by Andy McNab
That's the same shape and directly above on the first floor. Then, at one o'clock, they walk out onto the lawn and get blasted by the heavenly choir." He screwed up his face again at the thought of 200 kids out of tune.
Josh came over and joined us.
"Hey, guys, I think we'd better move on."
We got the hint. The Secret Service guys didn't want us around so near coffee time.
We started down the corridor to the right, following the cables. Davy sparked up, pointing at a large white double door at the end of the corridor.
"That leads to the west wing, where the briefing area is." The cable went through a door on the left of the corridor. We turned right and entered one of the admin areas. The smell came back to me. To the left was another elevator.
"That's the service elevator for the State Dining Room."
Davy was clearly enjoying his role as tour guide.
"It's directly above us on the first floor." To the right of the elevator was a spiral staircase.
We stopped by the elevator. Davy had a huge grin on his face.
"I gotta show you folks the burn marks you Brits made last time you made an unannounced visit!"
A trolley headed toward us, pushed by an efficient-looking, mid-fifties black guy in black trousers, waistcoat, tie and a very crisply laundered white shirt. It was laden with coffee pots, cups and saucers, biscuits of all sorts. The guy said, "Excuse me, gentlemen," then saw Sarah and added, "and lady," in a very courteous manner as he cruised past, the cups rattling on the metal trolley. Basically, of course, he was just telling us to get the fuck out of the way. He was a man with a mission.
We climbed down the spiral staircase as Davy continued his running commentary.
"We have two other elevators, one hundred and thirty-two rooms and thirty-three bathrooms."
Josh chipped in.
"And seven staircases."
I tried to raise a smile of acknowledgment. At any other time this would be interesting, but not now.
At the bottom we stopped by a pair of fire doors with thick wooden panels inset with two rectangular strips of wired, fire-resistant glass and covered with dirty hand marks where they got continuously pushed. Above them sat a large slab of stone supporting the archway. Black scorch marks were clearly visible.
"We've kept them there just as a little reminder of the sort of thing that happens when you guys come to town. Not that you stayed that long; we'd had more than enough of you by then."
There was more laughter. I saw Sarah check her watch.
Davy said, "You know, people think that it was called the White House after you Brits burned it down. Not so, it only got its name in 1901, under ..." He turned to Josh for the answer.
"Roosevelt." Josh looked at us sheepishly.
"Hey, if you work here you have to know these things."
There wasn't much we could say, and there was only so much burned stone we could look at. After a minute or so, Davy said, "OK, let's go bowl a few."
As we pushed our way through the fire doors, I could see maybe twenty-five or thirty meters of white painted corridor in front of me, each side of which had white wooden doors slightly inset into the walls. The whole area had a functional feel. It was lit by strip lighting, with secondary lighting boxes positioned at key points in case of power failure or fire. The same cook house-and-polish smell hung in the air. There was no activity down here at all. Our footsteps squeaked on the tiles and echoed along the corridor.
We came to a pile of cardboard boxes and bulging bin liners stacked against the wall.
"It's just like any other house," Davy said.
"All the junk goes into the basement."
We passed several of the white doors and came to a gray metal one with a slowly flashing red bulb above it. Davy pointed up.
"Let's see who's in."
He swiped his ID card through a security lock and said, "Welcome to Crisis Four."
He opened the door and gestured us in. I followed Sarah into a darkened room that contained a bank of at least twenty CCTV screens set into the wall in banks of three. Each carried a different picture, with a time code bar at the bottom ticking away the milliseconds. The colored views were of large, richly decorated rooms, and hundreds of meters of corridors and colonnades. On a desktop that ran the whole length of the console, illuminated by small down lighters were banks of telephones, microphones and clipboards.
I went in and moved to one side so that Josh could follow. The temperature was cooler in here; I could hear the air conditioning humming gently
above me. Lined up in front of the bank of screens were four office chairs on castors. The sole occupant of the room was sitting on one of them, dressed inERT black, his baseball cap illuminated by the screens as he mumbled into one of the phones.
I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were glued to the screens; I could see the light from them reflecting off her face.
The phone went down and Josh called out, "Yo, Top Cat! How goes it?"
TO spun around in his chair and raised both arms.
"Heyyya, fella! I'm good. It's been a while." He was white and looked in his mid-thirties, with a very smart, well-trimmed mustache.
They shook hands and Josh introduced us.
"This is Nick, and this is Sarah, they're from the U.K. Friends of mine. This is TO." We both walked over to him, and he stood up to shake hands. His chin already had shadow and he looked as if he needed five or six shaves a day; either that, or he'd been on duty all night. He was maybe about five foot six, with short dark brown hair under his black cap.
TC's firm grip contrasted with his very soft Southern accent, but both oozed confidence.
"What have you seen so far?"
"Josh has been showing us what happened the last time the Brits were down here."
Sarah had a question to ask Davy.
"Do you think it would be possible to see the State Dining Room? It's just that I'm a big fan of Jackie 0 and..."
Davy looked at TO, who shrugged apologetically.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you folks that no one can go upstairs today."
Josh felt that he had to explain.
"Access depends on what is going on.
Just about any other day would have been fine. Hey, thousands of people visit most days; it's one of Washington's biggest attractions."
Sarah and I both started waffling variations on the theme of, "It's no problem, it's great just being here. We're really enjoying it."
Davy sounded like he had a good idea.
"I tell you what, from here you can see it all anyway." He pointed at the screens, and then proceeded to give us a quick rundown.
"As I said, this room is Crisis Four. It's one of the control centers from where any incident in the White House or grounds can be monitored and controlled. Which control center is used depends on where the incident occurs."
Sarah and I were all eyes and ears as we looked at the screens, especially the one that showed the press briefing room. Not much had changed in there. I kept my eye on it, though.
TO took over the brief as he went back to his chair.
"Crisis Four could be used, say, if anything happened upstairs--the president and first lady would be moved down here to the secure area. It also doubles as the bomb shelter. There's a kinda neat room beyond this for the VIPs." He pointed at a screen.
"There's the State Dining Room. That's kinda neat, too."
It didn't look as if lunch was going to be served there today. The long dark wood table had just silver candelabras placed along its center. Apart from that it was bare. Sarah studied the picture for a while, as if taking in all the detail of the decor. My eyes were focused on the shot of the briefing room.
"Is that the Diplomatic Reception Room?" Sarah put her finger on a screen to my left, pointing to a doorway. Looking over, I could see the brown screens blocking off the ground floor corridor, and the ERT escort standing over the CNN guys, who were still fiddling about with cables.
/> TO confirmed it.
"That's right. Any minute now you'll see the big three appear and walk in there. At the moment they're across the hall, in the library."
As I watched the picture he was indicating, flicking back to check the briefing room every few seconds, our friendly waiter came out of the reception room and walked back toward the brown screens. This time his trolley was empty. I heard com ms mush coming from TC's earpiece.
"The coffee's there, all we need now are the drinkers." The ERT guy began to move the CNN people out of the corridor, back toward their wagon. I flicked my eyes over at one of the screens again. Shit! Bill Gates was in the briefing room. At least, the hair and glasses matched what I thought he looked like. He had walked in and was just looking around. I needed Sarah to confirm, but she was the other side of Davy as we all stood around TO in his chair. I kept looking at her, trying to catch her eye. I couldn't say anything yet; I could be wrong. Why wasn't she also checking that screen? They were focused on the other one with the four Secret Service men at the far end of the corridor.
More mush was coming from TC's earpiece.
"Here they come ..."
A few seconds later the three world leaders walked out into the corridor and turned toward the camera. They were moving quite slowly so that Arafat could keep up. I checked Bill Gates. He was now sitting down and writing. I looked back at the other screen, then at Sarah. Come on, look at me, check the screen, do something! She was oblivious to anything but the three leaders as a group of advisers followed them, clutching folders and nodding with each other as they walked.
"Hey, let's give you folks a listen." TO leaned over the desktop and hit a button on the console. A speaker in front of us burst into life. A very quick but calm New York voice was giving commands over the net. People were acknowledging him in just the same tones. It sounded like mission control at Houston. Small red buttons were now lit on three of the microphones on the desk. I checked Bill Gates. He hadn't moved.
They walked along the corridor for a short way, Clinton between the two others as they moved in line abreast. A few paces more and they turned left into the Reception Room.
I looked across at Sarah. She was checking the large green digital display clock on the wall. It was 10:57; they were right on time.
"Hey, Sarah, isn't that Gatesy? You know, that reporter friend of yours?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. I pointed and everyone turned to look.
Sarah took a step forward and looked at the figure sitting down, reading his notes. Standing back, she looked at me.
"No, it's not. His hair is much darker. But they do look similar."
TO stood up "That's it, folks, I've gotta go." He hit the console button.
The sound and red microphone lights died.
We all shook hands again.
"I hope you people have a good trip. Ask these two nicely, see if they'll take you over to the Treaty Room."
Davy said, "It's on the itinerary, after the alley."
TO nodded as he headed for the door.
"See you guys. Hey, Davy, don't forget, four thirty this afternoon, we've got that meeting." They ran through a few details of their work admin while Sarah and I, the gooseberries, just stood by, keeping an eye on the briefing-room screen.
We followed TO out of Crisis Four. When we were all out in the corridor he made sure the door was secure, then turned right and walked off toward the fire doors with a cheery wave of the hand.
A couple of Hispanic women came squeaking along in white overalls and white patent-leather shoes, looking like a cross between cleaners and nurses, and talking at 100 mph in their own language. They stopped as they passed us, nodded and smiled, then returned to their warp-speed conversation.
We turned left and moved farther down the corridor.
Josh had an idea.
"Hey, you know what? I'll go over and see if I can get us into the Treaty Room, and maybe even the VP's office."
"That would be great," I said.
"Would we still be able to watch the press brief?"
Sarah joined in.
"Yes, I'd love to see that as well. I have--" Josh smiled as he put his hands up defensively, like a parent fending off an overenthusiastic child.
"Hey, no problem. In a few." He turned and walked toward the fire doors. Sarah and I exchanged a relieved glance as Davy led the way. We stopped two doors down.
Davy grinned.
"This is the best room in the house." He opened the door. Inside was an open space, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen, with stack able plastic chairs arranged around the walls, the same as in the briefing room. Beyond that, in shadow, was a single-lane bowling alley.
The floor was highly polished lino. The walls were painted white and covered with a couple of posters of bowling teams, and pushed against it was a large wooden box, also painted white, with compartments that looked as if they were holding about eight or nine pairs of bowling shoes.
There was whirring and clicking as all the bits and pieces of alley machinery came to life and the strip lighting along the alley flickered on.
Davy smiled back at us as he walked toward the shoes.
"I've got a great story for you guys."
By now the bowling balls were rolling up onto the stand and the pins were being positioned by the machine at the bottom of the lane.
Davy had his back to us, his shoulders rolling as he anticipated his own story. His head moved to look at us both again and he pointed at the top pair of shoes.
"You see these?" We both nodded. He looked back to pull them out. I took the opportunity for a quick look at Baby-G. Fifty-five minutes to go until the press brief.
Davy turned around to walk back to us.
"These are Bill's personal bowling shoes," he said.
"Look at the size of the things."
They must have been something like size sixteen, at least.
"He's a big man all right." Hefting them in his hand, he chuckled.
"You know the old saying, big feet, big..." He suddenly checked himself in case Sarah didn't approve. She was smiling.
The shoes were white with red stripes. As Davy reached us, he turned them around and showed us something.
"See this?" All smiles, he pointed to the back of the shoes. I saw that each had a little mark in black felt tip.
"One day Bill came down with some of his bowling buddies. He went to get his shoes, and a couple of the advisers saw this written on the back."
He pointed again. On one was the letter L, and on the other an R. "There they were, supposed to be discussing world affairs, and his aides were suddenly more worried about how he'd react to people writing on his shoes ... "Well, Bill picked them up, and for a moment there was silence ..." I could tell old Davy Boy had told this story many, many times, because the pauses were in just the right places. "... yep, there he was, the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world, and someone had gotten a pen and done that to him!
"Nobody was too sure how he was going to take it. Anyways, he looked down at the shoes, and then Bill started to laugh.
"I'll tell you what, boys, this is just what I need ... they are so darned confusing, not being proper shoes and all."
" Davy started to laugh. I wasn't sure if the story was funny or not, and nor was Sarah. I just took Davy's lead and joined in. I could hear Sarah, standing slightly behind me, doing the same.
The laughter died down and Davy carried on, pleased with our reaction.
"And that's why it's still there. Apparently Bill says it cuts his prep time by a half, so there's more time to play."
He was going to put the shoes back. He turned away and took two steps, and there was a thud.
Bill's shoes fell out of Davy's hands. There was no blood until he hit the floor, face forward, and then it started to spurt from his head, dark and thick. I swung around.
Sarah was in a perfect firing position, standing at forty-five degrees to Davy, with her right pistol hand out
straight, pushing the suppressed weapon at the target, her left hand cupped around both the pistol grip and the other hand, pulling back. She looked so relaxed she could have been on the range.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted. What a bone question; I could see precisely what she was doing.
I didn't know why, but I was half whispering, half shouting as she lowered the pistol.
"For tuck's sake, we agreed, no killing. What are you doing bringing that thing in? We don't need it."
She just stood there, in a different world, calmly putting the pistol back into her waistband.
This was out of control. No matter what happened now, we were in a world of shit and I had no idea by whose rules we were playing.
I started to move toward the door.
She looked at me quizzically.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm locking the door what do you think I'm doing, letting everyone in? We're in deep shit, Sarah. Do you have any idea what you've done?
This won't stop anything; it makes it worse."
I reached the door and turned the lock inside the tumbler. It was pointless going over to Davy. There wasn't a sound from him, and dark, deoxygenated blood seeped from his mouth.
I stayed where I was, shaking my head in disbelief.
"It was under control, Sarah, for flick's sake. Midday the press brief, remember? What the fuck are you doing?"
She started toward the door. I moved across her, putting my arms up to stop her.
"Whoa, this is way out of control. It's time to stop this, now, and get help. Just get thinking of a fucking good story."
I pointed at Davy as I turned toward the door once more. Why had she done it? It took two seconds before it became obvious to me why. She'd stitched me up.
"You flicking bitch!" I started to turn back toward her.
At the same instant I felt pain explode in my stomach. The wind was knocked out of my lungs as I fell to my knees. I felt a fierce burning sensation on the left side of my gut.
The left side of my forehead hit the floor, then my nose. There were sparks flashing in my head. I tasted blood in my throat. I'd never taken a round before.
I couldn't see Sarah. I was too busy curling into a fetal position as I tried to control the pain.
