The First Lady

by James Patterson

  With the siren sounding, there’s no real chance to talk to my assistant, which is fine, because at the moment I can’t think of anything more to say to him.

  The traffic really thins out for us, and I settle back into my seat as we cross the Potomac River and race into Virginia—and head into whatever disaster awaits us.

  CHAPTER 16

  AFTER SPENDING SOME time with the President, crafting a statement mostly full of mush—the key phrases being the President confessing to a relationship that “was not appropriate,” which he hopes will satisfy the press for at least a day, along with a nearly sincere apology to his “dear wife” and “the American people”—Parker Hoyt leaves the grounds of the White House and takes a walk by himself to the south, to Pershing Park, overlooked by the crowd of ignorant tourists, most of whom would probably have trouble naming the President’s predecessor. He takes a bench near the fountain and the large pool that is used as a skating rink in the winter. There’s a slight breeze, and most of the passersby are bundled up from the apparent cold, though Parker doesn’t feel it. Growing up in Cleveland on the bitter shores of Lake Erie, you quickly learn what cold really feels like.

  A short, dark-skinned woman with fine black hair, brown eyes, and wearing a Navy pea coat and jeans comes over and sits down on the bench next to him. Parker eyes the tourists one more time. If one out of a hundred could tell him who Pershing was or what he accomplished, he’d be surprised.

  Parker says to the woman next to him, “The Marine Corps says your confirmed kill was forty-two.”

  “Sixty-three,” the woman answers in a strong voice. Marsha Gray, former USMC, now a contract worker for Global Strategic Solutions, and right on time.

  “Why the difference?”

  Her hands are in her coat pocket. “The Corps has pretty strict rules when it comes to confirming sniper kills. You need secondary confirmation. Most guys, that’s not a problem, because you have a spotter working for you—he can confirm a hit. But I worked alone. That means it took after-action intelligence reports or drone footage to confirm what I did.”

  “Odd thing to work alone.”

  “I worked in odd places,” she says. “My family background gives me the skin color to blend in. I wear a chador or something similar, most men leave me alone. Under the chador, though, I had a nice special-model Remington X600 sniper rifle. I could break it down so I could sling it over my shoulder—nobody could spot it. I’d find the high ground, reassemble the gear, find and terminate the target, and by the time the blood stopped flowing, I was walking along the street like a nice, quiet covered woman, submissive to the nearest smelly bearded man and God.”

  “Good for you.”

  Marsha says, “What’s the job?”

  Parker says, “What do you think of our President?”

  She shrugs. “No better, no worse, I guess. Though his little man sure has gotten him into trouble. Why do you ask?”

  Parker thinks about how to phrase it, and decides just to let it go. “President Tucker … he gets stuff done. Not earth-shattering, or headline-making, but he gets stuff done. For the first time in a long time, we’ve got a President who isn’t involved in a vicious fight with the other party or even with the news media. It took decades for us to get into the mess we’re in, and it’s going to take decades to climb out, but at least this guy is turning things around. He’s made a good start.”

  Marsha doesn’t look impressed. He goes on. “I grew up in Cleveland. Joke city of the Great Lakes. My dad, and his dad, and my great-grandfather, they had opportunities in the mills and foundries. Places to go. Good jobs that allowed them to buy a house, leave something for the kids, maybe get a vacation cabin for the summer. Families like that, they weren’t entrepreneurs— they weren’t thinking of new Internet apps, stuff like that. So they were abandoned, forgotten. This President … he’s remembered them. And he’s remembered my family. That’s why I work for him, and that’s why I’m dedicated to his safety and success. His opponent … he thinks if we all grew kale, held hands together and sang Kumbaya, then we’d be ushered into a new world of light and happiness. I can’t allow him to win. It would be an epic disaster.”

  Marsha says, “Nice sales pitch. What’s the job?”

  He says, “You grew up poor in Wyoming, didn’t you? Orphaned daughter of a Basque sheep farmer, up there in the mountains. Your parents died in a truck accident during a blizzard. You joined the Corps to get out of there, make a living. It must have been pretty rough out there in Wyoming before you left.”

  She says, “You had a big lake. We had mountains. You had it better.”

  Parker says, “The First Lady is gone. The Secret Service doesn’t know where she is.”

  “Good for her,” Marsha says. “You see the knockers on that other gal? I’d be missing from my husband too if I found out he’d been stepping out with her.”

  “There’s more to it than just that,” Parker says. “Something screwy is going on with her sudden absence. She might be missing, might have left on her own. I’m not going to allow her to sabotage the President’s second term, so we’re keeping the search for her secret. I’ll give you information about the Secret Service’s investigation, and I want you to shadow them … and if the situation requires, terminate.”

  Marsha crosses her legs. “How will I know when the situation requires it?”

  “I’ll be in constant contact. You’ll know.”

  A group of chattering schoolchildren go by, two female schoolteachers desperately trying to corral them away from the pool. Parker says, “You okay with that?”

  Marsha says, “Just to be clear … just her or do what’s necessary?”

  “Pretend you’re out in the field, no way to contact anybody else. Do what has to be done.”

  Another slight shrug. “Not a problem.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve never liked her anyway,” Marsha says. “Not a problem.”

  “Good,” Parker says. “I need you to start right away.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  “Great,” he says. He rattles off a series of digits. “That’s my direct line at the White House. Give me a call in thirty minutes and I’ll give you what I know, and we’ll proceed from there.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  Marsha gets up, and Parker says, “Ask you one more question?”

  “You’re not on the clock yet, so yeah, ask away.”

  “Who’s Pershing? You know, the guy this park was named after.”

  For the first time since he had met this killer, she smiles.

  “What is this, a joke? General John Joseph ‘Black Jack’ Pershing. Head of the American Expeditionary Force during the First World War. Chased Pancho Villa through Mexico earlier but never caught him. You need anything else?”

  “No,” Parker says. “Go along, and don’t be late calling.”

  Marsha says, “I won’t,” and she walks away, and like snipers everywhere, she quickly blends in with the crowds and trees and disappears.

  Parker takes that as a very good sign.

  CHAPTER 17

  AT THE WESTBROOK Horse Farm just outside of the rural Virginia town of Campton, a forty-minute drive from the White House, Scotty parks our Suburban next to two other black, identical-looking Suburbans situated in a dirt lot surrounded by a chest-high white wooden fence.

  I get out and Scotty tries to catch up with me as I stride over to the First Lady’s three-person security detail, standing in a group like little animals huddling together for protection, and I lose my professional composure and attitude and let them have it for about three wasted minutes, yelling and jabbing my right arm at them like I was about to step over and punch each of them in the throat.

  The detail, two women and a young man, take it without flinching, and then I stop, take a deep breath, and say, “That wasn’t necessary. My apologies. I’ve wasted time. Pamela, give me a briefing.”

  Pamela Smithson steps forward. She’s blond an
d barely made the weight and height requirements for female Secret Service agents, but she’s an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and at some agent’s birthday party last year, I saw her take some clown from Homeland Security who had been harassing her and toss him into a swimming pool.

  “CANARY wanted to come out here for a couple of hours of horseback riding,” she explains. “She finds it relaxing, and her doctor recommends it for her as part of her recovery.”

  Around us are millions of dollars’ worth of barns, outbuildings, fencing, and lots of horses. This area is set aside from the main area of stables. I can see a number of children at play with ponies and horses in a corral about thirty meters away.

  “What’s going on over there?” I ask.

  Pamela says, “Part of the stables here are owned by a charity—Green Grass for Kids—that brings inner-city kids and others with special needs to the farm, gets them some fresh air, lets them see what horses are all about. It’s one of CANARY’s favorite charities.”

  “Okay, run me through what happened.”

  Pamela looks back at the other two agents—Tanya Glenn, a heavyset African-American woman, and Brian Zahn, a slim guy who doesn’t look like he’s old enough to shave—and she says, “Once the news got out about Atlanta, the First Lady dumped her schedule for the day. She wanted to come out here for a relaxing ride.”

  “So there was no prep, no sweep, nothing made ready.”

  Tanya speaks up. “We didn’t have the time … and after being on her detail as long as we’ve been, you know that when CANARY makes a decision, that’s it. She wanted to go riding. She went riding. She says this is one of the only two places in the world where she can relax.”

  “What time was this?”

  Pamela glances at her watch. “Near three hours ago.”

  I say, “All three of you have horseback riding experience. So why weren’t you with her?”

  The wind shifts and I hear kids squealing with laughter and joy from many meters away. Tanya says, “We always go with her, hanging back or riding ahead. But not today … she wanted to be alone, and she said she’d be back in sixty minutes.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified when she didn’t return?”

  Pamela looks both defiant and upset. “Orders.”

  “From whom?”

  “The President.”

  “Tell me more,” I say.

  “Just when she was overdue, and wasn’t answering her phone, that’s when I was contacted by the communications officer on Air Force One. I talked with Jackson Thiel, the head of the President’s detail. He told me to hang on for a second. I did just that. Then the President came on the line and told me to stand down, that he would take care of it.”

  “And he told you not to call me?”

  Pamela looks miserable now. “He told me … that I should keep quiet and not tell anyone. Anyone at all.”

  I bite my lower lip and don’t say anything for a moment, knowing with sadness that Pamela’s career and those of the rest of the detail have crashed and burned. No matter. Depending on how this is going to play out, my career is probably going to scream right into the ground next to them.

  “Where do you think she might be?” I ask.

  Tanya speaks up again, and I note that Brian, the only male and the newest one on the detail, is keeping quiet. She says, “Sally, there’s miles of trails out there … you go down one and it branches off, and then it branches off again, and goes on … she could be anyplace. My guess is … she switched her phone off, or dumped it, and is just sitting under a tree being miserable.”

  “Does she have her panic button with her?”

  Pamela says, “Absolutely.”

  Every protectee has a hidden panic button—the President’s is an Air Force One challenge coin he carries in his pocket at all times, the First Lady’s is on a small brooch she wears on a gold chain around her neck—and when it’s pressed, it sends off a strong beacon alarm and a GPS signal that gives out the exact coordinates down to one foot.

  “But it hasn’t been activated.”

  “No,” Tanya says. “It hasn’t.”

  I glance once more at this miserable-looking trio of agents, who’ve done something even worse than having their protectee injured or killed: they’ve lost their protectee.

  To Pamela, I say, “When you have a moment, call the supervisors for your replacement shifts. Make up a plausible story, but tell them that all three of you are staying on duty. We need to keep this as close-in as possible.”

  Pamela nods and I say, “All right, do you have a map of the area?”

  Pamela goes over to the hood of the near Suburban, where a map is spread out, and she points to a marked area where the parking lot is located. She jabs a finger and says, “Since that call with the President, we’ve gone out as runners down the near trails, seeing if we can spot anything, one of us always staying behind in case she shows up.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Pamela goes on, “This farm is huge, hundreds of acres, but the outer perimeter is secure, with hired security personnel working the fence line and some surveillance cameras. I haven’t talked to the management about securing the recordings there because of our orders, but it’s up to you when you want to get them, Sally.”

  I start to answer, but I’m interrupted when Brian, the male agent, shouts out, “There she is!”

  I whirl around, relief running so quickly through me that I think I’m going to faint.

  The First Lady’s black Morgan horse is trotting back to the parking lot from the main trail leading out.

  And I kick the near front tire and curse very loudly and emphatically.

  The horse is riderless.

  CHAPTER 18

  HER FLIGHT IS five minutes away from landing, and Tammy Doyle sits stock-still in a wide seat in first class. This wasn’t her assigned seat, but soon after the Atlanta to Dulles flight had taken off, the lead flight attendant had motioned her forward and had grabbed Tammy’s carry-on luggage from the overhead bin.

  She could have been Tammy’s mom, with her brisk attitude and dyed blond hair, and after she had settled Tammy in a row by herself, she’d leaned over and whispered, “It’s always the man’s fault, but they always come after us.”

  Her ears had felt warm all the way through the flight, thinking of the other passengers back there, all connected to the world via airborne Wi-Fi, and she felt sure that most of them knew her secret: the President’s lover. Mistress. Slut.

  Back in Atlanta, Harrison had told her of his plans, to gently break the news to Grace about their relationship after Election Day, then to separate officially, and then quietly introduce Tammy to the White House and the world during his second term.

  But now?

  What will Harrison do?

  The sudden thump of the plane landing jolts her, and another thought quickly gets her attention:

  What is she going to do now?

  It takes just a few minutes to taxi the aircraft to the gate, and her friend, the senior flight attendant, again takes control. She helps Tammy with her carry-on and blocks the aisle to give her a chance to get ahead of the exiting passengers, then squeezes her shoulder.

  “I’ll pray for you,” she whispers, and Tammy just nods, unable to speak, and then quickly goes up the Jetway, her travel bag rolling along, her large black leather purse on her shoulder.

  As she enters the concourse, she slips on a pair of sunglasses and a navy-blue beret, and starts walking. Here in this gated area she doesn’t see any news media, which is a relief. With the hard-ass TSA out there keeping watch, there’s no way they would allow them in without a boarding pass.

  Which means they’re waiting for her at the main terminal. Her heart starts to pound, knowing she’s going to get ambushed for the second time during this long and horrible day.

  With a number of other passengers, she gets on the AeroTrain that takes them to the main terminal. She sees a large Hispanic family—grandma, mom and dad, half-dozen kids—
and she moves closer to them, smiling and nodding at the harried mom.

  The train jerks and quickly gets them moving, and almost as quickly, they come to the end of the journey, and—

  Those same damn bright lights from television cameras.

  Damn it!

  The Hispanic family jostles through and she slips in between them and starts walking briskly. There are shouts, questions, and other passengers are streaming off, and thank God it’s a busy day in the main terminal, for she quickly moves in and out of the crowds. Lots more questions and she ignores them all, moving along, and at one point, an insistent photographer pushes through and tries to cut in front of her, and she swings her left arm with her heavy purse and knocks him back.

  Fools, she thinks. I grew up in the projects in South Boston, interned every summer on Beacon Hill, and fought and clawed my way to K Street. You think I’m really going to stop and give you a statement?

  She maneuvers again, gets outside and to the taxi stands, and she gives the businessman at the head of the line two twenty-dollar bills to take his place. In a few seconds, she’s in the rear of a black Washington Flyer taxicab, seat belt fastened, now en route to her home in Arlington.

  Her chest is aching, and she realizes why as she sits back.

  She’s nearly forgotten to breathe.

  Thankfully, the cab is driven by a man who introduces himself, says hello, and keeps his mouth shut as they exit the airport. Tammy squeezes her hands together, remembering all of Harry’s promises, including about someday flying on Air Force One during his second term, once he separated from the First Lady.

  “It’s something to look forward to, I promise,” Harry had said. “You never touch your luggage. Any kind of meal you want. The gentlest, quietest flight in the world. Your own cabin with me up forward, with hundreds of movies to choose from, or live television, or anything else you want for entertainment. Damn, there are so many attendants on Air Force One I swear to God there’s one tasked just to pick up your napkin if you drop it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget, one you’re going to have, and soon. I promise!”