The First Lady

by James Patterson

  “Got it,” he says. “What about the stable’s owners? They’ve already come around once, wondering where … someone is, and why I’m out here.”

  “Tell them … damn, I don’t know,” I say. “Tell them something. Sally, out.”

  When I lower my wrist, my phone rings, and I check the incoming number and whisper an obscenity. “Todd, this is Sally. What’s up?”

  Todd Pence, my neighbor and a Navy vet, says, “Sally, I’m sorry, but I gotta leave in a few minutes.”

  I turn away from the other three agents. “What’s going on? Is Amelia okay?”

  “Oh, she’s great,” he says. “But my older sister Phoebe … she lives alone and is older than me and is on the Social Security, and her damn water tank is leaking. She tried calling a plumber but the rates they charge—”

  “Todd, please …” I take a few more steps. “Put Amelia on, will you?”

  Some seconds pass and a sweet voice comes on and says, “Mom? You busy?”

  Good Lord, what a question. “Um, yeah. Look. Mr. Pence says he has to leave ahead of schedule. Are you okay with that?”

  I can sense her eye-rolling through the tone in her voice. “Oh, Mom, I’ll be fine. Honest.”

  “Okay. You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she snaps back. “But … when do you think you’ll be home?”

  “As soon as I can, hon, as soon as I can,” I say. “But make sure the doors and windows are locked and that you carry the phone around with you, okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” she answers, putting about a ton of attitude into each syllable.

  “Good girl,” I say. “Put Mr. Pence back on.”

  My neighbor and child-care provider—last year Amelia got angry with the term babysitter, and I promised never to use it again—comes back on the phone and we have a brief conversation. I put the phone away just as the sound of the helicopters reaches us.

  Two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters come into view, low, over the near trees, the branches whipping around from the wash coming from the spinning blades. They land downstream at a wide, grassy spot, and as the engines slow down, I run to the near one. A gold banner encircles the low part of the fuselage, where black block letters read HOMELAND SECURITY.

  The side door slides open, and a man jumps down, wearing a dark-gray jumpsuit and black combat boots. Around his slim waist is a black leather utility belt, holding a handheld radio and a pistol holster that’s also strapped to his muscular upper thigh. He pulls off a pair of sunglasses to reveal a face that is flush and rugged, and his sandy brown hair flutters from the moving air. A name tag says ANDERSON, and we exchange a brief handshake as we move away from the engine noise.

  “Randy,” I say.

  “Sally,” he says. “All right, let’s get to it.”

  I take a very deep and troubled breath. “I need … a search mission. Up and down this river for a white female, midforties.”

  His gray-blue eyes bore right into me. “A search or a recovery?”

  “A training mission, remember? That’s what this is. An unannounced training mission.”

  His gaze doesn’t flinch. “I might need a higher authority than you, Sally. I’m sure you understand.”

  I say, “How does Parker Hoyt sound?”

  Two more helicopters approach and land on the other side of the river. Randy lifts his voice. “Sounds pretty heavy.”

  “Yeah, like lead.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and he says, “I’ll leave Mr. Hoyt alone for the moment.”

  “That’s wise.”

  A nod. “All right, just remember, back in Santiago … you warned me off that woman at the bar, at the Ritz-Carlton. You were pretty damn insistent, and I put up a fight, but later … the bitch turned out to be working for Cuban intelligence. Ruined the lives and careers of three other agents. But we’re now even.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “We’re even.”

  He takes the handheld radio, turns and mutters some orders I can’t make out. Then he turns back to me, replaces the radio, and says, “But I need to know. It’s always bothered me. How did you know she was working for the DGI?”

  “Ask you a question first?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Make it snappy.”

  “How do you like working for the dark side, the clumsy side, Homeland Security?”

  He doesn’t seem insulted and even smiles a bit. “Secret Service is part of Homeland Security,” he says. “We’re all part of the same team. The hours are better and so is the pay. You should think about coming over, you being a single mom.”

  I say, “Not today. Not ever.”

  “All right, you made that clear,” he says. “Santiago. Answer me now.”

  I take three steps forward, gently touch his hard chin. “I didn’t know. Honest.”

  “What?”

  I say, “I had no idea she was with Cuban intelligence, or Chilean intelligence, or Bulgarian intelligence for that matter. She was hot-looking and I was jealous, and I wanted you for myself … which happened later in Bogotá, if I recall. But I needed to separate you from her at the bar. You were practically glued to that curvy torso of hers.”

  His eyes widen just a bit, either in humor or horror, I can’t tell, and his hand reaches out and skips my face, touches the scarf. “You … how’s your Amelia?”

  “Right now my Amelia is an eleven-year-old girl who’s home alone for the first time, that’s how she’s doing. If I’m lucky when I get home tonight, at least my bedroom and the bathroom will be in survivable shape.”

  “You okay with her alone?”

  “I’ll manage,” I say. “She knows to keep everything buttoned up, not to answer the door, and to call nine-one-one and me at the same time if something scares her.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Sorry about your divorce from Ben.”

  “Don’t be,” I say, and then, “Come on, Homeland Security, get to work. You know what they say about the Secret Service: you can either play ball with us, or we’ll shove a baseball bat up your ass.”

  A crisp nod follows; he steps back and grabs his waist radio one more time, and says, “You and me. No one else knows, or ever will know. This is officially an unannounced Homeland Security training drill. But, Sally … who are you really looking for?”

  “A bird,” I say.

  “A bird?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “A goddamn canary.”

  He opens his mouth and starts asking more questions, but luckily for me, four black Humvees from Homeland Security growl their way in, their combined noise drowning out whatever my old friend is trying to say.

  And it’s about the only luck I get that day, or the next.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE AFTERNOON MEET-AND-GREET with his top campaign staff is due to be over in five minutes, but Harrison Tucker is done. He stands up and says to his half-dozen top officials, “Very good, that’ll do for now. Thanks for coming in and … my deepest apologies again for putting all of you in this very awkward position.”

  The head of the delegation, a heavyset man in a brown suit who’s the senior senator from Ohio, takes the lead and says, “We won’t let you down, Mr. President. The margin might be tighter, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna let that nutcase from California get in here next January.”

  The delegation smiles and murmurs as Harrison, assisted by one of his aides, ushers them out of the Oval Office, but the oldest person in the group, the former majority leader from the Ohio Statehouse, lingers behind.

  “Mr. President,” Miriam Tanner says. “Please … just a word.”

  He hesitates, but he owes a lot to Miriam, and with a hand he gestures his aide to leave, so it’s just the two of them, standing by the open door. Miriam is eighty-one years old, face worn and wrinkled, wearing a simple floral dress—probably from Walmart or Target, he thinks—but she’s been in the business for more than six decades, and her instinct for politics is one of the best he’s ever known.

  Miriam says
in a low but strong voice, “What the hell do you think you were doing, stepping out like that?”

  The tone of her voice nearly knocks him back. “Miriam, I—”

  “Shit, Harry, if you wanted to get laid, there are plenty of high-priced, security-cleared young ladies in this town who’ll take care of you, quietly and discreetly,” she says sharply. “What were you thinking? Damn it, son, you’ve had a grand first term, with promises of an even better second term, and you threw it all away for a bit of tail?”

  “Miriam … it wasn’t … isn’t like that.”

  “Then there’s Grace,” Miriam says, pursing her lips in displeasure. “She may be an ice queen, a stubborn bitch, and come from a family that thinks they crap pearls, here and back home, but by God, she has her heart in the right place. She’s helped thousands of poor kids as this country’s First Lady, and what’s her reward? Being nationally humiliated. What the hell did you see in that chubby lobbyist?”

  Desperate to get her out of the Oval Office, Harrison says, “Miriam, please … I’m in love with her.”

  His old political ally shakes her head. “Harry, you should know this by now. Presidents can’t be human. They can’t get drunk, or cry, and they certainly can’t fall in love.”

  With one more disgusted shake of her head, she’s gone.

  The on-duty Secret Service agent tugs the door shut, and the President of the United States walks back into the empty Oval Office, having succeeded in at least gaining a few minutes to himself. That is a treasure, to have those precious seconds, for his day is always planned down to the exact minute.

  But … still no news from Parker.

  He goes to his desk phone, picks it up to connect with the lead operator at the White House switchboard, and simply says, “Please get me Tammy Doyle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After he hangs up, Harrison impatiently paces the office— careful never to step on the Presidential Seal in the center of the rug, which is considered bad luck, and he doesn’t want any more bad luck today—and the dark part of him wonders, who does he want to hear from first? Parker Hoyt, telling him where Grace has been found? Or the anonymous telephone operator somewhere on the grounds, telling him she’s located the woman he really loves?

  What kind of man is he, he thinks, what kind of husband is he, that he would worry about both his wife and his mistress at the same time?

  Good question, he thinks.

  And no answer.

  He reaches into his left pants pocket, takes out a thick challenge coin, stamped with an outline of Air Force One over the White House, and on the reverse, the logo of the 89th Airlift Wing and its Latin motto, Experto Crede. If he were to push the center of the coin and hold it down for three seconds, this room would be flooded with Secret Service agents.

  His wife wears a similar object around her neck.

  It hasn’t been activated. He puts his challenge coin back in his pocket, seeing that as a good sign. If she were in trouble—

  The phone rings. He goes to his ornately carved desk, picks up the phone. “Mr. President,” says the clear voice of the switchboard operator, who again sounds neutral and professional on this “Ambush in Atlanta” day of days, “I have your party on the line.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” and there’s a click as the line is secured, belonging to him and his caller, and he says, “Tammy? Are you there?”

  “Oh, Harry,” comes her sweet and tired voice, and he sits down with relief in his leather office chair. At least one wait is over.

  But there’s something off in the tone of her voice. “Tammy, are you all right?”

  And then the love of his life starts sobbing.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE PRESIDENT OF the United States says, “Tammy … please … what happened?”

  The sobbing goes on for long seconds, and that sound stabs at him, for it’s the first time in their relationship that he’s ever heard her cry. He may be the most powerful man in the world at this very second, but he feels so damn helpless.

  Over the phone he hears her take a deep breath. “Oh, Harry … I’m sorry. The flight home was all right but then I got in a car accident and—”

  “A car accident? What happened? Are you all right?”

  Her voice sounds stronger. “Yes, I’m fine … a bit achy, but the cab I took from the airport was hit. We were on the highway just east of Dulles when a pickup truck crossed the median and hit the trunk of the cab. Spun us around and thank God the cabbie was a sharp guy, otherwise … oh, Harry. What a rotten day. And the media were camped out at my condo when I got here.”

  He swivels the tiniest bit in his chair in front of his ornate wooden desk. “What did you say to them?”

  “Harry? What?”

  He instantly realizes his mistake. He isn’t acting as her lover, her friend, her man. He is responding as a politician, trying to minimize a mistake. Not trying to take care of a woman he loves. Shit.

  “I … I just wanted to see if you said anything to them. Or if they said anything to you. It must have been rough.”

  “No, Harry, I didn’t say a word … I mean … what could I say?”

  He rubs at his eyes. This isn’t going well, damn it.

  “That’s good. I’m … sorry, I know you won’t say anything.”

  Tammy says, “Harry … what am I going to do? What are we going to do?”

  “You … take care of yourself, first and foremost,” he says, thinking rapidly. “Call in sick tomorrow if you have to. Or work from home. And we’re going to fix this.”

  “We?”

  “Parker Hoyt … he’s working on it right now.”

  “By doing what?”

  “He’s … doing a lot of things. And he’s working on … doing what’s right.”

  God, he thinks. Another close miss with Tammy. He was about to tell her that Parker Hoyt is looking out for him and his reelection, which, of course, would lead to the question, well, what about me?

  What about Tammy, indeed. He can’t tell her what his advisers told him not more than ten minutes ago: dump her, and dump her publicly.

  “Is there … anything I can do for you?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

  A bitter laugh. “Arrest the reporters outside my condo?”

  He manages to laugh back. “If I could, I would …”

  A pause, and she says, quietly, “When can I see you, Harry?”

  “Not for a while,” he says. “You know how it is.”

  Her voice is sharp. “For at least four weeks, right?”

  “Tammy …”

  He rubs at his eyes again, and she says, “How are things with Grace?”

  A jolt of surprise. In the months they’ve been together, she’s hardly ever asked about the First Lady.

  “Angry. Upset. You can imagine.”

  “I can,” she says, voice soft, full of understanding. “Where is she now? In her office, practicing throwing lamps?”

  He turns in his chair, peering out at the three greenish-tinged glass windows, floor to ceiling, which are green because they are bulletproof.

  “She’s … in the East Wing,” he says, speaking quickly. “Trying to gather her thoughts together.”

  “But is she going to speak to the press? Is she still going to keep her public schedule?”

  He can’t do this anymore. From the very beginning, he’s always been straight with her, never making promises he can’t keep, always being upfront as to when he can see her and when he can’t.

  But now?

  “She’s … ah … look, Tammy, I have to go. All right? Hang in there … we’ll get through this together. Honest.”

  And he hangs up the phone, disconnecting the secure call, swivels his chair once more.

  What a rotten conversation.

  And what was that all about, her asking about Grace?

  Then he realizes something else.

  For the very first time, he’s lied to the woman he loves.

  T
ammy is stunned as the President brusquely cuts her off.

  Of course he’s under pressure, and of course the news of their … relationship is on his mind, especially with the election so close.

  But never had he been so short with her and never had he …

  Lied?

  She recalls what Amanda Price told her, just a few minutes ago.

  The First Lady can’t be found.

  But her Harry—the President of the United States—just told her something else, that Grace Fuller Tucker was in the East Wing, definitely not missing.

  And when Tammy tried to press him on that …

  He hung up on her.

  Her phone rings and she’s startled, and she checks the caller ID.

  CBS NEW YORK.

  She switches off the phone.

  Curls up in her chair.

  Waits.

  For what, she doesn’t know.

  But the hard core inside of her, that took her from a dumpy three-story tenement building in South Boston to Beacon Hill and Boston College and then Harvard and then to the center of the world—the District of Columbia—knows she won’t wait forever.

  His phone rings, and Harrison Tucker waits a moment before picking it up.

  Tammy’s news about her car accident has caused a memory from his political past to surface, from back when he was running for reelection as a state senator. It had turned into an unexpectedly close race, until his opponent—a retired university professor—had gotten into a serious crash one rainy night outside of Toledo.

  And he remembers Parker Hoyt smiling at him, when he told him the news the next day: “Accidents do happen … especially at the right time.”

  Harrison had laughed it off then, thinking Parker was just joking.

  But now?

  Parker … could he? Would he?

  His phone rings and rings.

  CHAPTER 27

  MARSHA GRAY MOVES back about three meters, wanting to remain concealed from the burly and fast-moving Homeland Security fellas, who are fanning out along the riverbed and the tree line, looking for the First Lady. The lead Secret Service agent had a bit of a serious discussion with a hunky guy in a gray jumpsuit who seemed to be in charge of the helicopter crews and those arriving in the Humvees.