The First Lady

by James Patterson

  Then again, I’ll probably use that big office later to debrief Jackson Thiel after his shift ends today and find out how long this affair has been going on—and why he hadn’t told me. Definitely not good, but something for later. I grab a file folder from a thick pile and again wish I spent half the time wasted on paperwork out in a gym or on the range keeping my weapon qualifications current. The phone rings.

  “Agent Grissom,” I answer, which surprises some of my coworkers. According to protocol, I should answer the phone, “Special Agent in Charge Grissom, Presidential Protective Division,” which is too much of a mouthful. Suppose someone is in the East Room tossing off a smuggled hand grenade in the time it takes me to announce myself?

  But there are surprises, and then there’s this one: on the line is Mrs. Laura Young, the President’s secretary. I can’t recall the last time she phoned me.

  “Agent Grissom,” she says, “the President would like to see you, right away.”

  “Ah …”

  Then one of my agents makes a handwritten notation on the backup status board, reflecting the electronic board. One of the changes I had implemented months ago, in case the power went out. “CANAL is in the Oval Office.”

  I say, “I’ll be there,” and I hang up the phone.

  I don’t like it.

  Scotty sees me and says, “Everything all right, boss?”

  I stand up and start walking.

  Unless there’s a major emergency or crisis, the President never calls the head of the Presidential Protective Division like this.

  Never.

  “Boss?” Scotty asks again.

  I keep on walking to the office door.

  Fast.

  CHAPTER 10

  ABOUT THE ONLY entertainment source that has gotten the White House right in my opinion is The West Wing. Oh, not because of the crackling dialogue or the staff members arguing while walking backward or a President depicted as one who relaxes in the afternoon by strolling alongside the Reflecting Pool, but because The West Wing showed just how crowded and busy the place is.

  There’s always lots of people scurrying around, everyone save a special few wearing an access pass around their neck, color-coded to keep the serfs (excuse me, the workers and volunteers) isolated from the West Wing. I nod to those staff members I know fairly well, and one of my agents, Carla Luiz, opens the door to the Oval Office.

  Little-known secret: the doors to the Oval Office have special doorknobs, meaning that if some crazed tourist from Idaho breaks free from a tour and manages to race his way here, he’ll waste precious seconds trying to figure out how to open the door before he gets Tasered to his knees.

  The office door closes behind me and there’s the President, standing up from one of the two couches. Sitting next to him is his chief of staff, Parker Hoyt. They’re both well dressed and groomed, of course, but they look like cousins who’ve just learned their family farm is under six feet of floodwater, with a swarm of locusts due in once the waters recede.

  “Mr. President,” I say, and then, “Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Sally,” the President says, gesturing to the couch opposite him, past a low-slung coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”

  I glance around and see we’re alone.

  I instantly don’t like it. Usually there’s an aide or three hovering in the background, to fulfill any request from getting a cup of coffee to getting the president of France on the phone, but no, we’re alone. The famed desk of the President is to my left as I sit down, flanked by the American flag and his own standard. Thick bulletproof windows look out on the Rose Garden, and I see the back of another agent out there, keeping watch.

  I flash back to my sixteen weeks of training at the Secret Service’s James J. Rowley Training Center over in Laurel, Maryland, where my class and I were put through hours of different scenarios involving gunshots and explosions and violent assaults, but I don’t think any of these scenarios are going to prepare me for what’s going to happen next.

  The President says, “Agent Grissom … er, Sally, we have a situation.”

  “Sir,” I reply, content to let him tell me what’s going on without lots of questions.

  The President looks to Parker, as if for reassurance, then takes a deep breath and says, “We need your assistance.”

  “Of course,” I say, and I wait, wondering what the hell is going on.

  Hoyt gives me a self-satisfied look of knowing something he shouldn’t know and says, “Impressive record you have there, Agent Grissom.”

  I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t. I just nod.

  He says, “Especially the incident four years ago involving the Iranian ambassador. Why don’t you tell the President about that event?”

  Hoo-boy, I think. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m restricted in responding to your request due to its classified nature.”

  Hoyt says, “I’m sure the President has the ability to waive any restrictions you might be under.”

  CANAL says, “By all means, Agent Grissom. Do tell me.”

  I could make a stand, but what would it gain me? “Sir, at the time I was tasked to provide diplomatic security for a very unofficial summit meeting in Maryland with the Iranian ambassador to the United Nations, the Israeli ambassador to the United States, and the secretary of state. An attempt was made on the Iranian ambassador’s life. It was successfully thwarted.”

  The President says, “How come I’ve never heard about this?”

  “It happened during your predecessor’s term in office,” Hoyt explains. “But Agent Grissom is downplaying her role in the event. The summit was held in the private room of an exclusive restaurant in Chevy Chase. A man pretending to be a waiter had gained access. Agent Grissom detected his presence, attempted to disarm him, a gun battle broke out, and Agent Grissom not only killed the would-be assassin but also covered the Iranian ambassador’s body with her own.”

  “Is that true?” the President asks.

  “True enough,” I say.

  “How did you detect the waiter?”

  I give a slight shrug. “This particular restaurant is so exclusive it doesn’t even have a website. But I saw the waiter’s fingernails had dirt under them. He didn’t fit.”

  CANAL grins. “I bet the Iranian ambassador was one happy man.”

  “Truth be told, sir,” I reply, “he did his best to push me off as quick as possible once the gunfire stopped. He didn’t want to be touched by a strange woman.”

  Hoyt says, “You see, Mr. President, Agent Grissom is not only brave and resourceful, but also knows how to keep a secret. Which is why you’re here, Agent Grissom. We need your skills, and your ability to keep a secret.”

  “What secret, sir?” I say to the President.

  He grimaces and says, “The First Lady … appears to be missing.”

  I look at them, wondering if this is some sort of elaborate hoax or joke, maybe something to mark my birthday or hiring anniversary, but there’s no humor on their faces.

  I manage to speak. “Sir … she’s at a horse farm, in Campton, Virginia. With her detail.”

  Parker speaks up. “We know that’s where she’s been.” He glances to the President and says, “But for the past hour, we … the President has been unable to contact her. She won’t pick up her cell phone, and her security detail … they say they can’t locate her.”

  A chunk of ice seems to be working its way right up my throat. “That’s impossible. They … I should have been contacted if something like that had occurred.” I start to get up and say, “Mr. President, Mr. Hoyt, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Sally, please,” the President says, voice all dark and somber. “Sit down. Just for a moment.”

  I’m still standing up. I don’t belong here. I need to run back downstairs to W-17, start contacting CANARY’s detail, find out—

  Parker says, “We need to keep this quiet. For now.”

  “What?”

  He goes on. “This is a … delicate
time. And the First Lady … she’s not well.”

  I start moving away from the couch, and the President says, in a sharp tone I’ve never heard before, “Agent Grissom, sit down! Give us another minute. Please.”

  I slowly sit on the couch, my back stiff, not allowing myself to lean back against the cushions. “Mr. President, with all due respect, this can’t be right. If something has happened to Mrs. Tucker, I’d be the first to know. Her detail would have put out the call … we would have instantly responded.”

  Parker leans forward, his hands clasped together. “An hour ago the President tried to contact the First Lady, prior to Air Force One’s landing. He was unable to do so. The communications officer aboard Air Force One was able to reach her detail with the assistance of Agent Jackson Thiel. That’s when we learned about her … situation.”

  Another flash of memory, of grammar school, wondering why the boys out on the soccer field won’t let me play, why I am being shut out, ignored. “I … the office here should have been instantly informed.”

  The President says, “I told them not to.”

  The ice that’s clogging my throat has spread to my stomach, and my hands and feet are cold as well.

  Scenarios back at the sixteen-week Secret Service training?

  Oh, yeah, this one has never come up.

  “Mr. President … this can’t be true. You can’t … I mean …”

  Parker leans forward even more. “Again, this is a delicate situation. We’re a month away from the election. The American people need to go to the voting booth with one thing in their mind, and one thing only: which elected official will do right by this country. Not the distraction of an ill First Lady, a missing woman. It wouldn’t be fair to her or the nation to make this public.”

  I say, “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Hoyt?”

  Mr. Hoyt doesn’t reply, but our mutual boss does.

  The President stares right at me. “We want you to find the First Lady.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I SAY STRAIGHTAWAY and without hesitation, “Impossible. If she’s missing, you need to contact the FBI, Homeland Security, DC Metro Police, the Virginia State Police, and I’d even bring in—”

  The President holds up a hand. “That’s exactly what we don’t want. The news coverage, the various agencies jockeying for position and headlines, a massive search and hunt … that won’t be helpful. That’s why we want you, and a few agents you can trust, to find her.”

  “Sir, with all due respect,” I say, taking in all of the history that has occurred here in this Oval Office, wondering what twist of fate has put me right in the center of probably the biggest story to come out of here in fifty years, “I can’t do that. We’re a protective agency. Not investigative.”

  Parker says, “Bullshit. You are an investigative agency. You have access to intelligence information from Homeland Security. You go out in the field and investigate threats made against the President. You work with law enforcement agencies from cops in one-streetlight towns all the way up to New York City.”

  I feel like slapping that smug face, hard. “As part of our protective duties, Mr. Hoyt. Not to find a missing person.”

  He says, “A person isn’t missing. The First Lady of the United States is missing.”

  “But—”

  The President says, “Agent Grissom, I’m ordering you to locate the First Lady, and do it quietly, confidentially, and quickly. Otherwise, in all of the news stories that come out if we do anything else, and eventually locate the First Lady, there will be other stories as well. Those tales will also focus on how you and your highly skilled and highly trained agents … lost my wife. Do you want to go up to Capitol Hill and try to explain to a special congressional committee how that happened? On your watch? Do you?”

  I say, “I’d rather do that than … what you’re asking me.”

  Parker settles back on the couch. “How’s Amelia?”

  I’m stunned again, for the second time in less than ten minutes. “My daughter? She’s … fine. Why are you asking?”

  He grins, showing very firm and sharp teeth. “Divorce is always hard on kids. No matter how much work a single mom does, no matter the therapy sessions and counseling, there will always be scars, will always be permanent damage. The best a mom like you can do is to mitigate the damage.”

  It’s like there are only two people in this famed room, him and me. “I don’t see what you’re driving at … Mr. Hoyt.”

  His smile gets a bit wider. “Your husband … Ben, isn’t it? Works for the Interior Department, has a little problem with the bottle, and with college interns … I can see why you’re in the midst of divorcing him. His lawyer is Albert Greer, am I right?”

  I now know where this is going, and I feel trapped, like I’m in the back of a Diamond cab in a sleet storm, the driver having lost control, and we’re spinning out as we slide into oncoming traffic in Dupont Circle.

  “You’re correct, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Sure I’m right. I don’t know Albert Greer, but I know his firm. Lockney, Trace, Fulton and Smith. Big DC firm, does a lot of work, both public and private. Back when I was VP of operations at Global Strategic Solutions, we tossed a lot of business their way. I even let Mr. Lockney beat me a few times at golf over at Burning Tree. So he and his firm owe me a number of favors.”

  I look to the President, to see what he thinks of all of this, but he’s staring over my shoulders, looking at a painting of a sailing ship over on the opposite curved wall.

  “You’re a piece of shit,” I say, surprising even myself.

  “No, not a piece,” he replies calmly. “Just the biggest chunk in all of DC … so let’s make this clear, so there’s no misunderstanding. You do what your President wants you to do, and we’ll give you everything you need … all the backup and information necessary, so long as it’s kept quiet and under the radar.”

  A pause for effect, no doubt. He goes on, his tone sharper. “But if you leave here without saying yes, then you’re going to find out that your tentative divorce settlement is going off the rails. There’ll be lots more motions … hearings … expensive delays … and you can expect a final divorce when your pretty little girl is about ready to enter college … if she still has it together to go on beyond high school and if you have any money left for tuition bills.”

  I’m breathing and staying conscious, but just barely. I stare at the chief of staff, and he doesn’t flinch or flicker, giving it right back to me. I say, “I see how you’ve gotten so far.”

  “All those nasty rumors about me?” he says. “They’re true. We’re wasting time. What’s your answer?”

  A small part of me wants the President to intervene, to make it all right, to make the bad man go away, but the President isn’t going to help me today.

  I get up.

  “Two answers,” I say. “The first one is yes.”

  I walk away from the couch with the two men sitting there, one of whom I had once admired.

  “And the second answer is go to hell.”

  I exit the Oval Office and then remember something else important.

  Because of its design, it’s impossible to slam the door in anger.

  CHAPTER 12

  IN THE OFF the Record bar at the luxurious Hay-Adams Hotel in downtown Washington, practically across the street from the White House, Marsha Gray laughs at the dumb joke her late morning date has just told her, and she reaches under the table to give his upper thigh a tender squeeze.

  “Really?” she asks, softening her voice. “That’s really why the chicken crossed the road? All these years and I never knew that.”

  Her date’s face flushes. He’s a sweet young fellow, maybe a few years older than she is, and he’s wearing a nice Savile Row gray suit with matching red necktie and pocket square. He’s from one of the “stan” countries that popped up after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and he has a first and last name made up mostly of consonants—but she calls him Carl, and he thinks
that’s adorable.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice betraying only the slightest of accents. His skin is light brown, and his eyes and carefully groomed hair are both ebony. “I always thought … well, that’s one of the oldest jokes in the world.”

  She gives his thigh another slight squeeze. “Oh, Carl, it is … but just the way you say it … well, it made me laugh.”

  His eyes crinkle as he smiles in return, and she slowly withdraws her hand and says, “What time is that reception of yours?”

  Carl looks at his TAG Heuer watch. “In … two hours. It’s a lunch meeting.”

  She smiles, leans forward so she is nearly popping out of her low-cut, little black cocktail dress. “Then let’s go up to your room.”

  He smiles back. “I … I don’t think there will be enough time.”

  “Oh, Carl …,” she says, her voice dripping with disappointment. The Off the Record bar—one of the most famous watering holes in the District—is a busy place this late morning, which is perfect. Marsha leans over and kisses his ear, runs her tongue gently around the lobe, and whispers, “That thing you’ve always wanted to do … I’ll let you do it to me now. Honest.”

  She leans back and already he’s fumbling at his napkin with one hand, signing the check with the other, and she picks up her little black leather purse and he’s smiling like some teen boy finally getting his driver’s license. In his sweet, low voice, he says, “You … you’re a green-eyed djinni, you are. The way you make me do what you want.”

  Marsha waits for him to come around the small table, then stands up and crooks her arm. He slides his arm into hers, and they walk out of the bar, into the grand and posh lobby of the Hay-Adams Hotel, which is made of columns, high ceilings, polished wood, and quietly efficient staff.