The First Lady

by James Patterson

  Three bulky men in ill-fitting suits are sitting in comfortable chairs, eyeing the two of them as they walk by, and Marsha just keeps the smile on her face. The elevator is quick, silent, and in the few seconds they are in there, she turns her head and buries her face into his neck, gently nibbling and licking. He tastes of vanilla. She continues to taste him, ensuring her face isn’t seen on the elevator’s surveillance cameras.

  Down the hallway and poor Carl’s hand is practically trembling as he tries to use the keycard once, twice, and then on the third attempt, he gets the door open. Marsha sees the front of his trousers is bulging out.

  Inside, he waves her in, and again she takes just the slightest breath at the expense and expanse of the suite that Carl has been living in these past two weeks. There’s old-style furniture, a sitting area, a gorgeous and well-designed bedroom, and windows actually overlooking the White House.

  She turns and kisses him ravenously, holding him tight, rubbing a black-stocking-covered thigh against his crotch, and he moans with lust and anticipation, and she breaks away, breathing heavily. “Carl … just a moment … all right?”

  “Yes … my djinni … anything you want.”

  Marsha goes across the room, thinking that even a one-night stay in the smallest room in this hotel costs more than a month’s pay when she was in the Corps, and she draws the curtains closed so the White House is no longer visible, in the process hiding the room’s interior from any Secret Service spotters on the White House’s roof. She opens up her small purse, fumbles inside for something, and then walks back to Carl, smiling widely, reaching back to unzip her dress.

  Carl is way ahead of her, his coat and tie off, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a dark and hairy chest, and he’s working at his belt with his shaking hands as Marsha comes forward and kisses him, gives him one last hug, and then kills him.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE PRESIDENT OF the United States sits in silence with his chief of staff for a minute after the very angry and very determined head of his Presidential Protective Division has left the Oval Office. He gets up from the couch and walks over to his wooden desk, Resolute, a gift to the nation from Queen Victoria. Harrison sits down behind the small and ornate desk, the same one used by JFK and Bill Clinton, reflecting that they too had women problems—just like him, just like now.

  The Oval Office … how many times has he spoken to the nation from this room? How many times has he had his photo taken with visitors and dignitaries in this historic place? How many meetings held here with cabinet members or news reporters?

  Now, he has just concluded a meeting about secretly looking for his missing wife on the same day his relationship with Tammy Doyle was brutally made public. Twenty-four hours earlier he would never have thought that was possible.

  Parker comes over, sits next to his desk in a handsome striped cushioned chair. Harrison turns to him and says, “Do you think she’ll do it? We’re asking a lot from her.”

  Parker smiles. “You know what they say, once you have ’em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.”

  For the first time since he left Atlanta, Harrison manages a laugh. “She’s a woman, you fool.”

  His chief of staff smiles back at him from the chair. “Like you’re an expert on women. Look, she’ll do her job. You went after her based on her career. That didn’t make her budge. But I went after her personally, with her and her daughter. That was the trick.”

  Harrison looks at his phone, knows at some point today he will have to reach out to Tammy Doyle. Along with the growing fear of what’s happened to Grace, there’s the shame of how he abandoned Tammy back in Atlanta, with that baying pack of reporters chasing after her. The woman he loved, tossed away, left to face those media wolves by herself. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so ashamed.

  “Where do you think Grace is?” he asks.

  “Not far,” Parker says. “My guess is that she dumped her Secret Service detail at that horse farm, borrowed a pickup truck, and maybe scooted out to a motel somewhere for a good cry, or maybe a few drinks.”

  “How long before we find her?”

  “No worries, Mr. President,” Parker says. “She’s one of the most recognizable women on the planet. How far do you think she can go? I wouldn’t doubt it if we get this thing wrapped up by the end of the day. This Agent Grissom … I’ve read her background. She’ll get the job done.”

  “Tell me about her,” he says.

  “She’s been in the White House as long as you, was named head of the Presidential Protective Division last year,” Parker says. “She started out with the DC Metro Police, went to the Virginia State Police, and then joined the Secret Service. And that Iranian deal … she managed to save a man who hates her because she’s a woman working for the Great Satan. Plus, she’s kept it a secret all these years.”

  Harrison says, “I don’t like what you did, threatening her … with her divorce proceedings. And her daughter. That’s not right.”

  Parker says, “It got the job done.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Then forget it, and don’t ask about it again.”

  Parker Hoyt is trying to gauge what’s going on behind the steel-gray eyes of his President, and decides this is as good as any time to press him.

  “Mr. President, I think Agent Grissom will do her best to locate the First Lady … but she might come up against roadblocks that will … be against her nature to try to get through. I think we need another resource, a backup, if you will.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Best you don’t know.”

  The President hesitates for a moment. “Just as long as you find her.”

  “And protect your presidency?” Parker asks.

  He nods. “Yes. Find her and protect the presidency.”

  “I’ve got it covered,” Parker says, standing up. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got to get to my office.”

  “And … the news media. We need to get something out to them.”

  “I’ve got that covered, sir. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Parker gets up and walks out of the Oval Office, through the door leading to Mrs. Young’s office, past a Hispanic Secret Service agent, and then makes a sharp right into his own office. Money, prestige, power … all coins of the realm here in DC, but what really counts is access to the President. Parker is one of the very few people in this house who can see the President at any time, without an appointment, and he’s the only one in this building who has what he has, on the corner of his desk: a private phone that doesn’t go through the White House switchboard and that took a lot of arm-twisting and name-calling to get installed over a weekend almost four years back.

  He closes the door, looks to the phone. There are two numbers he could call to help him in this matter, but which one? How to choose? Both are equally dangerous.

  What to do.

  It reminds him of that classic short story, “The Lady, or the Tiger?”

  Which door to open?

  What number to call?

  His office phone rings and rings, and he ignores it.

  No time for regular business.

  He makes a decision, opts to leave the other number for later.

  Hoyt quickly dials a series of digits and it rings once and is picked up by an associate of his, from when he was working for Global Strategic Solutions.

  “Yes?” a man’s voice answers.

  “I need to see … Gray. Straightaway.”

  “Where?”

  Parker tells him.

  “Hold on …”

  Parker waits.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Good.”

  He hangs up the private phone, thinks about what the President told him.

  Find the First Lady.

  Not save her, rescue her, or help her.

  He just said, “Find her.”

  And that’s just what he intends to do.

  CHAPTER 1
4

  HIS EYES WIDEN as she steps back, the tiny one-shot hypodermic still concealed in Marsha Gray’s right hand, her fingernail polish quite red and stark. He trembles, tries to breathe, and she wonders if she could say one last word to him before his spirit travels to whatever afterlife he believes in just as Carl collapses to the floor.

  Marsha maneuvers around so she can zip the dress back up, and then goes back to her leather bag, puts the empty hypodermic back in. A slick little drug that will fade away in Carl’s bloodstream within minutes, and when—or if—he’s autopsied, the only thing a medical examiner will come up with is death by natural causes, perhaps a myocardial infarction, but whatever the official medical outcome, Carl will still be dead.

  Mission accomplished.

  Near the office space with the pretty upholstered chairs and a mahogany desk are two identical black leather briefcases.

  Tempting.

  From her little purse she pulls out a pair of light-blue latex gloves, snaps them on, and then opens up each briefcase. She’s surprised they’re both unlocked.

  Each briefcase is full to the top with bundled one-hundred-dollar bills.

  She whistles.

  “Dear girl, temptation is surely knocking at your door,” she whispers.

  She gives one more appreciative glance at the money, closes the lids.

  Poor Carl back there is—or was—the son of a prominent politician and oil executive (being one and the same in that particular nation ending in “stan”) and was due to meet with some prominent American oil officials and representatives from his nation later this afternoon.

  She is sure his unexpected death will cause a lot of turmoil, distrust, and maybe even a grudge killing or two, but that isn’t her concern.

  She is focused only on getting out of the Hay-Adams safely.

  She picks up her small leather purse and goes into an adjoining bathroom about the size of her first apartment back in Cheyenne.

  Forty-four minutes later, Marsha Gray is sipping a Diet Coke at a Subway six blocks east of the Hay-Adams. The same drink that she spent $1.99 for here at the fast-food place would probably have cost ten times as much back at the Hay-Adams, but having successfully slipped out, she’s in no hurry to get back, especially with the shitstorm of police, FBI, and EMTs that are descending there at this moment.

  While in Carl’s enormous bathroom, she had quickly and efficiently gone to work. The green-tinted contact lenses were flushed down the toilet. Her black nylons stripped off, replaced by sheer thigh-highs. A few tugs of her specially designed cocktail dress eliminated the deep cleavage and lowered the hem about six inches. Two quick tugs on the high heels of her shoes turned them into flats. The auburn-colored wig was taken off and placed at a key point under her now-modest dress, along with the heels, making her look like she was a few months in the family way. A pair of black-rimmed glasses with clear lenses went from her small purse to her face. And with that out of the way, she had slipped out of Carl’s room, taken the elevator back down to the lobby, and walked out past Carl’s three bodyguards, none of them even glancing in her direction.

  Now she sips on her Diet Coke, checks the time, wonders how long she’ll have to wait before getting another job.

  Her iPhone starts ringing. She examines the screen and smiles.

  Not long at all.

  CHAPTER 15

  BEFORE I KNOW it, I’m back in the darkened and—despite the police scanners chattering along—reasonably quiet confines of Room W-17. My heart is pounding hard enough to make me think that I’ve just finished another road race. That thought draws me to the photo on my desk, and my sweet Amelia, and what Parker Hoyt has threatened. I check the status board and the screens and even the television feeds, each of them repeating the same footage again and again, of the Man upstairs and his mistress. Or lover. Or girlfriend.

  I sit down, look at the photos of my girl once more, and my fingers briefly trace the wooden sign she’s made for me.

  I take a deep breath. So many years of hard work, late nights, and travel to get to this point, the pinnacle of one’s career within the Secret Service. And the first woman to ever head the Presidential Protective Division.

  And just as much hard work and dedication to achieve the other part of me, mother to one young lady named Amelia Grissom Miller, who’s got her whole life and future ahead of her.

  My fingers drop away.

  I don’t move.

  Parker Hoyt is right.

  I’m wasting time.

  “Scotty!” I call out.

  “Boss,” he replies, hunched over a keyboard, punching in some report or update with his strong fingers, attacking each letter on the keyboard like it’s an enemy that deserves to be struck hard. “I tried CANARY’s detail and couldn’t reach them. I tell you, our radio system has to be upgraded before—”

  “Never mind that for now,” I say. “Sign out a sterile Suburban. You and I are going for a ride.”

  He picks up a phone. “You got it. Where are we going?”

  I grab my work bag, black wool overcoat, and bright-red scarf, and say, “Disaster … or in this case, a horse farm in Virginia. Come along.”

  A fully loaded and fully undercover black Chevy Suburban from Secret Service headquarters on H Street is delivered to the White House, and I let Scotty take the driver’s seat as we slowly move around the long, curving driveway of the south side of the White House. He punches in the address of the Virginia horse farm to the Suburban’s GPS, and after I buckle up, he says, “What’s up? Unannounced inspection tour of the First Lady’s detail?”

  I settle in, my bag on the floor between my feet. “You could say that.”

  We’re waved out of the security gatehouse and are on 15th Street, Northwest, heading south to Constitution Avenue, past the Treasury Library and other faux-Roman-looking government structures along the four-lane road. It’s a crisp autumn day but the sidewalks are packed with people, either tourists looking agape at all the historical buildings or locals—the lobbyists, bureaucrats, and a few elected officials—talking on their cell phones, moving rapidly through the meandering crowds, all believing that they, and only they, are the vital ones in government.

  And scattered among that smaller group is an even smaller handful, my fellow agents, dressed to blend in, acting like tourists or bureaucrats, save for one thing: their ever-moving eyes, the eyes of a hunter, looking for those who would harm the Man.

  “Boss?”

  “Yeah, Scotty,” I say, breaking my eyes away from the crowded sidewalks. We are now past the buildings, and to my right is the greenery of the Ellipse (I brought Amelia here last December for the lighting of the National Christmas Tree, dressed for the cold, me holding her shoulders, mine wrapped in my early Christmas gift from her), and before us, the Washington Monument is now coming into view.

  “What’s really going on?” he says. “This isn’t an inspection tour, is it? I can tell. You’re too tensed up.”

  The government types out there like to talk about turf battles, but Scotty’s been in the real-deal turf battles, fought with M4s and AK-47s, car bombs and air strikes. He’s lived this long with all of his body parts intact because of his strength, smarts, and especially because of his ability to sniff out things that don’t make sense.

  “No, it isn’t,” I say.

  “What’s up, then?”

  Traffic slows down and I grab hold of my seat belt, tighten my grip, and say, “The First Lady can’t be located.”

  Scotty, bless him, is a pro. “Status board says she’s at that horse farm, in Campton. And her detail hasn’t reported anything wrong.”

  “That’s because they’ve been ordered to keep their mouths shut.”

  “By who?”

  “The First Lady’s husband, that’s who,” I say. “And he and his chief of staff have ordered me to go find her … and do it quietly, and quickly, without waves or headlines.”

  “But …”

  “There’s a scandal
on the TV right now, Scotty, a month before the election. News breaking about a missing First Lady … it’d sink the Man in a heartbeat. There’s too much at stake here. This White House isn’t going to let that happen … and let that California nutjob become the next President. You hear what that governor said about the Chinese buildup in the Pacific? That we shouldn’t worry about their bases because climate change will eventually sink all of their islands, and we should be able to cut the DoD budget by half because of that.”

  We slow down in the thick traffic as we get closer to Constitution Avenue.

  “Well, shit,” Scotty says.

  “That’s right.”

  I think for a moment, and say with a bit of reflection, “You know why I joined the Secret Service?”

  “Not for the pay or benefits.”

  I manage a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that I grew up here … and then I was in law enforcement, protecting a chunk of turf. But I wanted to guard something bigger. The dreams and hopes that first built these pretty buildings here. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But I got to go to work every day knowing I was protecting something bigger than myself.”

  I wait, trying to figure out why this is all coming out now. “And today, I was just reminded that for some, I’m still nothing more than just a cop, cleaning crap up.”

  Traffic gets heavier and time is dragging on, and I cross my arms and say, “Remember what I said earlier, about keeping everything quiet?”

  We seem to be about twenty feet away from the intersection. We’ve been out of the White House grounds for nearly ten minutes and have hardly moved at all.

  “Yeah, I do, boss,” he says.

  “Change of plans,” I say. “Light ’er up.”

  His right hand moves and flicks a few switches, and the Suburban’s siren starts screaming, red-and-blue lights start flashing in the grille and at the top of the windshield, and slowly, sluggishly, the traffic starts to move, and in just a few minutes, we’re on Constitution Avenue, heading west to take the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge into Virginia, passing over the Potomac River.