by Radclyffe
“Did Lucinda call?” Blair asked. “I didn’t ask.”
Cam took her hand as the limo pulled away from the curb and intertwined their fingers. “Her assistant. Lucinda was probably deciding the order of the response.”
“Of course.” Someone would need to tell Adam’s family. The staff would need to be informed. The press. God, the press. This would spawn all kinds of conjecture and rumor if not handled properly. For the millionth time, Blair was grateful for Lucinda and just a little guilty about grumbling about all the times she’d had to stand in for her mother—and even her father, on occasion—at political functions. Sure, she hated being the object of media attention and speculation, especially when her personal life was the subject. But being annoyed and inconvenienced was nothing compared to this. “This is so horrible.”
“It is,” Cam murmured.
Blair leaned against Cam’s shoulder, no other words necessary. They’d been here before, facing other crises, and what she loved about being with Cam was she knew she would not be alone. No matter what, Cam would be there. Maybe that was love. Surely, part of it.
She turned the ring on Cam’s left ring finger. She liked seeing the gold band there, that outward symbol of not only what they shared but a little bit of possessiveness too. She liked the world knowing that Cam was hers. She couldn’t imagine—
No. She would not imagine any life without Cam.
The motorcade moved quickly despite the morning rush, but without particular fanfare. Unlike when her father went anywhere, even a few blocks, they didn’t have a motorcycle escort or multiple support cars plus an extra limo, just her car and the follow car with the rest of her detail, but the flashing blue lights on the hoods cleared traffic for them, and ten minutes later they were moving through the west gate onto the White House grounds. The Uniformed Division of the Secret Service was out in force, surrounding the White House in larger numbers than usual, forming an unobtrusive, but obvious to Blair, perimeter preventing the approach of foot and vehicular traffic anywhere near the grounds. She recognized the pattern and what that said about the threat level. Somewhere else she’d been before. Her security would automatically be enhanced, and Cam would be very busy very soon. Hawaii was already a fading fantasy.
Her car came to a halt, and the agent in the right front seat jumped out to open the rear door for them. Cam slid out, waited for Blair, and slipped her hand beneath Blair’s elbow as they walked toward the entrance.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Cam murmured, “especially about Adam. From the looks of things, we’re not going to make our plane.”
“No,” Blair murmured. They definitely were not going on vacation. “It’s all right. There will be plenty of time for vacations in the future.”
She hoped. Service, duty, and responsibility were programmed into Cam’s DNA, and Blair had known that when she’d fallen in love with her. But someday, Cam would at least spend more time at a desk than in the field. Until then, their life was what it was.
Cam squeezed her hand as if assuring her she was right, then released it as they entered the West Wing.
Lucinda’s assistant met them just inside. “Ms. Powell, Commander, this way please.”
Kelly’s face was pale, her eyes faintly red rimmed. Shell-shocked, but functioning, exactly as required.
“They’re in the conference room,” Kelly added as she hurried along.
Not the situation room, at least, where her father met with the top military and security advisors to deal with military emergencies. Here and there staffers passed them, all of them appearing harried but none looking distraught. They didn’t know yet. So the meeting she and Cam had been summoned to was for damage control. Everything pointed to something more critical than the already horrifying death of a major member of the president’s team.
“Here we are,” Kelly said as she opened the heavy mahogany door for them, betraying her distress in that simple unnecessary statement.
“Thank you, Kelly,” Blair said gently, and Kelly’s eyes filled.
Blair’s agents remained outside in the hall as she entered with Cam. They’d be there when she came out. Lucinda stood at the far end of the fifteen-seat conference table, which was nearly full. Blair sat at the opposite end beside Cam and took in the others already gathered there, all of whom she knew. The inner circle.
Lucinda’s deputy chief of staff, the White House communications director, the press secretary, the White House chief counsel, the White House medical director, the national security advisor, various deputy directors, and, sitting at the far end across from Lucinda, the campaign press secretary, Esmeralda Alaqua. Esme’s hands, folded on the table in front of her, visibly trembled and she stared at Lucinda as if clinging to a life raft, desperate but determined. Blair had always wondered if Esme and Adam were lovers. In that moment, she fervently hoped not. Losing a friend was hard enough, but a partner? Her mind shied away from even imagining the devastation.
The door at the far end of the room opened and everyone rose as her father, flanked by agents Blair recognized, walked in. Oakley Weaver and Evyn Daniels glided into the far corners of the room in their usual unobtrusive fashion. When Tom Turner stepped back, the president motioned him to have a seat at the table. The Secret Service didn’t involve themselves in policy. Their role was to protect the presidency, not offer opinions or advice on strategy, but they were key members of the security system that permeated everything around the president like a huge web, invisible but impossible to escape. When decisions impacted their ability to effectively protect the president, or any protectee, it was their duty to speak up. Ultimately, the protectee’s decision was final, but most often a workable compromise was possible.
“Please,” her father said, indicating the chairs as he sat, and everyone followed suit. He leaned over and murmured something to Esme, and she nodded once.
“Lucinda,” her father said.
“I’m sorry to have to inform you,” Lucinda said gravely, “that at six thirty-five this morning, Adam Eisley was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while jogging.”
Blair caught the slightest movement from Oakley Weaver, standing against the wall behind her father’s right shoulder. She shuddered for a brief second, her posture stiffening. No other facial expression, other than a visible tightening of her jaw, but she was clearly affected by the news. Just that little bit of reaction was unusual for a seasoned agent, and Oakley had been on the PPD for quite a while now. Blair knew her to say hello to, but she couldn’t recall ever actually having a conversation with her. The agents were trained not to engage in conversations beyond polite acknowledgment of a good morning or thank you from the protectee. That she and Paula Stark had become friends was unusual, but then, she’d never followed protocol very well and Stark—well, Paula was Paula. When she was on the job, she was as solid and reliable as Cam. But unlike Cam, whose reserve extended to everyone but Blair beyond the confines of their home, Paula allowed her feelings to show when she wasn’t working.
That barest flicker of reaction from Oakley was gone now too. The agent’s expression was remote and unreadable.
“What do we know of the circumstances of the event?” Cam asked.
“As of this moment,” Lucinda replied, “the driver has not been apprehended. Metropolitan Police are obviously doing everything they can to identify the vehicle. I am still waiting for preliminary reports.”
“And our people?” Averill Jensen, the national security advisor, asked.
Lucinda said, “We’ve asked the Uniformed Division commander to assign a liaison to the Metro force. If we discover there are sensitive security issues, we will assume responsibility for the investigation.”
The president said, “We don’t know if this was a random act—an accident, and the driver simply fled the scene—or an intentional incident. Until we do, we have to proceed as if this was a targeted assault.”
Cam said, “No one has come forth to take credit, I assume?”
>
“Not as of this time,” Lucinda said.
“Do we have any indication of previous threats to Adam?” Cam asked.
All eyes turned to Adam’s assistant.
“None that I’m aware of,” Esme said, her voice low and flat but steady. “We get our share of crank emails, especially now with the convention coming up, and the usual inflammatory tweets trying to stir things up, but nothing of a violent nature. I think Adam would’ve told me if there had been.”
The communications director interjected, “Forgive me, but what would be gained by targeting Adam? I understand how important his role is to the campaign, but why him? Couldn’t it be he was just a convenient target because he was unprotected?”
“That’s possible, of course,” Lucinda said, “but we can’t assume accident or absence of intent. At this juncture, Adam’s role in securing the nomination for the president is critical. Despite all the knowledgeable individuals involved in the reelection effort, Adam was the face of our campaign with national recognition. The average citizen knows his name.”
The press secretary added, “Some people might believe that removing Adam would cause enough disruption and inflated press coverage to allow Donald Jessup to gain ground.”
Philip Brewster, the White House counsel, grimaced. “Is that really likely?”
Lucinda’s smile thinned. “That’s partly why we’re here, Philip. To avert any appearance, real or imagined, of instability in our platform or our position.”
“We not only need to be seen as carrying on as usual,” the president said, “we actually have to do that. We need to keep the campaign organized and on track.”
Everyone looked at Esme.
She straightened and her chin lifted. “I don’t have the public profile to take Adam’s place, and respectfully, I don’t want to. I will certainly do whatever is required to assist whoever takes his place.”
“You understand,” Lucinda said, “such a situation is no reflection on your abilities.”
Esme nodded. “Thank you, and I do understand.”
“So,” Brewster said, “exactly where are we going to get someone at this point with a national profile who will convince the world that Adam’s loss is tragic but not debilitating—and someone who can actually do the job? Because we need to do more than hold our ground right now—our margin isn’t that large, and public perception can change quickly. We need to continue to gain ground over the next six weeks, because static is not a desirable position.”
Blair resisted the urge, just barely, to tell Philip he was a pompous horse’s ass. But he was a good attorney, incredibly loyal to her father, and—as cold-hearted as it sounded—he had a point.
“I have a suggestion,” Blair said.
Her father glanced down the table and met her eyes for the first time. His gaze almost looked amused. Did he know? “Go ahead, Blair.”
“Ari Rostof,” Blair said.
A burst of protest sounded simultaneously from multiple voices, Philip’s loudest among them.
“Impossible,” he intoned. “She’d never accept, and even if she did, she’d never pass the security clearance.”
“Talk about a media nightmare,” the communications director muttered.
The press secretary leaned back in her seat, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I’m not so sure it’s a bad idea. Her security clearance ought to be pretty high already, considering the access she’s had working with members of Congress. And she’s definitely got the national profile.”
“If you like controversial and confrontational,” Brewster snapped.
Andrew Powell cleared his throat and the room fell silent.
“Commander Roberts?” the president asked. “Opinion?”
“Let’s ask her,” Cam said.
Blair kept her eyes on her father, and this time, he smiled back.
Chapter Five
Lucinda Washburn’s announcement reverberated in Oakes’s bones.
I’m sorry to have to inform you…
Oakes shuddered.
…at six thirty-five this morning…
The words struck over and over with the force of bullets punching into her.
…Adam Eisley was struck and killed…
She set her jaw, force down the shock.
Adam Eisley was struck and killed.
Oakes reeled internally until, after an instant that felt like an eternity, her training kicked in. In those weeks at FLETC and the Beltway, she’d been conditioned to run toward the sound of danger when the normal instinct was to flee. Gunfire, explosions, car crashes were all signals for her to act. Fear and pain were relegated to irrelevant background noise. Steely calm spread through her as her mind sharpened, her vision cleared, and though she hadn’t moved an inch, every muscle coiled, ready to spring at the first inkling of threat.
The space inside the room contracted until she could sense every detail, while at the same time, her field of view widened, creating a panoramic gestalt of the room at large where every movement was magnified. She automatically cataloged her position. Her back was two inches from the walnut paneled wainscoting behind her. Evyn stood nine and a half feet to her left, at a forty-five-degree angle behind the president’s left shoulder, triangulating with her own position on the right. She knew exactly how far she was from the president—an arm’s length away. The maximum distance from which she could reach him to cover and evacuate.
Her situational awareness heightened, every image jumped out at her, crisp and razor-edged. The monogrammed pen in Philip Brewster’s right hand that he tapped rhythmically, impatiently, against the tabletop. Cameron Roberts’s deceptively relaxed posture, hiding the same coiled tension that was second nature to Oakes. Blair Powell, her expression intent, a flicker of impatience in Brewster’s direction, but her focus almost unerringly on the president.
Oakes couldn’t see his face from where she stood, but his voice was telling. Calm, steady, with just the barest touch of amusement when he addressed his daughter. Oakes had witnessed their unspoken communication many times before, their connection more than familial, a camaraderie between equals.
She was aware of the ache somewhere beneath the readiness, buried deep in her chest, in the core of her brain where emotion lived. Adam, one of her only friends. Two or three mornings a week, she ran with him. She’d begged off running with him that morning to play racquetball with Evyn. If she’d been there—
The pain was swift and lancing. Oakes shut down the doubt, the anger, the rage. She had no time to feel. All that mattered was her job. Maintain situational awareness. Be prepared to protect the president, even here in this apparently unassailable room. No space was impenetrable, no plan infallible, no location completely secure. Her job was to anticipate, to question the obvious, to distrust the appearance of safety. Duty first. There’d be time enough to mourn or rail at the injustice of a pointless death later. Perhaps.
The attorney, Brewster, said, “I suppose Rostof would bring certain assets to the position. Looking beyond the nomination, fund-raising will be a priority. I’m sure she has substantial contacts.”
Oakes listened with a portion of her brain. The White House counsel sounded like he was less than impressed with this Rostof woman. Oakes didn’t really care. The decisions being made would affect what she would need to do in the short term—in the next few minutes to hours—and, as the lead advance on the convention trip, in the coming weeks as well. Still, her role would remain fundamentally the same. Ari Rostof was a name she recognized only because she’d heard it on television. The woman could be anyone, and Oakes’s role would be the same.
“I agree that Rostof is the best choice for a number of reasons,” the president said dryly, apparently choosing to ignore Brewster’s displeasure. “Our window for action is small, so we need to make immediate arrangements.” He turned toward the Chief of Staff. “Lucinda? Anything else?”
“No, Mr. President,” Lucinda said briskly. “I’ll make the necessary calls.�
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“Good,” the president said. “Thank you all. Tom, Blair, Cam—a moment please.”
That was the cue for everyone else to leave, and a minute later the room had cleared. Oakes and Evyn remained as they were, in the background.
Once the doors closed behind the last person, the president looked at his daughter. “All right, how hard do you think it’s going to be to convince her?”
Blair waggled her hand. “From what I recall of the two previous campaigns she’s run, she’s on our side on the majority of issues, so there shouldn’t be any insurmountable policy objections. She might not see joining our team as a necessary or desirable career move, though. She going to take heat from the opposition—and maybe some on our side too. Subtly, of course.” Blair grimaced. “She doesn’t need to put herself in that position—her profile is strong enough as it is.”
“Is that all that matters to her?” Lucinda asked. “Her profile on the national stage?”
“I can’t really say,” Blair replied pensively. “I would guess that career campaign managers at her level are doing it for something other than wide-eyed altruism.” She snorted. “That attitude really doesn’t last long in the real world.”
“Power?” the president asked quietly.
“Possibly. That isn’t always a bad thing.”
Oakes wondered about Adam. She knew why she’d chosen the Secret Service. What could be more important than protecting the most important man in the Western world? Maybe that was the same thing for Adam—getting that man elected. She’d never thought to ask him—that inborn reticence, reinforced by her training, to breach the personal. To get too close. Now she’d never know.
Cam Roberts said, “Coming in this late will put her at a disadvantage.”
“Yes,” Lucinda said, “but it also presents a challenge. From what I’ve seen of her, she likes that sort of thing.”
Blair laughed. “I don’t think there’s anything Ari likes more, except possibly sailing. No matter how high the bar is set, she always wanted it higher. Made it hell for the rest of us.”
