by Bryan Devore
Rebecca was just one of a hundred components on the PPD, but she was proud to be a critical member of the team entrusted with protecting the single most important thing in America: not just the woman herself, but the office of the president of the United States. Ever since George Washington had humbly accepted the first office in front of a band of victorious rebels in Philadelphia, after a heroic, bloody war for their freedom, the president of the United States had become the personification of individual freedom. Which was why so much weight rested on the shoulders of her and every other member of the Secret Service. And that burden weighed heaviest on the protection detail team.
Her father and brothers had been so proud when her application to the Secret Service was accepted. That felt like a lifetime ago, and she could only imagine how amazed they would be if they saw the details of everything she had coordinated to prepare for the president’s short stay in Paris.
The bell dinged, and the elevator doors opened on the twenty-sixth floor. Wide hallways with lush red carpeting branched in three directions. Walking down the corridor, Rebecca nodded to each of the half-dozen dark-suited agents standing at their intermittently spaced posts along the chestnut-paneled walls. Each man nodded in return, with a professionally serious expression. One greeted her by name.
This floor was reserved entirely for the president, as were the twenty-fifth and twenty-seventh. Rebecca nodded at the men as she strode halfway down the hallway to the right of the elevator and knocked on the double doors. When they opened, she saw David standing with three other men in the center of an entryway. Behind them were the doors to the conference room where the president was teleconferencing with her cabinet.
David flashed her a brief smile, which she returned with a subtle shake of the head. Turning, she walked over to John Alexander. He had been saying something to another agent, but seeing Rebecca, he paused to receive her report.
“Agent Reid,” he said. “What’s the latest from Washington?”
“Agent Alexander,” she replied, “Washington is still tracking a few dozen high-priority investigations in Paris, but fifty-two have been resolved and cleared. Others are lower priority. I’ll have an update report sent to you.”
“Thank you,” he said. Walking to the double-doors, he opened them and entered the large conference room.
Rebecca saw a woman sitting at the conference table alone, her back to the door, facing a large video monitor that sat on the table. Short brown hair hung evenly to her shoulders, and the dark suit seemed to camouflage her amid the dozen black leather chairs around her.
Rebecca didn’t need to see the woman’s face to recognize President Abigail Clarke. Though Rebecca wasn’t on the direct shield detail, she had met the president on a few occasions. But despite the professional discipline and emotional detachment that agents were trained for, Rebecca couldn’t help feeling pride in what President Clarke represented for all women—and, for that matter, for all Americans. She knew that every agent on the protection detail would take a bullet for this president without hesitation, but deep inside, she believed that she would move faster than any of the men to dive in between this president and any threat. And yet, she had been denied the opportunity to serve in that way. She had been told that men were better protectors around a president: they were more intimidating to potential assassins, and because their bodies were bigger, they made better human shields against bullets and shrapnel. It didn’t seem to matter that she was an accomplished athlete or that her aptitude tests were in the top 5 percent of her highly qualified cadet class. But her marksmanship scores were below average, while most of the men directly surrounding the president had top marks at the Beltsville firing range. Still, it hurt being denied the opportunity to serve on the president’s direct detail.
Turning to leave the room, she caught David’s eye. He gave her a tight smile, and she replied with a subtle nod to let him know she had forgiven him. It wasn’t completely true, but in the few seconds she had waited for John to enter the conference room, she realized that neither David nor she could afford any personal distraction when protecting the president. After they returned to Washington, where the president was scheduled to be at the White House next week for Christmas, she would have time to pull David aside and continue their discussion.
Leaving the room, she walked down the wide, luxurious hallway. A small noise disturbance had been reported on the twenty-second floor, so she had radioed for another agent to meet her at the staircase there. All guests and employees had undergone a thorough background check by local police a week in advance, and the Secret Service was screening and searching everyone entering the building, so there was little likelihood of this disturbance posing a threat to the president. But as always on this job, the stakes were so high that she had to make sure they were leaving as little as possible to chance.
She opened the metal door to the stairwell and ran down the concrete steps two at a time, her equipment rattling on her belt, her holstered P229 slapping against her ribs, and her long brown hair brushing her face as she whipped around the stair landings and descended through the building.
10
SINCE SHE FIRST STEPPED INTO the Oval Office eleven months ago, President Abigail Clarke rarely had a free moment. Of course, her husband would remind her that her nonstop schedule had begun two years earlier, when she first started campaigning for her party’s nomination. Not that she had enjoyed much leisure time during her eight years as governor of Virginia before that, or the six years as a US senator before that, or as a state prosecutor for the decade before that. In some ways, her entire life had been a high-pressure race for as long as she could remember.
“No, Madame President,” said the gray-haired attorney general through the speakers. “There’s nothing else to add.” The man was one of five cabinet members on the teleconference.
President Clarke’s eyes shifted to each of the other cabinet members through the camera-monitor sync of the teleconference. “Anyone else have anything to add?”
“No, Madame President,” the others said almost in unison.
“So we all agree, it’s time for the United States to raise organized-crime syndicates to a threat level one—equal to terrorism.”
The others nodded, though the conversation of the past fifteen minutes had left everyone visibly uncomfortable over the task ahead.
As the teleconference call ended, the screens went dark. The voice of the head secretary, back at the White House, announced over the phone’s speakers that the next teleconference, with the prime minister of Israel, was scheduled to begin in ten minutes, though it could start earlier if she wanted.
“No, thank you, Stephanie,” the president said. “I could use the ten minutes. Could you please connect me to Richard?”
“Yes ma’am.”
It had been a long day, and Abigail wanted to hear her husband’s voice, to be reminded that she wasn’t alone. She had fought many political battles over the years, most of them on partisan issues. It always frustrated her that it should be so difficult to push through legislation on the issues she was most passionate about—the ones that had driven her to politics at a young age, managing local campaigns of national candidates. The Founding Fathers had specifically designed the government to be slow at passing new laws, to ensure a gradual evolution of America, without wild swings based on sudden trends. But she couldn’t help feeling impatient at how long it took just to do what was right. Still, that was the plan all along. The founders had known that a complex and growing country, which would only grow larger and more complex over the centuries, must evolve either through slow change over time or—far more rarely—through sweeping change during moments when historic issues reached a boiling point. Boiling points such as the abolition of slavery, or the pernicious rise of ruthless corporate tycoons, which would have given Adams and Jefferson fits and which was eventually handicapped by Theodore Roosevelt, or FDR’s use of government to save citizens from the continui
ng fallout of uncontrolled economic and financial freedom. And when the country reached one of those historic cruxes, pray that the president got it right.
The phone clicked back. “Madame President, I have the First Gentleman on the phone.”
“Thank you,” she said.
The phone clicked again. “Abby.”
“Richard,” she said, feeling soothed just to hear his voice.
“How’s the trip going?”
She smiled. “It’s okay. I just wanted to hear your voice while I’m in the City of Love, and this might be the only free moment I have. I was thinking about our honeymoon when I rode through St. Germain this evening. Did you know our old café is gone?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “What happened to it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have the CIA look into it.”
Richard chuckled. “No doubt the Russians were involved.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “You always did read too many spy novels. Do all history profs live in the past?”
“One of the job requirements, I’m afraid.” There was a short pause. “So how’d the summit go today? You get the traction you hoped for?”
She glanced at her watch—four minutes before her next teleconference call.
“Does anyone ever really get traction on anything at an international summit?” she said. One of the reasons she always made time to talk to her husband while traveling was so she could briefly drop the usual diplomatic and political talk and have a candid discussion with the one person in the world she could completely trust.
“Abby, you’re trying to rally the world to take on international crime syndicates. It’s the global black market, honey—it’ll be harder to fight than all the oil-rich dictators and belligerent leaders of the military-industrial complex combined.”
“That’s why it’s so important for the future that I succeed at the summit.”
“It’ll take time, my love. It’ll be like putting together a modern League of Nations—except, unlike Wilson, you won’t fail to get Congress’s approval. You’ll succeed. I know you will. But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. A change this big is gonna take time.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“You still getting home Thursday? Christmas is less than a week away, and the kids were asking me more questions about Santa today. I don’t know if I can hold ’em off much longer on my own. They’re getting older now, and they’re starting to get suspicious about all this Christmas magic stuff.”
“Maybe the White House staff can help you tell them the truth,” she joked.
“Oh, no. Only you are authorized to declassify top secret information like that.”
Smiling, she was about to respond when her secretary broke into the call. “I’m sorry, Madame President. There’s a developing situation in Nigeria. The Joint Chiefs and Sec Def are in the Situation Room and waiting for you to patch in.”
Abigail stiffened. Only a serious crisis could have gotten that group together at the White House’s Situation Room.
“Richard, something’s come up, so I have to let you go. Tell Stacy and Jessica I love them.”
“All right. I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
She smiled and ended the call. Then, taking a long, slow breath, she pressed the button to bring up the screen teleconferencing her into the Situation Room. The call with the Israeli prime minister would have to be postponed.
On the screen were eight men. The secretary of defense, in a cool gray suit, sat in the center of the group. Flanking him were the seven Joint Chiefs of Staff, their uniforms decked with medals, ribbons, patches, and insignia in the military tradition of trying to display a lifetime of leadership and heroic sacrifice on the limited real estate of a man’s chest and shoulders. When the president joined the call, the men were speaking among themselves, though she couldn’t hear them.
Sec Def nodded toward the screen and pushed a button on their end to open audio. “Madam President,” he said. The other seven greeted her in the same manner.
“Secretary Nelson, Generals, Admiral.”
“Madam President,” Nelson said, “we have a problem in Nigeria. Intel shows that a group of rebels are breaking through the outer perimeter of the Shlaikee Oil Refinery Plant outside Kaduna. Security is strong on the facility premises, but the rebels are over a hundred strong and well armed. Besides our financial and national security interests at the refinery, there are thirteen American engineers working there for Shlaikee’s parent company. We’re afraid they’ll be taken hostage if the plant is besieged. The Nigerian government is insisting they can handle this and that we stay out of it, but our intel says the Nigerian forces are not qualified for a tactical rescue operation this complex.”
The president’s mind flashed through all the daily security briefings she had read over the past eleven months, recalling all the political tensions between the United States and Nigeria over oil rights. She had been a strong advocate of providing aid to help Nigeria maintain political stability, which was in the best interest of the United States. With so much in the balance, how much value should she place on the lives of thirteen Americans—Americans who must have been well aware of the risks of working in such a dangerous environment? She had the responsibility to do what was best for trade agreements and international diplomacy. But she also held herself responsible for the lives of Americans on foreign soil who needed her help.
“If the Nigerian government can’t ensure the safety of the refinery with Americans in it, then it’s our job to make sure they’re safe,” she said. “What are our tactical options?”
“We can get a drone in the area within twenty minutes,” said the chief of staff of the Air Force.
“We can also get a SEAL team on the ground within two hours,” said the chief of Naval Operations.
“All right,” President Clarke said. “Let’s patch in the secretary of state and the vice president. Put our embassy in Nigeria on high alert and send out alerts to other embassies in Africa. Send in two high-altitude drones as soon as possible and get the SEAL team ready to move in. I’ll have a short phone call with President Okonko to mitigate international political tension while we respond with our forces.”
The conversation with Richard about the children and Christmas was now forgotten as she raced through the crisis response with the Joint Chiefs. It was her job, not theirs, to understand the long-term implications this could have for diplomatic affairs in West Africa. But she understood the political issues perfectly, just as she understood the needs of her countrymen and -women in harm’s way. And as their leader, she had silently vowed never to abandon an American in trouble on foreign soil. It was a principle she was willing to go to her grave to uphold.
11
THE YOUNG MAN KNELT ON the thick blue carpet in his hotel room and prayed to God. For so many years during his youth, he had been adrift growing up in a Chicago suburb, unable to see the path he was meant to take. It wasn’t his parents’ fault. They hadn’t failed him, but he had been born to serve a greater purpose than they could understand. God had promised to reveal his path to him only when he journeyed alone. He had needed to leave his parents. And so he had.
And God had indeed shown him the way, over time and through much despair, to his new family. A family that had eventually put him in the Tour Montparnasse Paris hotel, with ten yellow plastic bottles of lighter fluid. To avoid suspicion, he had bought each bottle at a different petrol station in Paris. Combining the purchases with other items and using only cash, it had taken him half the day to discreetly acquire enough flammable liquid for his task. It was a critical role to help purge the world of godless sin. He was honored that his new brothers had rewarded him with such an important role in the mission.
He glanced out the window at the Paris skyline, the low lights of the “short” city with its beautiful Eiffel Tower standing less than a kilometer away from his hotel room. In the distance, just
above the twinkling city skyline, floodlighting illuminated the three imposing white domes of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the top of Montmartre. Gazing out at the church, he felt more certain than ever that God was watching him with approval. And as an omen of his coming eternity in heaven, light snowfall drifted down like small celestial feathers from the dark-orange clouds hovering over the city.
Zipping open his backpack, he took out the ten yellow bottles of lighter fluid and stood them in a circle around him like a miniature palisade. Then he removed his long-sleeved button shirt so that he was now barefoot and wearing only his jeans and white cotton T-shirt. Sitting cross-legged within the ring of bottles, he lowered his head, raised his hands, and said one last prayer while imagining the brilliant wonders of the next life, which would be far better than anything he had ever known in this one.
Then he snapped open one of the bottles and squeezed it so tightly that a thin stream of fluid shot across the room to the windowsill. Moving his arm, he sprayed the fluid all across the carpet in front of him, until the bottle was empty. After replacing the empty bottle back in the ring, he snapped open the next bottle. Still sitting, he sprayed fluid on the bed. When finished, he sprayed another bottle toward the hallway door, then another at the desk, and another toward the bathroom. Then three more at the ceiling. And finally, the last two—on himself.
When all ten bottles were emptied, he took the steel cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket. Then, looking out again through the falling snow, he took a few seconds to marvel at just how beautiful the world could be when the moment was right. Smiling, he flicked the lighter, closed his eyes, and turned the hotel room into a box of fire that would send him to heaven and justify his martyrdom on earth—but only after death silenced his screams of pain.
