The First Lady

by James Patterson

  The phone keeps on ringing.

  It’s his other phone.

  He tries to put his standard phone back into the cradle, misses, and it clatters across his clean desktop. Parker lunges for the other phone, grabs it.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re checking out a small farmhouse, about three miles upstream from the horse farm. She might be there. It’s within walking distance.”

  “Wait—you’re still working the case? Grissom was told to stand down!”

  “Yeah, well, she doesn’t listen well. We’re out freezing our asses off, ready to get moving.”

  “Give me the address,” he says, and he fumbles for a pen, grabs it, doesn’t see anything to write on, picks up a crumpled poll report from last night—Harrison Tucker’s polling collapse is deep and widespread—and he flattens it out, says, “Go.”

  “Fourteen, that’s one-four, East Dominion Road, Walton.”

  He scribbles the numbers and words and says, “Why do you think she’s there? What’s the evidence? Could it be a safe house for terrorists?”

  The voice laughs. “Only if the terrorists are environmentalists. It belongs to a conservation group from Ohio.”

  “Ohio … why in hell does that matter?”

  “Gotta go.”

  Parker sits up straight, like every bone in his spine has just fused together in one hard column. “No! Damnit, tell me why it matters!”

  “Because of the guy who’s the chairman of the conservation group.”

  And he mentions the name, and before Parker can react, his hired contact hangs up the phone.

  CHAPTER 62

  WHEN HER PHONE rings, Marsha Gray answers it before the second tone chimes through.

  “Yes,” she says, flipping on the recording function on her phone.

  “You know who this is,” comes the voice of the President’s chief of staff.

  She yawns. “We’ve shared so many intimate moments, how can I forget?”

  “Stow it,” he says. “I’ve got information—what you call actionable intelligence.”

  She swings her legs out of her bed, grabs a pencil and notepad from the nightstand. Pencils always write, they never run out of ink, and they never freeze in cold weather.

  Marsha says, “Parker, I love it when you try to talk macho and all, but get on with it.”

  She senses he’s trying to contain his temper, and that makes her smile. He says, “East Dominion Road, number fourteen. A rural farmhouse. It’s in a town next to where the horse farm is located. Walton.”

  Marsha quickly writes it down. “Good intelligence?”

  “Excellent intelligence.”

  “Nice change of pace,” she says. “What do you want?”

  “I think you know.”

  Marsha checks the time. “Remind me, sir. I need to have clear and crisp orders.”

  “Whoever’s in that house … they don’t get out.”

  “All right,” she says. “And Grissom?”

  “If that gets the job done, then do it.”

  She looks at the time again. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Just get there,” he says. “And report when you do so.”

  Parker hangs up and so does Marsha. She yawns, gets out of bed, and goes to her closet. It seems this particular weird and important job is about to come to an end, and that’s when things can get hairy indeed. It’s one thing to get to a point and make the shot.

  Getting out in one piece is just as important.

  Marsha opens the closet, switches on the light, notes the various bits and pieces of gear she’s accumulated during her career in the Corps and then her freelance life.

  Time, she thinks, to go full battle rattle.

  CHAPTER 63

  WHEN HE GETS off the phone with Marsha Gray, Parker paces around the office for a moment. Lots of pieces are starting to fall together, but he’s concerned about Marsha saying it might take some time to get to that remote farmhouse.

  He sits down, looks at the overhead maps and detailed information about the house in Virginia on his computer screen.

  Well.

  He picks up his private phone, makes another call.

  This morning is too important to rely on one person, as good as she is.

  At the offices of Global Strategic Solutions at Crystal City in Arlington, Virginia, Rupert Munson, an executive vice president of internal operations, is skimming the morning news headlines on his office computer when his phone rings. Rupert likes to get a feel for what’s going on out there in the world, but he never depends on what he calls the “dinosaur media,” like the Post or the Times or any of the cable channels. He reads those out-of-the-way reporters and commentators, people he trusts because they believe the same things he does, and right now the news is whether or not the busty lobbyist found with President Tucker wasn’t in fact the former girlfriend of the president of Russia.

  There are some blurry photos posted on the internet that seem to make the case, and as Rupert picks up his phone, he sourly thinks that in his lifetime, not once has there been a President he has respected or admired. Maybe Reagan—although Reagan was too liberal for Rupert’s tastes—but that was before his time.

  He answers the phone with, “Munson,” and one of the corporation’s operators says, “Mr. Munson, I have the White House on the line for you.”

  Earlier he had been a bit sleepy from having stayed up too late last night, surfing his usual internet bookmarks, but those few words have just snapped him wide awake.

  “Who is it?” he asks.

  The operator replies, “He didn’t identify himself, but he did provide a code phrase that indicates that he is at the White House. Before the call proceeds, on your phone, you need to press the E-one switch.”

  On the mess of buttons on his phone console is a green switch marked E-1—meaning Encryption One—and when he presses the switch, the call between here and the White House is now encrypted. Rupert doesn’t like the E-1 channel because more often than not, the call is filled with static and has odd echoes, as if he were talking to someone at the bottom of a well, but this call is clear and sharp.

  The nameless operator says, “Your party is now on the line,” and there’s a click as the operator signs off, and he says, “Rupert Munson here.”

  “Rupert? Parker Hoyt, chief of staff for the President.”

  Holy crap. Rupert switches the phone from one hand to the other. “Mr. Hoyt, what can I do for you?”

  Hoyt’s voice is clear and sounds exactly like him, although the voice is also troubled. “We have a situation that’s developed here … and I need the corporation’s assistance.”

  Rupert knows of Parker Hoyt’s tenure at the corporation and instantly realizes he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t something important.

  “Go ahead, sir, what is it?”

  Hoyt says, “The scandal in Atlanta … it’s impacting our operations here, and it’s impacting the President’s decision-making process. We have actionable and detailed intelligence that a terrorist cell from ISIS has infiltrated the country and is set to start a series of terrorist attacks, perhaps as early as this afternoon.”

  Good God, Rupert thinks. “Go on, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “The President has been notified that this ISIS cell is located at a remote farmhouse in rural Virginia. Despite all of the briefings, the pleadings, and meetings, the President is refusing to take action from federal forces. He won’t even contact the Virginia State Police or local authorities. He just wants to wait it out.”

  Rupert says, “I understand, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “I think you and I both know what waiting it out will mean. It will mean putting hundreds of innocent civilians at risk because the federal government won’t take prompt, severe, and necessary action. And that’s where you and the corporation come in.”

  Rupert is starting to feel the initial thrill of being part of something confidential and important, something so necessary in the fight against terroris
m. “We’re here to help, Mr. Hoyt.”

  Parker seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I knew I could count on you and my company,” he says.

  CHAPTER 64

  OUR QUIET BLACK Chevrolet Suburban pulls to a halt in the early-morning mist on East Dominion Road. The lane is one-vehicle wide, cracked and bumpy, and on either side, it’s bordered by high grass, stone walls, and distant lines of woods. For the past several minutes, we haven’t seen a single passing vehicle. A mailbox, dented and rusting, is leaning over toward the dirt driveway. Black-and-white stick-on numerals denote 14.

  Scotty is driving and says, “Why don’t we just roar right up?”

  “Because it’s not going to happen,” I say. “You folks are going to stay right here while I wander up and see what’s what. We roar in, we make a big appearance, a loud show, who the hell knows what might happen.”

  From the rear Pamela says, “For God’s sake, Sally, that place could be filled with terrorists, or the KKK, or anybody else that has a grudge against CANARY and cut off her damn finger. You’re really going up there alone?”

  I open the door. “I am. But I’ll have my Motorola up and running, and I’ll call if I need backup. But let me make this clear— all of you are staying right here until I contact you. Or if you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes.”

  Tanya says, “What happens in sixteen minutes?”

  I nod to the big man behind the steering wheel. “Then you can assume that Scotty is now acting special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division, and you’ll follow his orders.”

  I step out, take a cool breath, and rearrange Amelia’s thick red scarf around my neck.

  My Amelia, I think, as I go up the dirt road. My poor little girl. I’m grateful my sister is taking care of my sweet Amelia, and I would give anything to stop this walk so I could phone and talk to my little girl, but I stay with my job.

  It’s quite the cool morning, and I’m glad for Amelia’s scarf. I unbutton my black wool coat so I can get easy access to my SIG Sauer, but I’m gambling I won’t need it this morning.

  Birds flitter overhead, going into the brush and trees. I have a pang of memory, of being in the Girl Scouts, and I wish I had remembered the identification of all those birds I had studied back then.

  I wish I remembered lots of things.

  Like that giddiness and pure joy that came from those first years with my Ben. Once, those memories would take my breath away, but now that’s gone.

  My poor murdered Ben.

  The dirt driveway rises up and swings to the left. Here the brush has been trimmed back, and a one-story cabin is before me. In front of the cabin is dirt and gravel. Two vehicles are parked to the left, under a grove of pine trees. One is a black Mercedes-Benz S-class with red-white-and-blue Ohio license plates. The other is a black heavy-duty Ford pickup truck, with one hell of a dented front area. It looks like someone has welded lengths of black steel beams to the front of the truck.

  I shake my head.

  Not my concern.

  I step closer to the cabin. There’s a simple door in the center opening onto a porch, and next to the door is a carefully stacked pyramid of firewood. There are two light-brown wicker chairs, and one of them is occupied by a man.

  He’s in his late sixties or early seventies, thick white hair, wearing a plain blue Oxford button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and polished brown loafers. He may be old, but his face is set and his brown eyes are staring right at me.

  Across his lap is a shotgun. I can’t tell the manufacturer at this distance, but it looks clean and well maintained.

  “Good morning,” I call out to him.

  He nods, says nothing.

  I get closer.

  “This is a very pretty area of Virginia,” I say. “Nice and remote, out of the way, with no noisy neighbors. Even has a river out in the rear of this house.”

  The man doesn’t even nod. By now I’m looking at his hands. They are loosely clasped over the shotgun. I hate to think of it, but if his hands start moving, I’m going to have to react.

  I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.

  “How are you today, sir?”

  Finally, his head looks to me. “Who are you?”

  I say, “Sally Grissom, special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division.”

  The expression on his face doesn’t change. “What do you want?”

  I can’t believe I’m saying the words that I’m saying, but I go ahead.

  “Mr. Fuller,” I say. “I need to see your daughter, Grace.”

  CHAPTER 65

  OUTSIDE A REMOTE contractor hangar at Andrews Air Force Base, Paul Moody is seated in the pilot’s seat of a heavily modified OH-58H Kiowa helicopter, going through his preflight checklist, ready for his sudden and important morning mission. For years he has flown in the service of his country for the US Army, flying helicopters similar to this one in Iraq, Afghanistan, Nigeria, and on two very classified occasions, in northern Iran.

  It’s a clear day, and the checklist is going smoothly. For the past sixteen months, he’s been flying for Global Strategic Solutions and has loved every minute of it. He gets to fly in-country, for one, which means no matter where he lands, there will always be clean water and good toilets. He knows that doesn’t sound like much, but after years of flying in those barren moonscapes on the other side of the globe, where a hole in the ground is considered a toilet and the water is always warm and heavily chlorinated, it’s sheer luxury to close out a mission and still be in the States.

  Not to mention the dating opportunities with women who don’t have husbands or brothers around to cut your head off if you try to hold their hand.

  Most of the missions he’s done for the corporation have been providing air security for VIPs coming for a visit in the States— more often than not, classified visits, where, if noticed, a certain VIP would have been arrested by the FBI on war crimes charges. And twice he has gone “weapons hot” in supporting a law-enforcement mission—he never asked too many questions— which ended up with tractor trailer trucks on remote highways in the West being shot up at night and crashing into remote ravines.

  Still, some days, he missed flying those missions overseas, a lot of time flying solo, providing close-in air support for guys on the ground who needed help, and needed help fast. His job was to put him and his bird between the enemy and the good guys, and one thing he learned early on was that if he wasn’t getting shot at, he wasn’t doing his job.

  The engine is now running smoothly and he toggles his radio. After getting clearance for takeoff, and with his left hand on the collective lever and his right on the cyclic stick, he slowly takes off and makes course to Walton. There’s a farmhouse in that town that is hiding an ISIS cell, and Paul is about to pay them a very quick and violent visit.

  He changes the radio frequency, contacts the support office for his company’s internal operations division.

  “This is GSS Tango Four,” he announces. “Outbound.” Somewhere in Crystal City, a woman’s voice replies via his earphones. “Copy that, Tango Four.”

  He’s quickly gaining altitude in the clear blue sky. The sides of his helicopter are flanked by two weapons pylons, each carrying a classified modification of the AGM-114 Hellfire. These particular missiles are made of a specially compressed cellulose material and exotic false-positive explosive compounds, meaning that when they reduce the farmhouse to rubble, forensics investigators will find traces of what will appear to be an exploded propane gas tank.

  And no evidence he was ever there.

  CHAPTER 66

  MARSHA GRAY NEARLY bursts out laughing as she drives by the black Chevrolet Suburban pulled over to the side on East Dominion Road, all of the Secret Service agents inside looking up the dirt driveway. Talk about being blind to threats. If she was carrying something heavier than her usual sniper rifle, like an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, she could have easily ventilated that Suburban and its passe
ngers in two full sweeps.

  But nobody inside pays her Odyssey minivan any notice as she glides by. No wonder these clowns lost the First Lady.

  She travels a number of meters until the road curves and she loses sight of the Secret Service vehicle in the minivan’s rearview mirror. Good. And even better … a dirt driveway to the left. Marsha pulls in, and after ten meters or so, there’s a grassy section to the right between two maple trees. She backs in the minivan and switches off the engine, leaves the key in the ignition. If she needs to move quickly, there’ll be no time to fumble around for the key.

  Marsha gets out and retrieves her duffel bag from the rear seat, holding her sniper rifle and other equipment and gear. She quickly changes, putting on her familiar battle rattle—save for the helmet, no need to carry three-plus pounds of unnecessary weight on your noggin—and starts to slip through the woods. Marsha has always had the ability to navigate with the minimum of gear, and she uses the map and compass application on her iPhone to move her through the woods and small fields.

  A flash of history comes to her: perhaps this same territory was once trod by Union and Confederate troops, duking it out more than a century ago.

  If so, then history is about to be made here again.

  She climbs up a slight hill that dips down into a muddy ravine, and then easily climbs up and … there you go.

  A nice view of the side of the cabin, and there are two people talking, a man sitting down in a chair, and a woman standing in front of him.

  From her duffel bag, she pulls out her binoculars. She crawls through the brush and gets a proper view. Binoculars up and a brief focus. Old man comes into view. Looks like he’s got a shotgun across his lap. What the hell? she thinks. Does he have a moonshine still in the rear?

  Marsha shifts her view.

  Ah, there you go.

  That Secret Service agent, dressed in a black coat and wearing that stupid red scarf from before.

  Talk, talk, talk.

  She lowers her right hand, finds her iPhone, slides through the screens, and her outgoing phone call is picked up after one ring.