The White House

by Roland Smith

  “They’re having a press conference,” he said. “I wouldn’t recommend going in right now unless you want to be swarmed.”

  “Is the president doing the briefing?” Angela asked.

  Norton shook his head. “The sweaty press secretary is fielding questions, trying to explain why the president inexplicably canceled all of his appointments. Of course the secretary has no idea why, which is why he’s sweating.” He looked at P.K. “Do you know why?”

  P.K. shrugged. “I haven’t seen Dad in two days.”

  I wondered what it would be like not seeing your dad for a couple of days while you’re living under the same roof.

  “Maybe we should just head over to the Rose Garden,” Norton suggested.

  “Might as well,” P.K. agreed.

  We started in that direction, but we were stopped by a familiar voice behind us.

  “Angela! Q!”

  Shocked, we turned around. It was Dirk Peski—short, unshaved, unsavory as usual, with two digital cameras hanging around his thick neck.

  “How’d you get in here?” Angela asked.

  Dirk held up a laminated ID on a lanyard tangled with his camera straps. “Member of the press,” he said.

  “I hardly think being a freelance tabloid photographer qualifies you for White House press credentials,” Angela said.

  I elbowed her in the side. Norton looked like he was about to draw his gun and shoot him. Dirk was oblivious to the potential threat. He did work for the tabloids and was known as the Paparazzi Prince. Our first encounter with him had been in Grand Island, Nebraska, where he had tracked us down and caused a minor riot and blackmailed Boone into letting him have an exclusive interview with our parents. Our second encounter had been in Philadelphia, where we found out that Dirk was using his obnoxious paparazzi persona as a cover. He actually worked for Malak. Or as his partner, Ziv, told us: “I’m the monkey that watches the leopard’s tail. I’m her second pair of eyes and ears. I make certain that no one stalks her while she stalks her prey. But she’s a good leopard. She only kills those who deserve to die.” I assumed this job description applied to Dirk as well, although he looked more like a chimp than a monkey.

  “I’m just kidding, Dirk,” Angela said, getting my not-so-subtle hint. “It’s great to see you! Dad and Blaze will be thrilled you’re here.”

  Nothing could be further from the truth, but Roger and Mom had no idea who Dirk really was or what was going on. And we couldn’t tell them. If they found out they would very likely give up everything they had worked so hard for.

  “Yeah,” Dirk said. “I wanted to surprise them.”

  Sickened would be more like it, I thought.

  “This is Will,” Angela said, “President Culpepper’s son. And this is Agent Norton.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Dirk said, barely giving either of them a glance. “I need to talk to you kids alone.”

  “What for?” Norton asked.

  “For about two minutes,” Dirk said. “Private family business.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  Norton stared at me for a second, then gave a curt nod. “Stand where I can see you.” He looked at Dirk. “Hand your cameras over.”

  “Sure thing,” Dirk said, giving him the cameras. “If you take any good shots, let me know and I’ll e-mail them to you.”

  Norton did not smile.

  We walked about fifty feet away before Dirk stopped.

  “What’s going on?” Angela asked.

  “I need one of those invitations.”

  “How do you know about the invitations?” I asked.

  “Boone.”

  “When did you talk to him?” Angela asked.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Dirk said. “Mr. S.S. is giving us the stink eye.”

  I glanced back. He was right. Norton was staring at us.

  “And the deal is,” Dirk continued, “you need to give the invitation to me without him seeing.”

  That was going to be a trick, with the invitations inside Angela’s bag.

  “We’ll have to ask Boone,” Angela said.

  “Go ahead,” Dirk said. “But make it quick.”

  I showed the screen to Angela.

  “How are we going to get Will to fill it out?” Angela asked. “The invitations are supposed to be for staff members. He was a little uncomfortable filling out an invitation for Agent Norton.”

  “He asked for an invitation?” Dirk asked.

  “For a friend of his,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “A guy named Patrick James Callaghan.”

  Dirk seemed to make a mental note of this, then said, “Keep the invitation blank. I’ll fill it in later.”

  Dirk didn’t look like he was capable of counterfeiting P.K.’s calligraphy, but that was his problem. My problem was trying to figure out how to slip him an invitation without the hawk-eyed Norton seeing it.

  “We’ll still need a name,” Angela said. “We have to send a list to the social secretary. They’ll be checking the invitation against the list at the gate.”

  “Warren Parker,” Dirk said.

  “Who’s that?” Angela asked.

  “No one you’d recognize.”

  “I’ll handle the invitation,” I said to Angela. “Give me your pack.”

  I palmed a deck of cards from my pocket as she set the pack down and opened it.

  “Want to see a new card trick?” I asked Dirk.

  “What?”

  “Just play along,” I whispered.

  “Sure,” Dirk said too loudly. “I’d love to see a new trick.”

  I reached inside the pack and pulled out an invitation, but made it look like I was fishing out the deck of cards. I handed the deck to Dirk. “Look them over to make sure it’s an ordinary deck.”

  Dirk gave the cards a cursory look. “Yeah, they look normal.”

  “Mix them up,” I said.

  Magicians always have to be ready for the unexpected. As Dirk was mixing the cards, P.K. started over to see the trick, followed by Agent Norton.

  “Nice going, Slick,” Dirk whispered.

  “The trick’s over,” I whispered back.

  “What do you—”

  P.K. reached us. Agent Norton stood about ten feet behind him.

  “Okay,” I said. “I want you to memorize three cards. Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can do that,” Dirk said.

  “Mix the cards up again really well.”

  He mixed them.

  “Give me the entire deck.”

  He passed me the deck.

  I looked at P.K. “Can you give me a hand?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean literally. Hold out your hand.”

  I started counting out the cards. “One…two…,” until I got to the last card, “…forty-nine.” I looked at Dirk. “I asked for the entire deck.”

  “I gave you the entire deck,” Dirk said.

  I shook my head. “It’s three cards short. You’re holding out on me.”

  Dirk held up his pudgy hands. “I gave you what you gave me.”

  This is where it got tricky, because I was no longer in control of the real trick.

  “There are three cards in the right pocket of your suit jacket.”

  “No there aren’t,” Dirk said.

  “Yes there are,” I said. “But before you pull them out tell me the three cards you chose.”

  “Three of diamonds, five of hearts, ace of spades.”

  “Good. Reach into your pocket…slowly.” I didn’t usually add slowly to the trick, but I wanted to give Dirk a chance to figure out what the real trick really was.

  He reached into his pocket and started feeling around, and then he smiled. “That’s pretty good, Q.” He carefully pulled out the three cards leaving the blank invitation in his pocket. “You should have an act in Vegas.”

  “Maybe I will someday. Hold up the cards.”

  The cards were the three of diamonds,
five of hearts, and ace of spades.

  “How’d you do that?” P.K. asked.

  “Yeah,” Dirk echoed. “How did you do that?”

  Agent Norton didn’t seem to care. He handed Dirk his cameras.

  “Magic,” I said.

  The East Room

  Halfway to the East Room we were intercepted by another Secret Service agent. It was the same woman who had greeted us at the gate the night before.

  Norton looked at his watch, which just happened to be an Omega Seamaster exactly like ours. Apparently, Malak wasn’t the only agent to do J.R. a big favor. Either that or Norton just liked the watch.

  “Time for me to get some shut-eye,” he said. “This is Agent Call. She’ll be with you until after dinner. I’ll be back to take you to the concert. How many invitations do you have left?”

  “I’m not sure,” Angela said. “Not many. Do you need another one?”

  “No,” Norton answered. “I just want to make sure that when you give the last one out you e-mail the list to Wayne Arbuckle. Otherwise, the people you invited won’t be able to get through the gate.”

  “Nice watch,” I said. Norton had to have noticed that Angela and I were wearing the same watch he and the president wore when we left the Oval Office. Why hadn’t he said anything?

  “You’ve got good taste,” Norton said, and walked away.

  Agent Call was friendlier and more polished than Norton, which turned out to be a little annoying. It meant that she gave us three feet instead of ten and rattled on like a White House tour guide.

  “Abigail Adams hung her laundry in here to dry,” she explained as we walked into the East Room. “It’s the biggest room in the White House.”

  It was filled with people cleaning, setting up chairs and tables, spreading tablecloths, and filling vases with beautiful flowers. No one was hanging laundry. Boone was standing on a small stage on the opposite side of the room, helping the roadies set up equipment. Buddy T. was next to him, saying something that Boone seemed to be totally ignoring. We walked over to them.

  Boone smiled.

  Buddy T. scowled. I never thought he liked us very much. He had tried to talk our parents out of having us come along on the tour.

  “How y’all doin’?” Boone said.

  The good ol’ boy dropping the “g” was fake. Boone used it only when he was playing the ancient roadie, which was most of the time.

  “We’re fine,” Angela said. “Boone, this is the president’s son, Will. And this is Agent Call.”

  “Pleasure to meet both of you,” Boone said, shaking their hands.

  “And this is Buddy T.,” Angela continued. “Our parents’ manager.”

  “I can’t believe that you only let three of my roadies in,” Buddy T. complained to Agent Call, ignoring P.K. “How do you expect me to set up a command performance with three guys?”

  “Security is tight at the White House,” Agent Call explained calmly. “I don’t know the details, but when they ran your people through our database, red flags must have come up. Sorry.”

  “Because of you they’re out partying in D.C. on my dime,” Buddy T. said. “And we’re doing this concert for free.”

  It was actually our parents’ dime. Our parents paid for everything, including Buddy T.’s salary. And they were performing for free, but the publicity they were getting by playing the White House would more than make up for the loss.

  Buddy T. was about to say more, but we were saved by the bell, or the song. His cell phone sounded with our parents’ number one hit, “Rekindled.” He walked away, yelling at the person on the other end.

  “Hey, Teddy?” Boone called to one of the other roadies. “Why don’t you give Will a tour of how all this equipment works?”

  A young guy with long brown hair came over. “Sure thing, Boone.”

  “Will’s the president’s son,” Boone said.

  “You can call me P.K.”

  “President’s Kid?” Teddy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. Follow me, P.K., and I’ll show you how we make musicians sound better than they really are.”

  “In your dreams, Ted,” Boone said. “I’ll take Q and Angela with me to get the last load of equipment.”

  Agent Call looked a little confused for a moment, then followed Teddy and P.K., which I think is exactly what Boone had in mind. He wanted to talk to us alone and knew that Agent Call would stick with P.K. Divide and conquer.

  He led us out to the semi carrying Match’s concert equipment. There were actually two trucks for the tour. The second one was on its way to the next gig. The semis would be hopscotching their way across the country for the next year. The truck was surrounded by half a dozen uniformed Secret Service agents and a couple of bomb-sniffing dogs.

  Angela and I climbed into the back of the truck first. As Boone followed, his shirt cuff hiked up and I noticed that he was wearing an Omega Seamaster on his wrist. It was the first time I’d seen him wearing a watch. He saw me staring at it and held it up so I could see it better. From the scratches on the band and bezel it looked like he’d had it for a long time.

  “I don’t know how many people J.R. has given these to,” he said. “But it’s a very exclusive club. It means he trusts you, and you can trust him. I was just as surprised as you were when he gave you yours. I haven’t worn mine in years, but thought I should slip it on in case I run into Malak again. I want her to know I can be trusted.”

  I think she already knew that. When we saw her in Philly she charged Boone and the SOS team with protecting her only daughter with their lives.

  “Agent Norton has a Seamaster too,” Angela said.

  Boone took off his watch and flipped it over. “He might just like the brand.” On the underside was another crystal showing the intricate mechanical movement inside the watch. Etched into the sapphire glass were ten tiny numbers: 8633726837.

  Angela and I took our Seamasters off and looked. They had the same numbers.

  “That used to be J.R.’s private landline, but he had it transferred over to his private cell number,” Boone said. “The only other agent I know, aside from me and Malak, who has one like ours is a guy named Pat Callaghan.”

  “Agent Norton asked P.K. for an invitation for Patrick Callaghan!” Angela said.

  “That’s interesting,” Boone said. “Maybe Norton’s in J.R.’s club after all.”

  “Who’s Pat Callaghan?” I asked.

  “Right now he’s an undercover protester camped across the street in Lafayette Park.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Boone shook his head. “Let’s hope he’s home getting cleaned up for the concert. Personal invitation or not, there’s no way they’d let him in looking the way he did early this morning when I talked to him.”

  “Why would he volunteer for that duty?” Angela asked.

  “He didn’t volunteer. He got booted out for some infraction, and the Secret Service has thousands of those.”

  “But he has the watch,” I said.

  “J.R. probably doesn’t even know he’s across the street. And Pat would never tell him. That’s part of the code: Thou shalt not whine to the president of the United States. Pat’s always been a little bit of a rogue. He makes up his own rules in order to get results. Kind of like your mom,” he said, looking at Angela. “Pat knows something’s up, and like all good agents, he knows more than he’s saying. Norton does too. I don’t know Norton, but it will be good to have Pat in the room. How many invitations do you have left?”

  “One,” Angela answered.

  “Give it to me. I want as many of our people in the East Room tonight as we can get. Do you know if J.R. is going to be at the concert?”

  I shook my head. “Even P.K. doesn’t know.”

  “J.R. won’t make up his mind until the very last second. He just sent everyone scrambling by announcing that he wanted to go golfing. The motorcade just pulled out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if halfway there he tells his
detail he’s changed his mind and wants to go to see the Washington Nationals play the New York Mets.”

  Angela handed Boone the last invitation. “You’ll have to fill it out yourself. Who’s it for?”

  “Vanessa.”

  Vanessa was the SOS team’s official driver. She was in her seventies. Aside from being a professional driver, she was very good with a throwing knife.

  I was keeping the list on my iPhone. I pulled it out. “I’ll need her last name.”

  “Orbit,” Boone said.

  I added her name, then copied the list and pasted it into an e-mail to Wayne Arbuckle. “I’m curious,” I said. “When I send this list to the social secretary, will he have my e-mail address?”

  Boone shook his head. “Not exactly. If he e-mails you back, it will go to a server inside the intellimobile, where X-Ray will screen it. If he wants you to reply, he’ll forward it to you.”

  “So our e-mail is screened?” Angela asked.

  “Everyone on the SOS team’s e-mail is screened, including mine,” Boone answered. “No secrets, at least among us.”

  “No privacy,” I added.

  “That too,” Boone said.

  “How did Arbuckle check out?” I asked.

  “He looks legit. No red flags. All the other names you sent checked out too, but that doesn’t mean much. Before anyone gets a job inside the White House, the FBI and Secret Service do thorough background checks. The mole or moles we’re trying to dig up will all have impeccable credentials. X-Ray is running backgrounds on everyone inside, but so far nothing has come up, which means we have to keep an eye on everyone.”

  “Who’s Warren Parker?” I asked, sending the e-mail.

  “Is that the name Dirk gave you?”

  I nodded.

  “I suspect that’s Ziv,” Boone answered. “Warren Parker isn’t his real name of course, nor is Ziv, for that matter. I met him at Starbucks this morning. He filled me in on what’s going on. When I told him about the invitations, he said he’d try to get Dirk inside to get one from you.”

  “So, what is going on?” Angela asked.

  “Your mother spent last night in a safe house in McLean, Virginia, with a young couple and their two small children. When she got up this morning the mother packed the SUV with the family’s clothes and the two kids, and took off. The husband had already left. They’re not coming back, which means they’re going to do something bad. Malak wanted us to find the mother and follow her. X-Ray managed to find the SUV—don’t ask me how—and Eben and another SOS guy, Everett, got on her tail. She went to Dulles Airport. In the short-term parking garage she turned the kids over to another woman, and they headed into the terminal. Everett followed the kids. Eben followed the mom in her SUV. The only problem was that the mother wasn’t in the SUV. It was being driven by another woman who managed to ditch Eben at the Tysons Corner mall. She went into a lingerie shop. If Eben followed her in, he’d stick out like an athletic cup, so he waited outside. She never came out. The SUV is still in the parking lot. There is not one shot of her on any of the mall surveillance cameras, though there are several shots of Eben looking like he’s going to go postal after he lost her.”