The First Lady Page 3

  The quiet tone of the President’s voice doesn’t change. “But all it takes is one slip, one misjudgment, one mistake. Then the wire starts to wobble. One foot and then the other slips. And off you go. All that progress … gone … as you fall to the ground.”

  Jesus Christ, Parker thinks, let’s get our man back on track. “True, sir, but you forgot one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Another reassuring touch. “There’s a safety net at the bottom. To rescue the high-wire guy. So he can bounce back up and go right back to the high wire.”

  The President says not a word.

  Parker says, “Mr. President … I’m your safety net. And I’m going to save you. That I promise.”

  The President’s eyes are moist; he nods and then pretends to take interest in the forested landscape passing below them.

  Parker checks his watch again. After they land, he’ll start making the necessary phone calls, to cast a very wide net—safety or otherwise—to keep things under control.

  Air Force One is a magnificent flying machine, with enough communications equipment to enable the President to command a war while forty-five thousand feet in the air, but in these troubled times, Parker doesn’t trust the integrity of these communications systems.

  Plans are starting to come to mind, plans he will keep away from his friend and boss, and especially WikiLeaks and the Russian intelligence agencies.

  He will do what has to be done no matter what, no matter the risks.

  To protect the President.

  And to hell with the First Lady and anyone else who gets in his way.

  CHAPTER 6

  GRACE FULLER TUCKER emerges from her office and stops, stunned, as her entire staff stands before her and starts applauding. Her face flushes with joy and embarrassment—joy at the support and love her children are showing her, and embarrassment because they had no doubt listened to her loud voice going through these old and thin walls as she yelled at the President.

  She holds up a hand, blinking back tears, and just murmurs, “Thank you, thank you.”

  They eventually stop applauding, and some of them brush tears away from their eyes. Grace takes a long, deep breath, wonders what she could say that would make any difference at all to her staff. Despite herself, she glances up at the three television screens, still all reporting what’s being called the Ambush in Atlanta.

  To hell with that.

  Grace turns back to her staff, folds her hands. “I … it’s going to be a rough time for all of us in the hours and days ahead. All the good work you’ve done with me—in helping children in need, children hurt and abandoned by their families or society—unfortunately, all of that good work is now going to be overshadowed. For those of us in the East Wing, there is going to be only one story for the foreseeable future. For that … I am so very sorry.”

  Grace needs to go on, and she quickly looks at the carpeted floor to regain her composure. “But … as hard as it might be … ignore that story. Focus on the good that you’ve done with me … focus on the children whose lives have been improved or saved by you … and at some point … someday … this … nonsense, this scandal, will be forgotten.”

  Another burst of applause, and she smiles and joins their applause, then catches the attention of her chief of staff, Donna Allen, and gestures her back into Donna’s office. Grace doesn’t bother closing the door behind her because she only needs her chief of staff for a minute.

  Grace asks, “My schedule for the rest of the day. Remind me, please.”

  Donna is a slim, pretty woman with glasses and short black hair who seems able to operate efficiently on only four hours of sleep. She goes to her desk, picks up a sheet of paper. “Ma’am … let’s see. You have a luncheon with the Senate wives from the Party, a group interview with prominent political bloggers at two p.m., an early evening reception at five p.m. with the ambassador’s wife from Japan. Then … er, dinner with … um, the President and an eight p.m. attendance at the Kennedy Center, for that—”

  Grace nods. “Cancel it all.”

  Donna looks up, shocked. “Ma’am?”

  “You heard me, Donna,” she says, turning around and going out into the East Wing office area. “Cancel it all. I’m leaving.”

  Donna follows her out. “But … but … where are you going?”

  She sees her lead Secret Service agent, Pamela Smithson, a tiny blonde who looks like she weighs ninety pounds soaking wet but who supposedly is an expert in hand-to-hand combat and close-quarters shooting. Pamela is speaking into her blouse cuff, and Grace knows what she’s saying: “CANARY is on the move.”

  Boy, am I ever, Grace thinks.

  At first she had hated the Secret Service code name, but now she embraces it. Canaries have a long and noble history, especially when it comes to warning miners of trouble coming, and she likes to think that’s been one of her roles—warning American society that they can’t keep ignoring the children trapped in the deep, dark holes of poverty.

  She wants to say something once more to her staff, all of whom are looking at her now with love and concern.

  What to say?

  Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, turns and leaves her East Wing office area for the last time.

  CHAPTER 7

  PRESIDENT HARRISON TUCKER didn’t think it was possible, but in fact his mood is improving as Air Force One slowly taxis to its special spot at Andrews Air Force Base. He knows the pilots of Air Force One pride themselves on always arriving on time, but he also knows their secret: on time means coming to a halt at the wheel chocks, and they will either reduce or increase their taxiing speed to ensure they make the goal.

  Secrets.

  God, if only his one secret had been kept, at least for another month.

  Parker Hoyt has been at his side for the last few hours, insisting that they play hand after hand of cribbage, and even though Harrison lost every hand to his wily chief of staff, he has enjoyed those few hours of distraction. It has done him well.

  But now the cards and cribbage board have been put away. He glances out the window. Thank God this is a military base, and the public and press can be contained.

  “What now?” he asks.

  “You should try the First Lady one more time,” Parker says. “It’s a long shot, but maybe we could get her to stand with you for a moment, some sort of photo op on the South Lawn when Marine One comes in for a landing …”

  Harrison says, “Oh, come on, Parker, there’s no way she’s going to do that.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” his chief of staff says. “Without you, who is she? Another housewife with big dreams and ambitions. If she wants to continue her do-gooding ways, she needs to be with you. Sooner or later, she’ll come to that conclusion, she’ll smile for the cameras, and she’ll bear it.”

  Harrison ponders what Parker has just said. He sounds … correct. Harsh, but correct. “What else?”

  Parker says, “We need to meet with your senior campaign staff, and reps from both the House and the Senate. Not the congressmen or senators … Jesus, we don’t need those blowhards making a statement out on the South Lawn after they leave. We’ll want staff members from the Hill that we can quietly slide in and brief.”

  “And say what?”

  “That we’re facing a bumpy week or two, but we’ll be fine. They bring that message back to the Hill, and that will reassure most of the crew up here. They may be angry at you for what you’ve done, but they’re also scared to death to see the governor of California get sworn in next January.”

  “Who’ll be making the briefing?”

  Parker says, “It has to be you. Anybody else, the staffers will smell blood in the water and they’ll race back up Pennsylvania Avenue on their young and chubby legs and tell their senator or representative to start backing away. First and foremost, they’re politicians, wanting only to save their skin, and if they see any sign of disarray or weakness from this White House, they’ll abandon you
, sir. You need to show them remorse, but most of all, you need to show them strength.”

  Harrison still hates hearing what’s coming from his chief of staff, but he knows he’s right. “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Good,” Parker replies. “But first things first, sir. Make the call.”

  He picks up his phone. “Get me the First Lady, please.”

  When he puts the phone down, he says, “What about the press back there?”

  Parker offers a thin smile. “Let Jeremy”—the President’s press secretary—“earn his pay for once. He’ll keep them in place until you’re safely on Marine One.”

  “But what will he say to them about what … what happened in Atlanta?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Jeremy, and he’ll take care of the press. You just take care of the First Lady, try to calm her down. That’s your goal for the day … oh, and one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Parker says, “You get off the steps here at the base, you do the usual meet-and-greet with the military at the bottom. The only camera will be a pool camera, to see if you fall on your ass as you leave the aircraft. Don’t trot down the stairs like you’re in a hurry, and don’t blow by the Air Force folks at the tarmac. Take your time. You’re a guy who’s messed up but who’s confident he can come back.”

  Harrison nods. “I see what you mean.”

  “Same thing at the White House. If you can persuade the First Lady to show up, perfect. That means the turnaround will take place quicker than I hoped. But if she’s still in a pissy mood and won’t show up, no problem. You step off Marine One, wave, and saunter back into the White House like nothing’s wrong, like you’re totally in control.”

  “Fair enough,” Harrison says, and he remembers something from that morning with Tammy. “But I need you to do one more thing for me.”

  Parker says, “My to-do list is pretty long, but go ahead.”

  Harrison says, “Congressman Vickers. Last night’s speech was a near disaster, with a lot of my supporters being turned away. I want him out.”

  “But that might—”

  “I don’t care,” Harrison says. “He’s out by the end of the day, all right?”

  “We’re up by six percent in Georgia.”

  “Five point six percent,” Harrison says, remembering what his Tammy told him. “And it would probably be up another half point if it wasn’t for him. He’s gone.”

  Parker nods, and Harrison sees there’s relief in his eyes. His chief of staff is seeing the President of the United States is back at work.

  A soft rap on the door, and Harrison says, “Yes, come in.”

  In comes the head of his protective detail, Jackson Thiel, and the large man looks troubled.

  Harrison is suddenly afraid.

  “Yes, Jackson, what is it?”

  “Sir … the communications officer … he contacted me after you requested to talk to the First Lady.”

  “All right,” Harrison says. “But why are you here?”

  “Sir …”

  “Yes?”

  Jackson hesitates for the briefest and most frightening of seconds, and in a quiet and stone-cold voice, says:

  “Sir … the First Lady … she can’t be located.”

  CHAPTER 8

  IT’S COOL AND dimly lit where I work, the better to see the surveillance monitors and the televisions broadcasting the latest news, gossip, and screaming headlines. I look up, scanning the screens, and for the benefit of my fellow Secret Service agents this morning, I try to keep a sense of professional decorum and manage not to laugh. The man I’ve sworn to die defending has just gotten caught putting his presidential pen into an unauthorized inkwell. He isn’t the first, and won’t be the last, and I don’t particularly care. The Secret Service is a protection agency. We’re not America’s Morality Police. There’s the low murmur of voices, the tapping of keyboards, and radio chatter from police scanners covering Metro DC and all of the local police departments, so we always know what’s going on with our somewhat friendly law enforcement neighbors.

  My immediate deputy—Assistant Special Agent in Charge Scott Thompson—stands next to me and says, “What do you think, Sally?”

  “Right now I want you to put the word out, especially to the Uniformed Division,” I say. “We’re going to get increased attention from the news media and the usual publicity hounds. I don’t want any fence jumpers, wanting to give the President romantic advice or a Bible, got it? Double up the patrols on the sidewalks … anybody approaches the fences, looks like they’re going to go over, we’re to stop them on the public side. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss,” Scott says, and goes back to his desk. Scott is an ex-Army Ranger, bulky and tough, and respectful of me and everyone else in the chain of command, which makes him a keeper.

  I shift my gaze from the network screens—AMBUSH IN ATLANTA seems to be the winning headline this morning—and glance at the electronic status board. We and other members of the Presidential Protective Division are fortunate with this administration in that there are no spoiled kids running around, trying to ditch their agents at bars or dance clubs, or slightly nutty mothers-in-law claiming that Peeping Toms are gazing at them undressing in their guest quarters. There’s just the President and First Lady, which makes my job a hell of a lot less complicated than my predecessor’s.

  According to the status board, CANAL is on Marine One, seconds away from landing on the South Lawn, and CANARY is—

  “Hey, Scotty,” I call out, just as he’s picking up the phone. “Mind telling me why CANARY is at a horse farm in Virginia? Her Plan of the Day this morning didn’t indicate that.”

  He says, “Last-minute change of plans, boss. After the news this morning … well, who can blame her? Not me, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” I say, as I head back to my desk. I don’t like last-minute changes. You don’t have the time to prep the visiting area, check out the neighborhood, track down those nuts on the class three list who have made threats against the First Family in the past. The only upside is that with something as sudden as this horse farm visit, you can surprise any bad guys out there hovering around.

  And the downside, of course, is that any bad guys out there— especially the patient and tough ones—can react quickly to an opportunity and kill your protectee.

  Not a good way to get promoted.

  I call over to my assistant. “Hey, Scotty. When you’re done there, contact CANARY’s detail.”

  “Sure, boss. What do you want?”

  A little whisper of concern seems to be on my shoulder. “Make sure everything’s fine.”

  “If it weren’t fine, you’d be the first to know.”

  “Scotty,” I say. “Make the damn call.”

  And I try to get back to work.

  CHAPTER 9

  MY DESK IS shoved in a corner of the White House basement office called Room W-17, which is the command center for the Secret Service at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Since I’ve been assigned here, one of the few jokes I’ve told about the place to friends and family is that my staff and I are closer than anyone else to the Oval Office, only seven feet away.

  That usually brings ooohs and aaahs of appreciation, until I tell them the punch line: I and the others working in Room W-17—also known as Horsepower—are seven feet below the Oval Office.

  Not exactly within spitting distance.

  My desk has a wooden nameplate my eleven-year-old daughter, Amelia, made for me two years ago with wood and a burning tool that says, in clumsy letters, SALLY GRISSOM, AWESOME AGENT. The only agent who ever laughed at the nameplate is now with Homeland Security, inspecting cargo containers in Anchorage. What the nameplate should say is SALLY GRISSOM, SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE, PRESIDENTIAL PROTECTIVE DIVISION, but as much as Amelia enjoys making me gifts, I think if I asked her to make me a new one with my correct title, she just might cry.

  A closed-circuit feed from one of the scores of surveil
lance cameras shows Marine One landing on the South Lawn. Hoo-boy, I think, I bet the President wishes he was still up in the air, circling around, high up from his angry wife and the very hungry news media.

  Then I get back to work.

  No doubt the rest of the nation is going to be shocked by what’s been uncovered about the President, but not me. Unlike 99 percent of the rest of the Secret Service detail, I’m a DC girl, through and through, and know all about the rumors and scandals that always bubble below the surface here among the pretty old buildings. Politics is politics, and human nature will always be human nature, so why pretend to be stunned?

  Mom worked at the Department of Education, while Dad worked for the Capitol Police, and they’re both now in Florida, enjoying sunshine, practicing Tai Chi, and fighting with each other. I have two sisters, one who works for the Government Accountability Office (GAO), and the other for the NSA, and let me tell you, family functions are lots of laughs, with one sister going on and on about budgets and spreadsheets and the other not able to say anything about what she does.

  On my crowded desk are two framed photographs: one of Amelia, with her sweet smile and long blond hair—unlike the frizzy brown mop I wrestle with each morning—and another of the both of us, grinning with red, sweaty faces as we finished last year’s Marine Corps 10K, both of us wearing Secret Service T-shirts: “You elect ’em, we’ll guard ’em.”

  There’s also an empty space that once held a photo of my soon-to-be—God willing—ex-husband, Ben, one of the faceless, nameless bureaucrats in the Department of the Interior who helps keep our national parks and other treasures running.

  That photo’s been gone for almost a year, and since he and his rat bastard—excuse me, overzealous—attorney have come to their senses, our divorce should be final in less than two weeks.

  My desk is small, crowded, and located just where I like it. I have another office across the street in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where I host the occasional dignitary and, more rarely, fire an agent who’s screwed up, but I don’t like being in the big office with all the nice furniture and bookcases and couches and coffee tables. I like it here, right up close with the Man and my people, who spend every waking second of their lives preparing to die to protect him and his poor, put-upon wife.