The CIA agent judged Kleinkorn’s training to be dominant. Therefore, he dodged to the Russian’s right, the direction that an untrained shooter would shoot, but not an experienced spy who thought he’d out-psyched his quarry.
Three shots rang out in the dark. Kleinkorn heard D’Angelo’s chair fall to the ground, a fraction of a second before he felt a powerful head ram into his heart.
D’Angelo drove the Russian spymaster right off his seat and onto the floor where he wouldn’t immediately, if ever, recover. D’Angelo wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Out in the hall, all hell broke out as expected. This wasn’t D’Angelo’s first visit to Burdenko Military Hospital. He’d come the previous day, disguised as a maintenance worker, and rigged a timed explosive to the facility’s principal lighting grid. The backup generator would kick in, but not for at least thirty seconds. Enough time to make his way off the floor.
D’Angelo’s sight was as useless as the guard’s outside the room. They squarely collided, with the advantage going to the Russian. D’Angelo felt the guard’s gun against his ribs. But shock value also counted for something. In a fraction of a second, the CIA agent twisted the gun up and away, breaking the young man’s hand. He followed it up with a sharp upper cut to the jaw, sending the man down. Then he yelled in Russian for others to hear, “He went upstairs!”
D’Angelo heard the sound of boots on the tile floor—heading away from him to the left toward the closest stairwell. He went in the opposite direction, to the far stairs.
Ten more seconds, he calculated. He reached the stairway in nine and raced down two flights as the lights began to flicker on. His destination was the main floor and to the right. Considering he was still dressed as a doctor, he could move fairly freely. But escape was not an option. Not yet. D’Angelo casually walked into a semiprivate room that he had scouted the day before. Nothing had changed in twenty-four hours. There was only the comatose patient in bed one closest to the door. D’Angelo crossed to the far bed, pulled the covers aside, got under the covers, and feigned sleep while people ran down the halls. Soon, the commotion lessened and he thought about his next move, which wouldn’t be until mid-afternoon the next day. Feeling secure, he fell asleep, not to be disturbed by his roommate or any of the Russian guards who would tire of the search, especially since there was no one alive to give them orders.
He would calmly check himself out the next morning.
Fifty-five
Washington
24 January
Christine Slocum couldn’t hide her excitement.
She was about to enter The White House for the first time. The experience reduced almost everyone to a childlike state of wonder. She tried to keep her composure, but Roarke could tell. So could the uniformed Secret Service agent that checked them through.
“Good morning, Mr. Roarke,” Agent Wheeler said.
“Morning. I have a visitor from the Hill. Christine Slocum.”
“Picture ID, Ms. Slocum.” There was no please.
Christine handed her wallet to the thirty-four-year-old agent, who looked like he was carved out of marble.
“Just your identification, miss.”
She considered correcting miss to Ms., but decided not to. Christine slid her Maryland license out of the window compartment and handed it to Wheeler. He examined it, compared her to the photograph, and checked his log. Roarke had called ahead.
“Thank you, Ms. Slocum,” he said, returning the ID. Now your purse and jacket through the X-ray.”
Slocum removed her jacket, revealing as perfect a figure as the agent had ever seen. She was positive he tried to stifle a smile.
Roarke sent his overcoat, sports jacket, keys, change, pens, and Sig Sauer P229 pistol through the scan. Once cleared, he reholstered his weapon and then handed Christine her items.
“Now you’re on the inside. How does it feel?” Roarke asked.
“Pretty remarkable,” the blonde said with genuine enthusiasm.
“Trust me. You’re going to experience things that aren’t on the tour.”
She leaned over and whispered, “If your office door locks, so will you,”
“Whoa,” Roarke said into Christine’s very sexy eyes. She had disarmed him again.
“Okay,” she said slowly, “you lead then.”
“Do you always think this way?” he had to ask.
“Let’s just say you bring it out in me, Mr. Roarke.”
She reached up, nibbled his ear and whispered, “Maybe I’ll bring it out of you.”
“Down girl.”
“Yes, sir,” she chuckled. As they continued down the hall Slocum asked, “Is this where the president spoke from the other day?”
“No, that was on the other side. We’re coming through the Northwest. But do you want to see it?”
“Sure.”
Roarke used his access to cut across. He was waved through by people who were already informed of his presence. Slocum was impressed.
“Here you go. The president’s podium was,” he walked to the spot, “right here.”
“Wow,” was all she could manage.
“Now do you know any of the history of this section of the White House?”
“Not a darned thing,” she replied.
“Well, early on, President Jefferson turned the entrance hall into an exhibition space for artifacts from Lewis and Clark expeditions. Later, President Grant began the tradition of hanging presidential portraits here and in Cross Hall up ahead.”
“There’s probably not a square inch of this place where history hasn’t been made.”
“And still is,” Roarke said. “Undoubtedly even today.”
“Oh?” Slocum asked, her interest piqued.
“Just speaking generally. They don’t tell me much.”
Roarke continued the tour through the East Room, which President Madison had used as his Cabinet Room and where presidents Lincoln and Kennedy laid in state.
They passed through downstairs corridors to the Diplomatic Reception Room, which had been the furnace room until the 1902 White House renovation; then on to the Green Room, an intimate state parlor; and the Red Room, originally used by First Lady Dolly Madison for regular Wednesday social gatherings with members of opposing political parties. Slocum also learned that the Red Room was where Eleanor Roosevelt hosted numerous press conferences for women reporters who were excluded at the time from the president’s own press conferences.
Roarke’s tour took them through the State Dining Room, then into the famed West Wing and Louise Swingle’s office. Between Swingle and the president, visitors had to pass through another office. This one was occupied by the Secret Service.
“Hello, Louise.”
She was busy proofing a page and lifted her head to Roarke’s familiar voice.
“Mr. Roarke. So nice to see you.”
Roarke did not react to her formality, nor she to his. She gave a cursory nod to the woman who stood more than business-close to Roarke.
“May I introduce Christine Slocum? She works with the Speaker. This is her first time to the White House.”
“Hello, nice to meet you,” she said. Slocum offered her hand. Swingle slowly stood and took it in a noncommittal manner. As easily as Slocum read the Marine’s interest in her, she felt a stinging coldness from Swingle.
“Welcome, Ms. Slocum. I trust Mr. Roarke is giving you a proper tour.”
“I feel I’m in very good hands,” she said in an only partially veiled retort. She looked at Roarke and said much more with her eyes.
Roarke interrupted her train of thought.
“Is the president in?” He didn’t say boss as usual.
“In, but knee deep in chicanery. Directors Mulligan and Evans are with him waiting for word.”
Suddenly the conversation seemed very inside to Slocum. She frowned, conveying her confusion.
“I guess there’s a lot going on right now,” he offered in both an explanation and a question. “S
o no chance we can say hi?”
“Not now,” Swingle answered.
“Okay, let him know I stopped by. I’d love for Ms. Slocum to meet him, and I have a few things to go over.”
“Yes,” Christine added. “That would be great.”
“Perhaps later. We’ll see how things go. I’ll buzz you. Where will you be?”
“Downstairs, in my office.”
Swingle’s good-bye was as cool as her hello. Roarke and Slocum left, and the president’s secretary typed a note on her computer and then went back to her proofreading.
“She’s a tough one,” Christine said when they were out of earshot.
“Just protective. That’s her job.”
“I guess.” Slocum slid her arm into Roarke’s as they walked. “Speaking of protection.”
“Excuse me,” he said.
“I meant your job, silly.”
Roarke laughed at the comment. For once she wasn’t being sexual, but it came out that way.
“What’s it like being a Secret Service agent, and how come you don’t dress like the other guys. What’s that all about?”
“Well, first of all it’s not all guys. Second of all, we have different duties. Rookies, for example, aren’t on the presidential detail. They have to work their way up. Third, a lot of us do research.”
“Like you? Funny, I see you as more than simply a researcher.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Research isn’t what you think. It’s computer work, but we’re also in the field. Typically, the president receives more than three thousand threats a year. The number has grown by leaps and bounds since the rise of terrorism. And with the Internet, it’s bound to get worse. We have to know who’s out there, and in some cases, we even fraternize with the threats.”
“You do what?”
“We call them class 3s. They’re subjects who must be supervised if the president is visiting where they are. They’re people who, given the chance, might attack the president. Crazies, but not yet arrest-worthy or convictable criminals. Maybe they’re medicated. Maybe not. We know about them and we watch them. Sometimes we even take them out bowling or for lunch when the president is coming to their area. Agents will even go to the movies with them to keep them busy.”
“I had no idea.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“And other kinds of bad guys?”
“What about them?” Roarke asked.
“Are you tracking them, too?”
“Am I personally?”
“I don’t know, yes,” she asked.
“I do a little of this and a little of that.”
She stopped him in the stairwell leading downstairs. “Come now, Mr. Roarke. You can reveal yourself to me. After all, I’ve seen all of you.”
“Allow me some mystery,” he said.
She leaned close and kissed his lips lightly. “Mmmm. I like figuring out mysteries.” She inched away. “I guess that’s why they call it the Secret Service.”
“I never actually thought about that,” Roarke said. “Come on, I’ll tell you more while we walk.”
“You work out all the time?”
“As often as possible.”
“And when you can’t?”
“Push-ups and sit-ups in hotel rooms,” Roarke explained.
“What a waste of a good hotel room,” Christine said, reverting back to her normal self.
“Who said they put me in good hotel rooms,” he joked.
“So what’s it really like?” She was really interested, more interested in Roarke than the tour.
“Like I’m on alert 24/7 for years. From training after I got out of the army. And if I thought the service was tough, I had a real awakening at Rowley.”
“Rowley?” she asked.
“Sorry. The Rowley Training Center. RTC. It’s where we train and retrain. Outside of the city. Four hundred ninety-three acres of a pure, excruciating playground of extreme driving courses, firing ranges, and tactical shoot houses, including a mock-up of the White House and grounds.” He didn’t mention that RTC also had a small section of the secret underground White House tunnel system. “We get it all, along with a lot of pain.”
“Sounds like it makes the Y look like a cake walk,” the blonde beauty added.
“Yup. And every year I have to go back for a refresher.”
She stopped again and felt his abs. “Even in your shape, Scott?” Scott came out softly with inviting notions.
He took her hand and kissed it. “It’s not always about the physical training. There’s the mental side, too. Computer work, classes on nasty chem and biological agents. You name it.”
“Today’s news.”
Roarke punctuated her sentence. “And tomorrow’s. We have to be ready for anything including an assassin squirting toxins onto chopped lettuce at a state dinner. And we screen for substances that could kill the president in his hotel suite while he’s showering or rolling over on his pillow.”
“Wild.”
“Daily and serious Secret Service work,” he politely corrected.
They rounded a hallway on the lower level and stopped in front of a metal door. “I live inside. It’s pretty boring.”
“That’s okay. Take me in.” Again, another suggestive comment. Christine Slocum was never more than one breath away from a sexual comment.
There was no standard key to the door, just a key pad. Roarke quickly entered a series of twelve numbers. The lock clicked and they entered. Lights automatically turned on and the door closed behind them.
Roarke was right. Slocum observed that it was stark and boring. A desk and a computer. Files on the desk. A bank of locked cabinets. Three 35-inch Sony TV monitors. A white board with some notations. And definitely no couch.
“They stick me down here,” he explained. “But at least I get an office.”
Slocum nodded and went to his desk. She moved some paperwork to the side and sat on the top. She extended her hand, which he took, then pulled him closer.
“I want to hear more,” she said. “But closer.”
“It excites you?”
“You excite me,” Slocum whispered in his ear. It was followed by a sexy nibble.
“We have to be ready for anything and everything: from immediate threats to the president, to threats to the country. We practice everything. Assaults on motorcades. Mortar blasts to The Beast.”
“The beast?” Her legs tightened around him.
“The president’s limousine. If it’s disabled, we push it out of a kill zone. And if the president is outside and in jeopardy, we have to be his meat shield.”
Slocum understood the meaning of that reference. She’d seen the footage of the Secret Service agent covering President Reagan when he was shot in April, 1981.
“Tactically, it’s like trying to scare off a bear,” Roarke explained. “You rise up as big as possible, getting the president, first lady, children, or vice president’s head down and covering the vital parts. If they fall, you pick them up. You have to get them to move. Hoping that your Kevlar—if you’re wearing it—stops the bullet from first killing you, let alone the president. Literally, you’re the shield. And when you can, you move. Fast. Hell, the word was that on 9/11, two agents grabbed Cheney out of his desk. His feet never touched the ground until he was out of there.
“Oh, and there’s one more part of the training that they want you to keep current.”
He paused for a moment for impact. “An up-to-date signed will.”
Christine Slocum had always been taken care of. Her school had been paid for. Jobs just came. She slept with powerful men—all arranged. It had been easy, fun, and profitable. She’d never been in danger and never knew what her contributions meant except to further a political agenda. But today, now, she had a sense of the other side that trumped her master’s degree in political science and her unbelievable skills in the bedroom. She was with a man who would die for his country or kill for it.
Christine pulled him c
loser. She looked into his eyes and at his lips. This was a moment that would be real for her.
But the phone rang.
“Oh come on,” she said dejectedly. “Is this going to be the story of our lives.”
“It’s already mine.”
Her whole body deflated. Her legs slid down and away as Roarke turned to the telephone.
He held up a finger indicating one minute, then answered on the fourth ring.
“Roarke.” He listened to one short sentence. “Got it. I’ll be right up.” He hung down and shook his head. “Duty calls. The president needs ten minutes. Sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am. Can I stay here?”
“There’s not much to do.”
“No cold shower?”
“Not here,” he laughed.
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
Roarke went for the door. “At least ten minutes. He checked his watch and left.
Ten minutes, she thought, totally frustrated by the interruption. Slocum sighed and looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a painting. She continued her survey, which ultimately brought her back to the desk that she sat on. Four folders were to her right. The top was marked CHICANERY: TOP SECRET.
Chicanery? She had heard that only minutes earlier. Swingle said the president was reviewing something called Chicanery.
Slocum was drawn to the secret file like a moth to a flame. She was in the White House, about to seduce Scott Roarke, as prompted, and now here she was with a secret file. She closed her eyes and visualized the coded e-mail, Get close to him. Learn everything you can. A file marked top secret certainly qualified. She touched the folder, wishing the information would intuitively come to her and she wouldn’t have to actually open it. Opening the file and reading it took her commitment to helping the loyal opposition, which is what she thought she was doing, to another level. Would she? Could she? It’s right here.
She slowly picked up the file, placed it in her lap and started rocking back and forth. Her eyes narrowed and her nose crinkled. Tears formed. She rocked more, weighing the options and the consequences. She looked down, then up at nothing in particular.
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 33
