The Art of the Devil (4 page)

‘Run along, then. As of now, you're back on the clock.'

On his way out, Isherwood passed Max Whitman at his desk. ‘How'd it go?' Max asked.

‘Not bad. You'll be seeing more of me, from now on.'

Max's affable blue eyes sparkled. ‘Good deal, Ish. We missed you.'

Isherwood grunted, and let himself out.

He packed light, gave the liquor cabinet one last wistful glance, and tried Evy in Florida – no answer.

By late morning he was behind the wheel, with head pounding and temper short. City outskirts soon gave way to quaint towns – Main Streets, Woolworths, and penny candy shops – which gave way in turn to the foothills of the Alleghenies. A cup of coffee from a roadside stand helped clear his head for a moment; then the need for a drink returned, stronger than ever. Working down two aspirin, he pressed on. Tuning the dashboard radio, he found only static and the buzzing tone of a CONELRAD emergency broadcast test. He snapped off the radio.

During the years since he'd last driven out west, much had changed. Fields and mountains which recently had been unspoiled were now dotted with hotels and motor courts and rooming houses. On freshly-blacktopped highways, Corvairs and Oldsmobiles and Fords and Pontiacs all jockeyed ruthlessly for position, despite the perilously twisting mountain roads. Everyone seemed to be of the same mindset, moving into the future at top possible speed.

By three o'clock he was back on flatlands, nearing Gettysburg. He saw tar-papered cabins and gap-slatted privies, smelled sewage and acrid chickenshit. Only the immense natural beauty of the surrounding forest lightened the oppressive cloud of poverty. As he drew closer to town proper, however, the situation improved; he passed package stores and roadside stands, rooming houses and old factories, and eventually Antebellums and Victorians and Cape Cods, cobblestones and white picket fences. The hamlet itself was small and charming, arranged around a central pavilion lined by restaurants and boutique shops.

Four miles west of town, he found the Eisenhower farm. Turning into the long driveway, he stepped out of the car at a gate, submitted to a search, relinquished his snub-nosed Colt – easy come, easy go – and watched as they picked over the bullet nose. After passing through two more guard posts, he turned at a fork and parked in a lot adjacent to the long, low Secret Service headquarters. Compared to glistening Packards and Chevrolets, his four-door Studebaker sedan seemed painfully humble. But the old trooper had served him well, although her looks were beginning to go, and he fully expected a few more years of good performance. He only hoped the same could be said of himself.

After using a clip to tame his twill necktie, he reached from habit for a hip flask which was no longer there. Then he saw in his side-view mirror two men, both of whom he recognized, crossing the small parking lot to meet him.

First was Bill Brennan, tall and broad-shouldered, too handsome and dapper for a cop, wearing a catty smirk beneath a pencil mustache. Next came Brennan's perpetual sidekick, a small, mean man named Bob Skinnerton. The duo had happened to be guarding Harry S. Truman during the assassination attempt of November first, 1950, when two Puerto Rican nationalists had descended with guns blazing on Blair House, where Truman had been staying at the time. When the smoke had cleared, one would-be assassin and one Secret Service agent lay dead. Brennan and Skinnerton had been credited with keeping the President safe. From agents on the scene, however, Isherwood knew that their participation had been limited to waving Truman away from a window after the shooting had already finished. Nevertheless, both men had received wholly undeserved promotions. Meanwhile, Isherwood could think of half a dozen better men, just off the top of his head, who had not been so lucky, who toiled still in the lower reaches of the Service, warming desks or guarding foreign embassies.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,' drawled Brennan as Isherwood stepped out into pale afternoon sunshine. ‘Thought you got yourself decommissioned, soldier.'

‘Consider me recommissioned,' Isherwood answered shortly. ‘Chief said he'd call ahead.'

‘He called.' Stout, florid, and balding, Skinnerton offered a diminutive Jeff to his associate's Mutt. ‘Said we should give you room to snoop around.'

Isherwood said nothing.

‘Rapier wit, here,' said Brennan ironically. ‘Skin, show him where he's staying. You'll notice you're next door, my friend. Not quite in the center of the action. Not like the old days, huh?'

Snickering, Agent Bob Skinnerton tried to lead Isherwood down a path leading toward a screen of Norway spruce – but Isherwood didn't follow. Instead he put hands on hips, drew in a deep breath of fresh country air, and took in his surroundings methodically. The most effective way to apprehend a criminal, he had learned way back in Criminal Justice 101, was to put oneself as much as possible in the criminal's place …

Any incursion onto the property seemed doomed to failure. Three checkpoints interrupted the long driveway, tall fences surrounded the perimeter on all sides, and security details moved in circles within circles around rolling land interrupted only by a few buildings, some stables and corn cribs and chicken coops, and a single priapic grain silo. The Cherry Hills Country Club in Denver, where the President had eaten a possibly-tainted hamburger before suffering his heart attack, would have been considerably less secure – Isherwood could picture any number of people in that kitchen gaining momentary access to Ike's food – but here, the President had the home field advantage.

Briefly, he considered an armed sortie into the camp, from one of the roads or perhaps from the air, before rejecting the idea. Out here in the countryside, no unauthorized aircraft could reach the farm while retaining any element of surprise. And while an attack from the roads, with enough brute force behind it, might conceivably penetrate the fence and even the first perimeter, a dozen experienced agents bearing firearms would quickly swarm, neutralizing the intruder long before he could get near the President.

A stone's throw from the parking lot stood a modified Georgian farmhouse, white brick and fieldstone beneath a slate roof. North of the farmhouse was a helicopter landing pad. South, alongside the driveway, a low barn with tractors parked outside. East, a putting green, garden, greenhouse, small structure with Orientalist peaked roof – a tea house? – and the screen of Norway spruce. West, the long, low Secret Service headquarters, a small guest house, and farther out a skeet range, bare-treed orchard, equipment shed, and stable with attached horse pen. Then more rolling fields, terminating far away in a high fence. A public road passed within visible distance of the property on that side – but just barely; from there, range would be prohibitive for shooting.

‘Who's in charge?' Isherwood asked Brennan.

‘That would be me, pal.'

‘Clue me in, then. Where does the President stay?'

He could see a drama play out in a twisting knot on Brennan's brow: the urge to withhold information fighting with the need to follow the Chief's orders. At last, with obvious reluctance, the agent indicated the Georgian farmhouse.

‘Right here,' he said. ‘This is Farm One. Over there, where you'll be staying, is Farm Two. That's the working part of the concern, with farmhands, domestic staff and such. But here on Farm One, personnel are strictly limited: just the President, the First Lady, her maid Rose, and the President's personal valet – Sergeant John Mooney. And in the guest house, six Secret Service agents, including Skin and myself, and Doctor Snyder. Nobody else. Mamie is determined to keep the place from becoming an office.'

‘Who handles the President's food?'

‘Don't worry your pretty little head, Ish. We've got everything under control.'

‘Sure you do. But Chief told me you'd play along. Should we give him a call?'

Brennan sighed, shot Skinnerton a look. ‘The President's food,' he answered wearily, ‘is prepared by Sergeant Mooney – although sometimes Ike likes to make breakfast himself. Mamie's pretty much limited to warming up frozen dinners; you know, the kind in TV trays. Whatever touches the President's lips, though, Snyder supervises. He's prescribed a strict diet.'

‘What's Eisenhower's daily schedule look like?'

‘In a word, light. In Denver they didn't even let him out of bed. Here he's allowed to move around indoors, so long as he doesn't overdo it. The instant he shows the first sign of fatigue, they truck him right off to rest. He spends most of his time on the sun porch, answering correspondence and working on his paintings.'

‘Where's this sun porch?'

Brennan waved toward the east side of the house. As Isherwood struck out, Brennan fell into step on his left, Skinnerton on his right. Hassled every step of the way by Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Isherwood thought he might have trouble working effectively. But one of these boys, he reminded himself, might even be the leak suspected by the Chief … although personally, he didn't credit either with that much imagination.

Coming around the side of the house, he saw two men standing on a screened-in sun porch. With a small jolt of surprise, he recognized one as the President himself. Somewhat to his disappointment, the dashing figure that had become a familiar presence during the war appeared diminished by age and illness; the still-lean body, only a few pounds heavier than the day Ike had graduated from West Point, stood faintly stooped. The President wore a decidedly unflattering red bathrobe and used a golf club as a cane. Even from a small distance, however, the youthful gleam of humor and sardonic intelligence in the azure eyes was unmistakable.

After a heartbeat, Isherwood placed the other man as Major General Howard Snyder, Ike's long-time personal physician and friend. Although famed cardiologist Paul White had been the public face of the President's health care during the recent hospitalization – White, who liked the camera, had eagerly appeared before the press to discuss Eisenhower's diet, sleep habits, and bowel movements – it seemed that Snyder was actually overseeing the President's rehabilitation.

Stopping within earshot of the porch, Isherwood lit a cigarette and then looked off over rolling fields, listening.

‘—pure stupidity,' the President was saying. His accent was as flat as the small Kansas town in which he had been raised. ‘Staying locked up inside this damned house isn't going to make me better, goddamn it; it's going to make me worse.'

‘Mister President,' Snyder answered patiently. ‘We've got to err on the side of caution.'

‘Is a short stroll really going to kill me?' The President's voice lowered. ‘Mamie's driving me nuts. She's got a mouth like a motor boat. Just a few minutes out of the house by myself …'

‘Next week,' Snyder promised. ‘Don't get me in trouble here, Mister President. Doctor White, you know, believes strongly that we should still have you on a regimen of total bed rest.'

‘Foolishness. I've never felt better.'

‘Treat it as a vacation,' said Snyder lightly. ‘Answer some letters; play some autobridge. We can get together a hand with the ladies if you like—'

‘Dear Lord, anything but that.'

‘—just take her slow, Ike. Ease back into the activity. By next week – week after at the latest – you'll be shooting skeet and playing golf. All right?'

‘Not a bit, Howie. Not a goddamn bit. But doctor's orders, I suppose.'

‘That they are.'

Brennan took Isherwood's arm, dragging him back around the corner of the house. ‘Listen,' he said
sotto voce
. ‘Chief said we should let you poke around. But help us out, for Christ's sake, and keep your head down.'

For a moment, Isherwood considered. Then he nodded. Pinching out his cigarette, he headed for the nearest door of the farmhouse. Brennan and Skinnerton tagged along as he stepped over the threshold – the screen door was unlocked, but another agent stood just inside – and into a back entry hall. From there they moved into a spotless kitchen which boasted an automatic dishwasher, a Crosley Shelvador refrigerator with chilled water dispenser built into the door, and countertop appliances including a Veg-O-Matic and a Sunbeam mixer. The room was cozily small, surprisingly unosten-tatious, and mellowly lit by a slanting rafter of sun poking through gauze curtains.

With escorts sticking close, Isherwood inspected the pantry and then opened the refrigerator, glancing at one of the pre-packaged meals (‘TV Brand Frozen Dinner', according to the label) stacked inside the freezer. With enough foresight, he supposed, one of these packaged dinners might be tampered with – but one could not know which meal the chief executive would be served.

From the kitchen he moved into a pink-and-green dining room, which felt unused. A formal plate setting on the table had acquired a thin layer of dust. After inspecting a tea service on a sideboard, he walked on to the house's main entrance hall, where a middle-aged woman wearing a black-and-white uniform – the First Lady's personal maid – glanced up from a curio cabinet she was wiping down. With a tip of his hat, Isherwood continued into the living room. A board game with the peculiar brand name
Scrabble
lay open atop a black-lacquered, mother-of-pearl inlaid coffee table. On a Norelco hi-fi sat a cigarette box; tipping up the lid, he found a cache of Pall Malls. Hanging near the window was an intimidating portrait of a dowager who, with dark bangs and sparkling blue eyes, bore more than a passing resemblance to Mamie Eisenhower.

The lady of the house herself was standing between living room and sun porch. Facing away from Isherwood and his escorts, she seemed either to be eavesdropping on the President's continuing parlay with Snyder, or standing guard, or perhaps both. This fit with the impression Isherwood held of Mamie Eisenhower – fiercely protective and unquestionably devoted to her husband, despite persistent rumors of his infidelity during the war, and relentless in a way that her down-home image never quite masked.