabbed the elastic band at the bottom of the sweatshirt, and turned it inside out over her head. Guenther’s eyes opened wide. Either she was wearing a Wonder Bra or the Booby Fairy had been generous.

“Lose the bra.”

She hesitated, and Guenther cocked his arm.

“OK! OK!” She reached behind her back, unsnapped the lace bra, and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts were full, like generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. Her pink nipples were youthfully erect.

“You a
real
blonde?” Guenther asked.

“What the fuck does
that
mean?”

“Don’t you understand English? Where did the blonde locks come from, God or Clairol?”

“It’s natural.”

“How do I know you ain’t lying?”

“I can’t prove it.”

“If it’s real, then you got a blonde pussy.” Guenther grinned. “Show it to me.”

Jerome’s biceps flexed and veins sprouted on his forearms. He rocked the chair from side to side, and his oversized eyes glared at his wife.

Guenther again walloped the side of Ebony’s head. “If you don’t sit still, Ivory is gonna eat a bullet. Now, behave. Just like your granddaddy did in the cotton fields.”

She loosened her belt, pulled down her zipper, and wiggled the jeans over her curvaceous hips. She unlaced her sneakers, kicked them off, and stepped out of the jeans.

“I ain’t got x-ray vision.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and tears leaked from the corners. She hooked her thumbs inside her pink bikini panties and slid them down her legs.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t no lying going on in this room. At least not yet.” Guenther tossed the Redskins cap on the bed. “You a virgin?”

She peered at Guenther with wild eyes. “What kind of a sick fuck are you?”

Ebony rocked the chair again, wiggling and twisting like a man covered with bees. Guenther ripped the tape off his mouth, and the man’s face contorted. He pressed the gun to Ebony’s trembling lips and jammed it into his mouth.

“Wanna know how sick I am?” Guenther clicked off the safety, and Ebony’s teeth chattered on the steel barrel.

“Please!” she yelled. “Don’t hurt him.”

“I asked if you was a virgin.”

“How
could
I be? I’m married.”

“That don’t mean jack-diddly. The Virgin Mary didn’t give any to Joseph.”

She fell to her knees and folded her hands in prayer. “I beg you.
Please
, don’t do this.”

Guenther pointed to the bed. “Lay down. Time for Dr. Dick to give you an exam.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Her chin hung to her chest. Guenther stuffed the gun deeper into her husband’s mouth. Ebony coughed and gagged. Whimpering in breathless gasps, Ivory labored to stand, then moved toward the bed. She fell on her back, pressed her inner thighs firmly together, covered her breasts with her forearms, and folded her hands over her pubic hair. She looked like a naked mummy. Guenther stood over her, his eyes surveying her critically.

“Don’t be bashful,” Guenther said. “Give me a look at those big titties and that tight little pussy of yours.”

She looked at her husband and slowly moved her arms to her side.

Her sandy-colored pubic hair was trimmed to a narrow V. Under her left breast, he noticed a strawberry birthmark. The blonde hair, vanilla-cream skin, and radiant blue eyes made her look like an angel. The gun fell out of his hand, and it bounced on the bed. He unzipped his jeans and slid them and his boxers to his ankles. He placed his hands between her knees and spread her legs. For several minutes, Guenther was lost, frozen like a deer staring at bright headlights. Ivory was beautiful. And she deserved something special. Guenther crisscrossed his arms, grabbed her ankles, and turned her over to a prone position.

Glancing to his left, he met Ebony’s wide-eyed look of horror and knelt between her thighs. With clawlike hands, he grasped her hips and forced her up on her knees. “Lemme show you how a real man does it.”

After brainstorming with the Joint Chiefs, considering every conceivable scenario that Ambassador Habib might bring to the negotiating table, Kate locked herself in her private office to concentrate on strategy and insulate her thoughts from distractions. While preparing for her conversation with Mitchell and Alderson, Kate took a moment and coordinated a conference call with Debra Stevers and Marcia Travis, the MIA pilots’ wives. The English language did not offer sufficient words for her to clearly express her regrets. She invited them to the White House, believing it was unlikely they’d accept. They thanked her, graciously and with a sincere air of appreciation, but chose to stay with their families. Kate tried to encourage them, promised to exhaust every resource to ensure their husbands’ safe return. But by the skeptical tone in both their voices, Kate could tell that her attempt to embolden their spirits had failed.

The intercom buzzed, and Kate snatched the receiver. “What
is
it?”

“You asked not to be disturbed, Madam President, but Carl Kramer says it’s urgent he speak with you. Shall I instruct him to come back later?”

For Kramer, Kate would make an exception. “Send him into my private office.”

Kramer softly knocked, peeked around the door, and eased his way inside. If network television ever decided to resurrect the old
Dragnet
series, Kate thought, Kramer—stocky body, out-of-style brush cut, drab clothing, sedate demeanor—would make a perfect modern-day Sergeant Joe Friday.

He sat in the chair to the left of the president, crossed his legs, and leaned forward. “Joseph Vitelli was murdered in the Grand Cayman Islands.”

It took several deep breaths for Kate to grasp Kramer’s announcement. “My God in heaven.” A familiar pain throbbed in her temples. “How? Why?”

“His throat was slit. No suspects or clues. He had a bogus driver’s license, passport, and plane tickets to Rome. All under a phony name.”

“What does it mean?”

“Don’t need to enlist Sherlock Holmes. Vitelli had something to do with President Rodgers’s assassination, and somebody wanted to silence him.”

“Give me a name,” Kate said.

“Jack Miller.”

“
What
?”

“I don’t know how he’s involved, but he’s up to his eyeballs. Mr. Miller—if that’s even his real name—coincidentally worked for the Chicago Police Department. In the
scuba
squad.”

Kate remembered the jellyfish poison.

“He’s recently had assignments in Topeka, Kansas, and Long Beach, California,” Kramer said. “But there are no records indicating who dispatched him or what the nature of his business was.”

Kate knew he was in Long Beach interrogating Wendy Marshall, but why had he visited her hometown? “What do you make of it?”

“At this juncture, I’m not sure.”

Kate tried to clear her tangled thoughts. “I can believe that Joseph Vitelli might have been coerced into poisoning President Rodgers and perhaps that Miller harvested the poison. But I can’t imagine that Miller acted on his own volition. What possible motive could
he
have?”

“I’m certain there’s a mastermind, Madam President. Someone who profited from President Rodgers’s death.”

She knew the innuendo was unintended, but still, it was like a left jab to her head. “I gained more than anyone, Carl.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I understand.” She wasn’t sure Kramer did. “We have to confront Jack Miller.”

“That might not be possible,” Kramer said. “He conveniently resigned a few days ago.”

Kate almost laughed. “Interesting coincidence.”

“For obvious reasons,” Kramer said, “I did not want to involve the department, so I asked a private investigator friend of mine to do some leg work for me on the hush.”

“Is he reliable?”

“I’d trust him with my life.”

She remembered that the DCI had given President Rodgers the suspect bottle of wine. “Any dirt under Ellenwood’s fingernails?”

Kramer coughed into his hand and shook his head. “As head of the CIA, he’s right in the thick of things.” He fixed his stare on her. “And so am I.”

“We’re in an exclusive club, Mr. Kramer.”

The corners of Kramer’s eyes twitched to a smile. The room suddenly felt like a sauna. Kate slipped off her suit jacket and let it rest on the back of the chair. “Think we can locate Miller?”

“I’ll do my best,” Kramer promised.

“Please keep me posted. And, Carl...Watch your behind.”

“I learned to grow eyes in back of my head a long time ago, Madam President.”

***

Not one of Kyle Stevers’s captors had spoken to him. At first, this seemed strange. Then he realized that none of them could speak English. He’d repeatedly asked about Wes Travis, but all they did was look at him with a peculiar stare and shrug their shoulders.

Stevers glanced out the helicopter window and could see what remained of the Iranian Air Force base. The main building had been reduced to heaps of charred bricks and twisted metal. Scattered about, he could see disfigured desks, crushed file cabinets, and mangled chairs. With enormous anxiety, Stevers studied the smoldering piles of rubble, wondering how many Iranians might be buried alive, gulping their last breaths of air. As the helicopter descended, Stevers could see a metal building that had survived the air strike.

When the soldiers captured Stevers, he was terrified they’d forcefully remove the shovel splinted to his right leg. But they handled him compassionately and seemed only concerned with confiscating his weapon, knapsack, and dog tags. He’d been taught that Iranians were savages, but Stevers was beginning to believe that military propaganda had painted a distorted picture. He’d thought that seeing the destruction from such a close proximity would garnish his spirit of patriotism. Instead, it nauseated and disgraced him to be an American. Was he supposed to feel like a hero? How impersonal and calculating to have flown
his F-18 twenty thousand feet above and fire his missiles at targets and human beings he knew nothing about. He hadn’t realized until this moment that to murder people simply because he was ordered to contradicted everything he believed in. What did he know about Iranian culture? What made him and his fellow Americans judge and jury? The Iranians had to be enraged; they had every right to be. Yet they hadn’t hurt him. What did their quarrel with Israel have to do with Lieutenant Kyle David Stevers?