Cost of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “Yes.” Ari held out her hand. “Ms. Alaqua?”

  “Esmeralda, please.” She smiled a little sadly. “I would say welcome aboard, but it somehow just doesn’t seem appropriate given…Adam. But I am glad that you’re here.”

  “I understand completely. I’m also glad to be here, but happy isn’t quite the word I would use either. Where should I set up camp?”

  Esmeralda let out a relieved sigh. “If it’s all right with you, I cleared one of the temporary spaces down the hall. Adam didn’t have very many personal items in his office, and I’ll pack those up as soon as I get a break today. Then, of course, it will be yours.”

  “There’s no rush.” Ari hadn’t known Adam personally, but the senselessness of his death still moved her. “Is there going to be a service?”

  “Not here. His parents are elderly, and he’s going to go home when he’s released by the coroner.”

  “I understand that.” Ari wanted to ask if there was any further information on the nature of his death, but this woman, steeped in sorrow, was not the one to ask. Maybe Blair, if she got the chance to connect with her. The White House suddenly seemed like a continent all to itself, one vast new world she needed to learn to navigate, and quickly. Oakes would know too, wouldn’t she? She could text her to ask. Ari took a breath. What she could do was get on with her job and put Oakes Weaver from her mind. More easily said than done, but she’d managed harder things. “If there’s anything that I can help with, please let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Well, then,” Ari said briskly. “What’s first?”

  Again, Esmeralda looked relieved. “I’ve printed out what would’ve been Adam’s agenda for the next few days. Some meetings with key people are ones that you should take.”

  “All right. Can you give me notes on who they are, what projects are outstanding with them, and anything that you feel I should know.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I need to speak with the finance director.”

  “That’s Zach Bigelow. He’s already called this morning. I’ll give you his number.”

  “Good. Where are we with an official statement from campaign headquarters on Adam’s death and my appointment?” She held Esmeralda’s gaze as she asked. She didn’t have the luxury to ease into her new position, as difficult as it was going to be for everyone.

  “I can have something for you within the hour to review and make the morning news.”

  “Good. Do that. Then you and I need to sit down and review the campaign plan. We can look over what Adam had in mind, but you should probably anticipate changes.”

  “I understand. Adam was terrific, but he kept an awful lot in his head, and I expect there’re going to be gaps.”

  “Well, we’ll make filling them a priority. But I’ll have my own game plan.”

  Esmeralda never hesitated. “Absolutely.”

  “Do I have an official email address yet?”

  “Yes. I’ll text it to you. Your electronics have already been loaded with the necessary contacts.”

  “Perfect.”

  Ari followed Esmeralda to the temporary office, set up the laptop, and started going through her correspondence. This could not be an easy transition for someone who had known and worked with Adam for so long. She appreciated Esmeralda’s professionalism and her openness. One hurdle, and a big one, was over.

  An hour later Esmeralda texted her.

  The president wishes to see you at 1 pm

  Ari read the message several times. She’d expected something like this eventually, but still, it was a jolt. A little bit of a thrill, a little bit of anticipatory nerves in the pit of her stomach, and a lot of pressure. Good thing she thrived on all three.

  What do I need to know?

  No agenda cited.

  As she started to text a reply, a call came through. Her father’s number.

  Ari stared at the readout and let it go to voice mail.

  A minute later another text, this time from him.

  Call me We need to talk

  And so it began.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Oval Office

  12:45 p.m.

  Blair nodded to the Secret Service agent posted outside in the foyer adjoining the Oval Office and headed for the presidential secretary’s desk. Sybil Gretzsky, midforties, trim, stylish, and an absolute commanding general when it came to keeping the president’s schedule and protecting his free time, smiled as Blair approached.

  “Is he free?” Blair asked.

  “Until the one o’clock meeting. I think he’s having a sandwich.”

  “Can I bug him?”

  Sybil smiled. “I don’t think he would consider you dropping in at any time to be bugging. Go on in.”

  Her father looked up as she entered, pushed aside a crumpled sandwich wrapper, and wiped his hands on a paper napkin stenciled with a red rooster.

  “Are you eating one of those chicken doughnut things again?” Blair asked. Her father managed a fairly regular exercise program of weights and elliptical workouts, and he’d kept in good physical condition, considering the demands of his office, so she was mostly teasing. She had a thing for those evil fried chicken and doughnut sandwiches herself.

  He laughed, and when he did, some of the weariness of almost four years in office dropped away. For an instant, she glimpsed the man she’d grown up with. He’d always carried the burden of responsibility for thousands on his shoulders, as he’d been governing in one form or another as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d thought everyone’s father had an office in a big, ornate building with spacious, high-ceilinged lobbies, lots of security guards, and people rushing to and fro who looked at her as if she was different than any other child they’d ever seen. An oddity, someone not quite approachable. She had been different, and it had taken her forever to figure out why. Eventually she’d understood that people treated her differently not because of anything she’d done or hadn’t done, but just because she was her father’s daughter. She resented that for a very long time. Maybe until she’d learned to embrace the very uniqueness of being who she was. Cam had never looked away from who she was and had never allowed her to forget it. She’d resented her at first too.

  She smiled, thinking how much had changed and how, truly, all that had changed was her.

  “What?” Andrew said.

  Blair shook her head, stepped around behind the big Lincoln desk that he used, and kissed his cheek. “Nothing. Just remembering.”

  “Good memories?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back in the high-backed leather chair and folded his hands on his stomach, looking as if he had all the time in the world instead of all the world to be concerned with. “So, what did you want to tell me in private?”

  Blair laughed and sat down in front of his desk in one of the floral patterned, upholstered chairs. “I’m that obvious, am I?”

  “No, but we go back a long ways, and I’m familiar with your habits.”

  Blair laughed again. “You’re in a really good mood today. Any particular reason?” His expression grew solemn for a moment, and her chest tightened. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Not exactly. Not at all, really.” He sat forward and fidgeted with a pen.

  Her father never fidgeted.

  “Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me guess?” She’d seen him in just about every crisis possible—from the death of her mother to a terrorist attack—and she’d never seen him look the least bit unsure of himself. “Dad?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  Mentally, Blair rolled her eyes. “You mean, like ninety-nine percent of what goes on in here?”

  “More than that.”

  “Okay. My lips are forever sealed.”

  “I asked Lucinda to marry me this morning—well, more accurately, last night.”

  Blair caught her breath, carefully blotting out any mental images of what last night might have enta
iled between her father and the woman who had been at the center of his professional and personal life for almost two decades. For the first time in a very long while, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “You approve?” He sounded anxious.

  The air rushed out on something that was very close to a girlish squeal. She jumped up, raced back around the desk, and hugged him. “I so totally approve. It’s about fucking time.”

  “She didn’t say so, but I think Lucinda was thinking something along the same lines.” The light jumped back into his eyes, and Blair’s heart swelled.

  “When?” she asked, settling back in her chair.

  “After the election. Win or lose.”

  “Wow.” Still a little shocked, Blair blurted, “And what about, you know, her job?”

  Andrew winced. “We haven’t quite figured that out, but four years as Chief of Staff is practically as wearing as four years of the presidency. She’ll likely be ready for a change, and most presidents go through their chiefs of staff a lot faster than I have. So the job description would change, depending on her interests and where I need her most.”

  “Well, she’d already have a job, after all. First Lady.”

  “About that…” Andrew said.

  “Uh-oh.” The picture Blair was forming rapidly morphed into something very different. “That’s not really Lucinda, is it?”

  “No,” Andrew said with a wry smile. “We’re thinking that we might not make the marriage public for a while.”

  “Define a while,” Blair said.

  “Undetermined at this time. I know it puts a lot of pressure on you, filling in for me so frequently when an official presence is needed.”

  “It does, true, but I’ll do whatever you need me to do. That includes whatever you and Lucinda need.”

  “Some people will be unhappy when word finally gets out that she isn’t filling the prescribed role.”

  Blair waved a hand. “Let them complain. You won’t be breaking any laws. Lucinda has years of political experience and ought to continue to work where she’s most effective. You’ve given up enough for this job, Dad. The public doesn’t have the right to know every single thing about your life, and Congress doesn’t have the right to dictate your personal life.”

  “Well, all of this is on a tentative timetable, because if I’m not reelected, most of the issues become moot.”

  “You’re going to be reelected. Number one, because you deserve to be. Number two, because you’ve got a kick-ass campaign manager who will pretty much take no prisoners when we get to the bloody part.”

  “It probably will get bloody,” Andrew said. “I’ll be challenged at the national convention, and if I’m nominated, the election will probably be even more brutal.”

  Blair shrugged. “You’ll have the best team in your corner.”

  “And what did you want to tell me about Ari Rostof, since I’ve shared my news.”

  “What makes you think I’m here about Ari?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Okay, fair enough. Good guess.” Blair paused. “We didn’t get a chance to review what went on up in Newport when I got back. I thought you might have questions.”

  “If there’d been a problem, you would have told me. So…what do I need to know before the meeting today?”

  “I think there’re going to be quite a few people who aren’t happy about her appointment, and some of them are going to be in your ear about it.”

  “There are always people unhappy about one appointment or another, but her position is not only key, but high-profile. So I expect you’re right. Anything I need to be concerned with?”

  “No,” Blair said immediately. “I don’t think any of the issues people might bring up have anything to do with Ari. Her father is the one everyone is really worried about, and whatever he may or may not have done, whoever he is beneath the billionaire façade, she’s not part of it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I’ve known her since I was fifteen. Ari was sixteen when we met. I saw her struggle back then to stretch the ties between them, to make room for her own ambitions, and I’ve seen how she’s constructed her life since then. If he had been what a lot of people think, I believe she would’ve broken the ties.”

  “That’s not an easy thing to do for family,” he observed neutrally.

  “I know, but I trust her integrity. And her judgment. If I didn’t, I never would’ve suggested her. So all I want is for you to trust me, give her a chance, and let her guide you.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Andrew said. “I’ve always trusted you. You and Lucinda are the two smartest people I know. Well, three now, considering your wife. Who’s just downright scary.”

  Cam. Scary? Oh yes, scary amazing. Blair smiled at her father. “Isn’t she just.”

  Cameron Roberts walked into the control room and every eye turned in her direction.

  “Afternoon,” she said to the agents working shift. “Tom around?”

  “In the conference room,” Warren said.

  “Thanks.”

  She went down the hall and knocked on the open door. Tom, Oakes Weaver, and Evyn Daniels were leaning over the conference table, looking at an old-fashioned paper map spread out on the tabletop. “Got a minute?”

  Tom looked over. “Morning, Commander. Need to see me?”

  “You can all stay,” Cam said, walking in and surveying the map. “I didn’t even think they made those things anymore.”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever seen one,” Oakes said. “It’s like something from the prehistoric age.”

  Tom snorted. “Bullshit. The digital feed in here is down, and I wanted to look at motorcade routes. Besides, what’s wrong with looking at an honest to God map instead of a projection?”

  “You know you can do that on your iPads,” Cam said.

  “Not the same thing. You can’t run your finger over it like you can with this.” Tom tapped the map.

  Cam studied the four alternative routes from Philadelphia International Airport into the city, marked in black. Running out from each one were crisscrosses of red lines, connecting the motorcade path to hotels, hospitals, safe houses, and emergency exit routes from the city.

  “You settle on the main yet?” Cam asked.

  Tom tapped one black line that traveled more or less directly from the airport into Center City Philadelphia. “This would be the anticipated route, so we’re going to use this one”—he moved his finger—“which is a little bit longer but is actually the one preferred by Philadelphia police. Doesn’t snarl the traffic quite as badly.” He shook his head. “Center City Philadelphia is a nightmare of streets no bigger than alleys—hell, some of those streets are barely wide enough for a horse and buggy.”

  “That’s because they were built over two hundred years ago for horses and buggies, remember,” Cam said.

  “I don’t know, I’m from Dallas where the streets are actually wide enough to accommodate modern cars.”

  “You’re not gonna get the Beast through some of these streets,” Cam said. “I guess you’ll find that out when you run the routes during the advance.”

  Oakes said, “We’ve done that. We’ve identified the chokepoints around the Convention Center and mapped out ways around. Once the perimeter is set and barricaded, we’ll sail right in.”

  Cam smiled. “You’re going to get some scratches on it.”

  “The motor pool can complain about that when we get back.” Oakes grinned.

  Tom straightened. “What can we do for you, Commander?”

  “I just got off the phone with Metro. They pulled some videos from witnesses—a whole bunch of tourists happened to be watching and taking pics of what they mistakenly thought was the president’s motorcade going by. Several caught the accident on their phones.”

  Tom’s expression flattened. “And?”

  “They’re still analyzing what they’ve got, comparing different angles of view, runn
ing time stamps, estimating vehicular speeds—the usual forensic accident stuff. None of the videos are great quality, but the techs are confident in what they have so far.” Cam paused. These people had known Adam. His death was personal and the news would be too. “The vehicle that struck Adam accelerated rather than braked as it got closer to him. From the direction it was traveling, no attempt was made to avoid him.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Oakes muttered. She looked around quickly. “Sorry, sir.”

  “My feelings exactly, Weaver,” Tom said. “Conclusive? Not just some distracted driver gawking at the rotunda or something?”

  “No indication from the vehicle travel pattern that the driver was impaired. The reading is intentional.”

  “Anything from the license plate?” Evyn asked.

  “They’ve got a nice clear shot in one video, but the plates belong to a Lexus that was left in the parking lot at Reagan National. They traced the owner of that vehicle, who’s currently in Barbados.”

  “And of course, they’re not a suspect.”

  Cam shook her head. “The FBI is running them, but they’re a retired couple—both schoolteachers, longtime Georgetown residents. No political connections.”

  “Well that makes it pretty sure this was no accident. But why?” Tom said. “Adam Eisley. Why him?”

  “A few possible reasons,” Cam said. “He was a relatively easy target—his habits were fairly regular, the route he ran was one of only two. He’s close to the president and important—no, critical at this juncture—to his reelection efforts. Maybe someone thought taking him out of the picture would be enough to disrupt the campaign, destabilize the forward momentum. There’s the outside possibility Adam was into something we don’t even know about. Something that would make him a target.”

  “No,” Oakes said quickly. “Not Adam. I know him. He is—was—exactly as he seemed to be. He wouldn’t be into anything illegal or disloyal.”

  “I agree with you,” Cam said, “but the FBI will be looking into it regardless.”