The First Family

by Michael Palmer

  “You’re talking about chess, while I’m starting to wonder if you should be the one to look after Cam,” Ellen said, ice in her voice. “First you missed diagnosing a possible epileptic event, and then you completely dismissed Karen’s concerns over Cam’s injury.”

  President Hilliard’s jaw clenched. “Ellen, please,” he said. “Let’s be reasonable.”

  Karen could hardly believe her ears. Not what Geoffrey had said—that was entirely expected. He would cling to the middle ground like it was the last life jacket on the Titanic.

  What had surprised Karen was how forthcoming Ellen had been, so openly critical of one of her husband’s confidants—a personal hire, in fact. This was more like Ellen from Geoffrey’s first campaign—brash, unabashed, and unafraid to speak her mind. It was refreshing to hear, and Karen enjoyed watching Gleason squirm.

  “I understand that you could perceive the events in that way,” Gleason said. “But I stand by my earlier assessment that Cam’s initial symptoms were indicators of depression and nothing more. I respectfully disagree with Lee Blackwood’s assessment, but let’s get Cam neuro-tested if that’s what’s needed to bring us some closure. Of course I’m all for that. What I’m trying to point out is that suddenly Cam isn’t at the top of his chess game, and well, I hate to say it, but I think it’s gotten to him. It’s completely understandable, but it’s also completely unrelated to this current injury.

  “Had Karen done her job and watched Cam closely, called me instead of Lee when she grew concerned, I would have ordered her to bring him to the hospital right away.”

  Karen managed to stay quiet, but inside she was seething. Not only did Gleason find a way to bash her while refusing to acknowledge she had made the right call, he was gloating about his damn kid to the president and first lady at the most inappropriate time.

  “You’re saying that a few months of extra work at the TPI brought Taylor up to the level of Cam? That’s utterly outrageous,” Karen said, taking a step toward Gleason, hands on her hips.

  “So now you’re a chess expert as well as a medical professional,” Dr. Gleason said.

  “No,” Karen replied. “But if it were that easy to get as good as Cam, everyone who loved the game would do it.”

  “Maybe Taylor is that good. Maybe the TPI needed to help him unlock his true potential. It is the True Potential Institute, after all.”

  “In a way Dr. Gleason is right, Karen,” Ellen said, her anger settling. “The TPI has done wonders for many of the children who go there through my Aim Higher initiative.”

  Karen knew this to be true. Aim Higher was the program Ellen had developed as part of her signature cause to enhance arts and science curriculum for disadvantaged students across the country. She modeled her efforts in part on the TPI’s unique approach to learning, believing that without the support and structure Cam received there, he would never have excelled at chess.

  Karen felt a tickle of doubt. Maybe Gleason was right, and Taylor had discovered his own potential for excellence. Maybe Cam’s issues were all psychological. Chess meant everything to him, and Cam’s identity was entwined with his game like a Gordian knot. His personality change, the moodiness and irritability, it all coincided with a sudden and inexplicable losing streak to Taylor, a far lesser player.

  The founder and director of the TPI was an enigmatic Japanese man named Yoshi Matsumoto. Yoshi’s methods were thought to be part science and part magic. Perhaps Yoshi had taken a sudden interest in Taylor and worked hard to foster the boy’s latent gifts. Or maybe Taylor had eclipsed Cam in a less conventional way.

  Cheating.

  Karen knew the unsavory practice was commonplace in most every arena these days. Just this morning, she had read a news story about a competitive bicyclist who’d managed to sneak a miniaturized motor into the frame of her bicycle.

  If Taylor had somehow gained an unfair advantage—conceivably with the help of his ultracompetitive father—it stood to reason that knowing this might help pull Cam out of his funk.

  Karen decided she could no longer wait and do nothing. The president and first lady had plenty of agents to watch over them. She could take an hour to go to the TPI and see what exactly went on at the famed institute.

  CHAPTER 16

  The name of the place—the TPI, the True Potential Institute—was a bit hippy-dippy for Karen’s taste. She did not believe in a secret key to unlocking greatness, other than lucky genetics and lots of hard work.

  From the outside, the TPI was about as remarkable as any inner-city middle school. It was a two-story gray brick building with an arched entranceway and a mauve-colored metal door. Mauve. About as kumbaya a color as there was.

  Karen drove there in the same SUV she had used to shuttle Cam to the MDC, and probably could have made the trip blindfolded. The TPI was a little over two miles north of the White House, and she’d been to this residential street lined with quaint two-story brick townhomes near the Mount Pleasant Library countless times. She knew every inch of the building where Cam studied chess, every sightline where a determined sniper might be able to take a shot, every entrance and exit where his would-be kidnapper could make off with the prize.

  Normally, Karen would have arrived with an entourage. This evening, she had come alone.

  This was how she lived her life: with colleagues, or alone. She squeezed seeing friends into slivers of free time, but as far as dates and lovers went, those were few and far between. The job was all-consuming. When she did have downtime, it was hard to spend it on potential soul mates. Karen was not around enough to properly nurture a new relationship. Though she had never taken a physical bullet for any member of the first family, she had already sacrificed much of her life for them.

  Her father had said it best: “You live this job, you don’t work it.”

  Tonight’s work involved her getting information from the head honcho himself—Yoshi Matsumoto. Karen did not have a card key, so she pressed a buzzer, then waved at the security cameras mounted above the front door. Irene, the TPI’s lone administrator, buzzed Karen inside from her glass-fronted office in the main foyer.

  Karen stepped into a clean and brightly lit entranceway. The linoleum floor was shiny and newly buffed, the brick walls freshly painted in a muted tan tone. Hanging on those walls were attractive artworks students themselves had created. Many were good, well above average for sure. Glass cases displayed pottery and sculptures, also of high quality.

  One of the walls held framed posters, stylishly designed, showcasing TPI’s current students as well as distinguished alumni engaged in their respective disciplines. Most of the posters featured young people, few over thirty, but the accompanying text described an array of impressive accomplishments. Two were MacArthur Fellows and several others had started successful consumer technology companies. There were posters of musicians working for some of the world’s most prestigious orchestras, and of artists who had created attention-worthy pieces or had installations in reputable locations.

  Sandwiched between a poster of a glamorous Indian woman who had become a successful magazine publisher, and that of an African American male who had founded a clothing Web site, was one of Cam playing chess. Karen saw no poster of Taylor Gleason on any wall.

  The hallway in front of Karen branched off in an east-west direction. Just beyond, a wide staircase led to the basement and second level with more studios, practice rooms, and lecture halls. Even though it was nearing eight o’clock in the evening, the halls still bustled with activity. The TPI stayed open until 10:00 P.M. to give already overscheduled kids the chance to be even busier. Yoshi was often here late at night, which had worked in Karen’s favor when she called to make this impromptu appointment.

  Karen exchanged waves with Irene, a sturdy woman with a tangle of brown hair, who’d been working for the TPI from the beginning.

  Moments later, she heard footsteps descending the stairs in front of her. She saw a slight Japanese man approaching. He was short in statur
e, about Karen’s height, and dressed all in black. He had a rakish look to him. His hair was cut like a rock star’s, longish in the back, shorter and choppy up front, white as fresh snow, and framed a face far younger-looking than his fifty-three years. He approached Karen with hurried steps. An aura seemed to follow him, as if a chorus of trumpets should have announced his arrival.

  “Karen Ray?” His accent was slight, but detectable—English was not his first language.

  Rattled from the day’s event, Karen extended her hand, forgetting that Yoshi would not extend his. Instead he placed his hands to the sides of his legs above the knees, feet together, and delivered a short, clipped bow of twenty degrees. Karen reciprocated awkwardly.

  “I don’t shake hands,” Yoshi said. “Germs and culture.”

  “I’m sorry, I knew that,” said Karen, still thinking about her bow, wondering if she had done it properly.

  “Irene told me you had an urgent matter to discuss. Is there a security issue?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Karen. “But I am here about Cam. He isn’t in any physical danger, so to speak, but he’s suffering because his chess game has suddenly gone flat. I’m hoping to figure out why.”

  Yoshi leaned back on his heels, arms folded, his expression troubled. “As a policy we never discuss our students with anyone other than family.”

  Karen had anticipated his response. It was why she’d come here in person instead of trying to garner information over the phone. She felt she’d be more convincing face-to-face.

  “Yes, I understand,” she said. “Cam’s parents would be here to address the issue personally, but as you can imagine they’re quite busy, so I thought I’d take the initiative. It would mean a great deal to them, and to Cam, if we could get to the bottom of things.”

  “My apologies,” Yoshi said, his mouth dipping into a frown. “Perhaps we could get them on the phone now.”

  Yoshi was not at all awestruck by Cam’s parents, as others might be. The TPI catered to many of D.C.’s elite and Cam was not the first child of a president to have attended the institute. But Karen could not get the first family on the phone to talk about chess, not when they had all they could handle with Cam’s surgery.

  Besides, she had come here to try and figure out if Taylor was cheating at the game. She was already on shaky ground with Gleason and did not need to further escalate the situation with him.

  “I’m afraid they’re occupied,” Karen said.

  “Well then, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” said Yoshi.

  “Please, Mr. Matsumoto—”

  “Dr. Matsumoto,” Yoshi corrected abruptly.

  “Doctor,” Karen said, cringing inwardly at her second flub of this meeting. “Cam is very special to me. I want to help him. Could you please consider an exception to your policy? It makes no sense that Taylor Gleason is suddenly beating Cam when he couldn’t win a game against him before.”

  Yoshi’s headshake was barely perceptible. “It would be inappropriate for me to discuss Cam, Taylor, or any of my students with you.”

  “Then maybe we could speak in generalities,” Karen suggested. “You could tell me what it is you do here, your teaching philosophies, methods, and such.”

  Yoshi made a low sound from somewhere deep in his throat, a thinking noise.

  “Forgive me if I sound rude,” he said, his brown eyes darkening a shade. “I truly mean no disrespect, but I don’t see how our methodology is relevant to the work of the Secret Service.”

  “It’s not,” Karen admitted. “But I care about Cam and I know he’s hurting. Maybe if I learn more about what goes on here, I could, I don’t know, somehow help him.”

  Yoshi glanced at his watch, a Patek Philippe, which told Karen the TPI must have been on more-than-sound financial footing.

  “When Irene put you on the calendar she made it sound like this would be a relatively quick discussion. I’m afraid I don’t have time to give you a proper explanation of what it is we do here and how our methodology works. We have plenty of literature you can have.”

  “I prefer primary source material,” said Karen.

  “You’d have to make an appointment for that,” said Yoshi. “Another day perhaps, when I have more time to give.”

  Karen could read body language, mannerisms, a variety of nonverbal cues the Secret Service had trained her to detect and interpret. Yoshi’s feet were pointed away from her, in the direction where he wished to go, telling Karen he could not have been less interested in the idea of a second meeting. His eyes cooled and his expression became as revealing as stone.

  Just then, the front door to the TPI opened and a stocky man in his late sixties entered with a smile on his face. Karen recognized him right away. He was Dr. Hal Hewitt, who had sat on the board of the TPI for the past ten years.

  “Our students are getting older,” Hal said, eyeing Karen with a friendly smile.

  “Ah, Dr. Hewitt. This is Kelly Ray, she’s with the Secret Service.”

  “Karen,” Karen said, annoyed. She wondered if this was Yoshi’s subtle revenge for her having failed to acknowledge him as a doctor of some sort.

  “Yes, of course,” said Hal.

  Karen offered her hand and, unlike Yoshi, Hal Hewitt had no qualms about shaking hello.

  “Hal, Karen is interested in learning more about what it is we do here, why we’re unique. I’m afraid I don’t have time to give her the explanation she deserves, but maybe you could stand in for me—if you have the time, of course.”

  “Absolutely,” answered Hal, sounding delighted.

  “Hal’s been affiliated with the TPI for a long time. He knows as much about our processes and methodology as I do. Rest assured he’ll be more than an adequate substitute.”

  “I have a half hour before the board meeting,” said Hal. “I’d be happy to share what I know.”

  “Very good,” said Yoshi. “I’ll leave you be. Ms. Ray.”

  Yoshi bowed as he had before, short and clipped, twenty degrees precisely. Karen reciprocated with a bow of her own, no less awkward than her first attempt. With that, Yoshi turned and off he went like a wisp of smoke rising, back up those stairs to where he kept a small office.

  Hal appeared bemused. “I’m guessing you haven’t had many interactions with Yoshi,” he said. “He’s a brilliant man, but he does take some getting used to.”

  “Well, I didn’t make it easy for him,” said Karen. “I’m trying to help a friend.”

  “Would that friend be Cam Hilliard?”

  “Good guess.”

  Hal looked around, curious. “Are you here alone? Usually you travel with a posse.”

  “No, this had to be a solo mission—a failed mission at that. I’m trying to figure out what’s gone wrong with Cam’s chess game. Dr. Matsumoto wouldn’t discuss it with me, so I was hoping a better understanding of what goes on here will give me some insight that might help.”

  “Would you like a tour? And I don’t mean of the entrances and exits. I’m sure you’re already well aware of those.”

  “I’d love for you to show me around.”

  “In that case,” Hal said, taking Karen by the arm, “it would be my pleasure. I’ve been here a long time, and I can tell you exactly how Yoshi works his magic.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Almost immediately Karen felt far more relaxed in Hewitt’s company than she had with Yoshi. There was something about the director of the TPI she found off-putting that had nothing to do with his unwillingness to discuss Cam’s issues. His personality was searingly intense, and the way he eyed her with that penetrating stare made her secrets feel vulnerable.

  “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria, we can get a cup of coffee and chat,” Hal suggested.

  Karen liked the idea. She put her hands on her hips as they ambled down a long hallway, feeling the butt of her weapon through the fabric of her blazer, a reminder that this visit was about the job, about protecting Cam from danger, even if the threat was not s
o obvious.

  They passed classrooms with lectures in progress, active art studios, and music rehearsal rooms where future maestros honed their craft. Karen might not have embraced Yoshi, but she did embrace his mission to help the best and brightest reach their personal zenith. Even if that zenith—hello, Taylor Gleason—seemed out of a person’s reach.

  Karen paused to respond to a text from Lee: Cam had come out of surgery, was in the surgical ICU, and was doing just fine. Fortunately for Cam, Seneca had been able to remove the spleen laparascopically. Lee had said this would speed up Cam’s recovery time dramatically. The president and first lady had been notified. All was well. Lee had no idea she had gone to the TPI on a reconnaissance mission. So far she had nothing to tell him, but hoped Hal Hewitt would be able to shed some light on Taylor’s newfound abilities.

  Karen sent a text to Lee, thanking him for the update, and letting him know she was out and would return to the hospital soon.

  Lee was a brilliant doctor and Karen was grateful for involving him in Cam’s care. While she did not dwell in the past, the past echoed more loudly in his proximity. It made her think and reflect, neither of which was her favorite pastime.

  There was no big aha moment, no last straw that snapped their marriage apart. It had been limping along for a while, a simmering series of issues that eventually broke into a roiling boil.

  At the heart of it was Karen’s obsession with the Secret Service. She had wanted to salvage her father’s legacy while forging a legacy of her own. If she had stayed in Beckley, if Lee had taken over his father’s medical practice as he had wanted, maybe they would still be married. She never doubted Lee would forge a quality life here, but she had underestimated how much he’d come to resent her for having to do it. When Lee’s father died, his resentment grew exponentially. He blamed himself for abandoning his father and the practice. When he needed a place to put all that anger, Lee put it onto Karen. It was not all his fault. It was near impossible to create intimacy with Lee when Karen gave all she had—her heart and soul—to protecting another family.