by Roland Smith
J.R. looked at Angela. “Did you really kick out some of Eben Lavi’s teeth?”
“No,” she answered. “I loosened a couple.”
Eben Lavi was a rogue Mossad agent who was now working with SOS. We hoped.
J.R. smiled. “Theodore Roosevelt built the West Wing in 1902. If he were sitting where I’m sitting right now, he would say, ‘Bully!’ ”
He looked back at me. “And I understand that you pulled a fast one on Lavi with a magic trick at the hospital.”
“It was no big deal.”
“That’s not what I hear,” J.R. said. “The reason I had you come down is that I wanted to meet you and thank you personally. I might not have time later. Since I can’t tell my Secret Service detail about the alleged attack, and I have to assume I’m the target, I’m going to have to change my appointments at the last minute to stay ahead of the ghost cell. It’ll be a confusing day for my staff, but it will keep them on their toes. I’ve done this before, so hopefully it won’t look like I’ve been tipped off.” He chuckled. “They’ll just think that I’ve lost my mind…again.
“And I have another favor to ask. When you meet my son, Will, if you haven’t already, I’d appreciate it if you spent some time with him. He gets a little stir-crazy and lonesome cooped up in this place. It’s hard living inside a glass house. And having me as a dad hasn’t been easy for him.”
Having a mom like Malak hadn’t been easy for Angela either. Will seemed to have adjusted pretty well to becoming the P.K.
J.R. gave Croc a final scratch between the ears and then stood.
That’s it? I thought.
He walked over and shook our hands. “I’ll go out the main door,” he said. “This is your house. I’ve instructed Agent Norton to give you free rein.”
“Who’s Agent Norton?” Angela asked.
“The agent who led you down here.”
“What if he’s one of the moles?” I asked.
“I seriously doubt that, but you don’t have to worry about it. He doesn’t know what’s going on. All he knows is that he’s supposed to keep an eye on you.”
Aka babysit. I wondered what Agent Mouldwarp Norton thought about that.
“When you see your mother, give her my regards,” J.R. said. “Tell her that when this is all over, I want her to visit me. I’ll buy her a cup of coffee in the White House mess, for old times’ sake.”
I didn’t think this would ever be over for Malak.
J.R. opened the thick door and walked past Agent Norton into the hive.
Plausible Deniability
“What was that about?” Angela asked.
I looked at the Seamaster. “That was about five minutes.”
“You’re hilarious, Q.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“Don’t call me sis.”
“I think he invited you down here just to meet you,” Boone said. “And to rattle his staff. That’s why he paraded you into the Oval Office rather than meet with you privately up in the Residence. J.R. has never been known for being subtle. When I worked for him at the CIA, he’d pull this kind of stunt all the time to test his staff’s reactions. When I passed on Malak’s warning to him he could have just as easily called in the FBI, the Secret Service, the National Security Agency, the Department of Defense, Homeland Security, and the CIA. That’s what most presidents would have done. And that would have been a huge blunder. All we have—all he has—is Malak. He’s risking his life to protect her cover. Impressive. Do you have your BlackBerrys?”
We pulled them out of our pockets.
Boone reached into his tattered day pack. “Change of equipment.” He pulled out two iPhones and chargers. “X-Ray put his special touch on these. They have all the same functions as your BlackBerrys.”
“Why the switch?” I asked. We’d had our BlackBerrys less than three days.
“There are some things these do that the BlackBerry doesn’t do,” Boone answered. “If they work well we might all switch.”
The iPhones were a lot cooler.
Angela flipped hers over and smiled. “No way to take the battery out,” she said.
“Really?” Boone said innocently.
“Like you and X-Ray didn’t know that,” Angela said.
In Philly she’d ditched Felix, the SOS guy guarding her, and then pulled the BlackBerry battery so the team couldn’t find her.
“That’s one of the things the iPhone has that the BlackBerry doesn’t have,” Boone said.
“Speaking of which,” Angela said, “Q did a location check on everyone before we came down here, and you didn’t show up.”
“I pulled the battery,” Boone said with a grin. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was here. J.R. smuggled me in. Ziv and Dirk hacked into our computer system in Philly. X-Ray thinks it might still be compromised. He’s working on the problem, but it’s going to take a while for him to fix it. In the meantime we have to be very careful. Politically, J.R. can’t afford to be associated with an off-the-books covert operation like this. If it goes sour he needs to have plausible deniability.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Of course Angela knew. “It means that there can be no record of Boone or the other members of SOS speaking to the president.”
Boone nodded. “When I got your text message I called J.R. from a disposable cell. I tried to talk him out of a face-to-face meeting, but he insisted. Halfway through my briefing he called Agent Norton and asked him to bring you two down here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Like he said, I think he wanted to shake up his staff. Set the stage for his crazy act later today. During the briefing I tried to downplay your antics in Philly, but J.R. read between the lines and insisted you come down.” Boone smiled. “But he knew he was going to do it all along. The Omegas were on his desk when I came in.”
“What do you want us to do?” Angela asked.
“I would like to have you do absolutely nothing,” Boone said, then sighed. “But that’s probably too much to hope for, right?”
“Probably,” I answered.
“Definitely,” Angela said.
“That’s what I thought. Since this is your home and J.R. is giving you free rein, I guess we should put this to some use. I don’t want either of you to look for the moles actively, but I want you to keep your eyes open and let us know what’s going on inside the house. You’re going to be approached by staff asking you why the president invited you down here. One or more of them is likely to be the mole. You need to be friendly and innocent, like kids, which I know is going to be a stretch for both of you. If you meet someone whom you think is acting suspiciously, text the name to X-Ray. He’ll run it through our database to see if he gets any bad-guy hits. Before you talk to anybody you need to come up with a plausible story about why J.R. invited you down here in your pajamas.”
So, he had noticed the pj’s.
Angela gave Boone the same whopper she had given P.K., without mentioning the fact that we had met the President’s Kid.
“Perfect!” Boone stood and shouldered his pack. “I have to sneak back out of here, and you two need to get some sleep. Keep those phones charged and with you at all times.”
He walked over to a door near J.R.’s desk, opened it, and disappeared with Croc at his boot heels.
“I noticed you didn’t tell him about P.K.,” I said.
“We told P.K. we wouldn’t tell. I didn’t think it was important. He’s just a kid.”
P.K. was not just a kid, but I let it go.
Angela stood and yawned. “I’m exhausted.” She started toward the door we’d entered through.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I think Mr. Todd’s going to be on the other side of that door, or one of his cronies. They’re going to ask us why the president of the United States left two kids in the Oval Office on their own.”
“Good point,” Angela said. “What are we going to tell them?”
I walk
ed behind J.R.’s desk and sat down in his chair. I’m sure it was my imagination, but as soon as my butt hit that seat I felt a surge of power pulsate into every cell in my body.
“Wow!”
“POTUS,” Angela said. “Pajamas of the United States. What are we going to tell Mr. Todd?”
“I have given it careful thought,” I said, trying to sound presidential. “And I have decided that we will tell the chief of staff that J.R. left us alone for a few minutes so I could play president.”
“Works for me,” Angela said. “Now let’s get some sleep.”
Tyrone Boone, former spy, ex-rock band roadie, motor coach chauffeur, de facto leader of SOS, crossed the street from the White House to Lafayette Park. A row of perpetual protesters lined the sidewalk, curled up in blankets and sleeping bags. But not all of them were protesters. Among the bedraggled group were undercover FBI and Secret Service agents posing as disenfranchised citizens. And not all of them were asleep.
“Thirsty?” A man held up a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.
“Who’d you tick off?” Boone asked.
“Boone? Tyrone Boone? I can’t believe it!”
“Then you must be suffering from short-term memory loss, Pat,” Boone said. “About three minutes ago your cohorts across the street told you that I had just walked past the White House and was heading your way. When you saw me approaching you whispered up your sleeve that you had acquired the target.”
Pat smiled. “Have a seat.”
Boone sat down on a lawn chair, sniffed the open bottle, wrinkled his nose, and handed it back. “So, who did you tick off, Pat?”
Pat sighed. “Everybody.”
“Some things never change,” Boone said. “How long have you had this duty?”
“Thirteen months, going on eternity. It’s not as bad as it looks… or smells. I like a lot of these people. Some of them are pretty bright and have legitimate gripes.”
Boone had known Patrick James Callaghan for more than thirty years. Pat was one of a handful of people that knew Boone had been a NOC (nonofficial cover) CIA agent. They’d worked together in Europe and the Middle East. Pat was a good agent but got into trouble—like most good agents do. The CIA gave him the boot, and he joined the Secret Service.
“Sounds like you’ve been radicalized,” Boone said.
Pat laughed. “Not any more than I already was. How’s the old man?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Boone said. “I haven’t seen J.R. in years and doubt he’d remember me. I’ve been out of the trade for over a decade now. I couldn’t sleep and went for a late-night walk. Stopped by the gate and asked a Secret Service uniform to make a call to check if the kids I’m watching were tucked in for the night.”
“They put you in nice digs,” Pat said. “Blair House is for visiting dignitaries and heads of state, not roadies. And I understand the band is at the Willard.”
“I’m the driver. And they decided to put me in charge of security. The parents didn’t want me or my security crew too far from their kids. The White House nixed our staying in the mansion, but Blair House is pretty darn comfortable.”
Pat laughed. “I knew you’d have an answer, Boone. You always do. But what do you think of those two kids getting a private audience with the president of the United States at three o’clock in the morning?”
“They did?” Boone said. “I knew they were trying to get an interview with him for their school assignment. I guess J.R. was awake and decided to give them some time.”
Pat pulled out his earpiece from under his long, greasy hair, took his radio from his back pocket, and turned it off. “Okay, I’m off the clock,” he said. “What’s going on, Boone? What are you doing?”
“You guys are never off the clock,” Boone said. “There is nothing going on. And what I do is none of your business, Pat.”
“You’re right, but I had to ask. Someone said he thought he spotted you coming out of the Executive Building, next door to the White House.”
“The mythical presidential tunnel?” Boone said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve never been in that tunnel, and I didn’t come out of that building.”
Pat nodded toward the White House. “They’re going crazy over there. J.R. is having another one of his meltdowns.”
“I don’t know anything about that either. You’ve known him as long as I have. Meltdowns are standard operating procedure for J.R. He’s crazy like a fox.”
“Did you know that the girl’s mother was Malak Tucker?”
Boone nodded.
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Once,” Boone answered. “When she was on the protection detail in the White House. I was there for a briefing. She patted me down after I went through the metal detector. Guess she didn’t like me.”
“If you could just give me a little nugget,” Pat said, “I might be able to get off the street and back into the big show.”
“If I had a little nugget to give you, Pat, I would. You’re a good agent. You don’t deserve to be on homeless duty. And I think you could get back into the White House all on your own with a single phone call.”
“Probably,” Pat admitted. “But I won’t make that call. It wouldn’t be right.”
Boone stood.
“One more thing,” Pat said, joining him. “About a year ago I heard this wild rumor.”
“Yeah?”
“Someone told me that a group of old ex-spooks had gotten together and were doing off-the-book missions.”
“If that’s true, then they’re crazy. Thirty years was thirty years too long for me. I’m enjoying my retirement. There isn’t enough money in the world to bring me out of it.”
Pat knelt down and scratched Croc between the ears. “Good grief, your dog looks just like your old dog. How’d you manage that?”
“Same genes,” Boone said.
Pat stood back up. “Well, if you ever hear anything about the old spooks, put in a good word for me. I wouldn’t mind joining them.”
“If they exist, I’d be the last person they’d contact.”
Boone walked off into the night past the statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback waving his hat, wondering where Pat had heard the rumor.
Silver Bullet
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, so when I got back to the room I tried the kitchen’s twenty-four-hour-whatever-I-want-sent-to-my-room thing by ordering a vanilla shake and fries.
The guy on the other end of the line—the graveyard chef, I guess—said, “Good morning, Mr. Tucker. How may I help you?”
“I’d like a vanilla shake and some fries.”
“Perfection! But I would recommend my deep-fried cheese curds. They are one of my specialties.”
“What’s a cheese curd?”
“Cheese before it becomes cheese.”
“Okay, I’ll try them.”
“Perfection! You won’t be sorry. I’ll have that up to your room in about twenty minutes.”
I don’t know if the curds made it to my room in twenty minutes or not, because I fell asleep about five minutes after I placed the order. When I woke up there was a melted vanilla milkshake and a congealed pile of deep-fried cheese curds on the table.
Sitting next to the midnight snack was P.K.
“Morning,” he said.
I sat up. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your door was open.”
I remembered. I’d left it open for the fried curds.
P.K. looked at the food. “That stuff will kill you.”
I swung my legs out of bed. “What are you, a health nut?”
“Nah, I’ve had a ton of Chef Cheesy’s specialty—at least when Bethany isn’t around. She’s a food cop.”
“I hear you.”
Roger was a vegetarian, and Mom was trying to become one, and they were taking me along for the ride. Luckily, Angela was a closet carnivore. The curds weren’t meat, but by the looks of them they were fried in animal fat, which
was not allowed.
“You call him Chef Cheesy?”
“He calls himself Chef Cheesy,” P.K. answered. “His real name’s Conrad Fournier. He graduated from the Le Cordon Bleu culinary school in Paris, but he was born and raised in Milwaukee. He’s been here about five years. Dad hired him over the objections of just about everyone in the house. Now everybody loves him. Especially the Secret Service because he sneaks them food 24-7. He weighs about a hundred pounds, which is weird considering how much cheese he eats. But his nickname doesn’t come from cheese consumption. It comes from his cheesy jokes, not curds. Dad loves cheesy jokes. Bethany calls him Chef Cholesterol. I eat in the kitchen with him all the time. He’s probably the best friend I have in the house.”
“How many people work in the White House?” I asked.
“My dad says about half of them,” P.K. answered.
“Funny,” I said.
“I don’t know exactly how many work here,” P.K. said. “Dad has over a hundred and fifty people working for him in the West Wing. Then there are close to a hundred people working in the East Wing on First Lady things with Bethany. Then there’s the household staff… There are probably a couple hundred of them. Secret Service, S.S. Uniformed Division, army, navy, marine, air force, Countersniper Support Unit, Emergency Response Team, canine officers… Is this for your school assignment?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Actually, I’d asked in order to get some idea of how hard it would be for a mole to infiltrate the White House.
Answer: easy.
“How did the interview go with my dad?”
“It was brief,” I said. “But it was nice of him to make time for us.”
“Everybody’s talking about it.”
Which reminded me… I pulled out my iPhone to see if there were any horrible text messages or voice mails. There weren’t. Four hours without a major disaster. It might turn out to be a good day.
