I took slow, measured breaths and gritted my teeth.
Oh, but I disagree.
~~**~~
Chapter 20
I spent the afternoon in a flurry of activity, much of it carried out by the nanomites. While they were working, I jumped online and studied my objective. A lot of information was freely available; what wasn’t in the public realm, I would pick up when I arrived.
The nanomites had booked a Business Select flight for Kathy Sawyer. My American Airlines flight would leave at 8:24 p.m. and put me into D.C. early morning. The flight backtracked to Los Angeles before going on to Dulles in D.C., but it was the fastest route available at such short notice. I would have plenty of time while en route to think through my goals and how best to achieve them.
Gemma Keyes, since you will not arrive until morning, we have booked a rental car for you and reserved a room at the Hilton Washington Dulles Airport so you can freshen up.
“Thank you, Nano. We will be confined in an airplane for the duration of both flights. Will you . . . how will you manage Kathy Sawyer’s appearance all that time?” It was the first extended foray we’d attempted. I wasn’t nervous . . . exactly. The nanomites and I could likely handle any situation that might arise, but I would feel better if I heard the same from them.
Yes, Gemma Keyes, we will manage. However, to lessen the strain on the cloud and decrease the possibilities of mistakes, we will modify your persona as Kathy Sawyer. She will look even younger, closer to your age and closer to your actual appearance; it will take less energy to sustain this façade.
My head filled with visions of middle-aged Kathy and the dark, puffy shadows hanging under her eyes. “But what about her age on her I.D.? Her photo?”
Airline and TSA personnel will scrutinize the license for a few seconds at a time. We will manipulate the I.D. while it is being examined. The I.D. will read age 28 and the photo will align with your appearance.
I liked it—and said so. “That’s ingenious, Nano.”
Yes, Gemma Keyes; it is also more expeditious and efficient.
“Well, I like expeditious and efficient. Fast and effective are always good.”
I started packing.
Gemma Keyes. May we offer a suggestion?
The nanomites were learning manners and social forms. Interesting. I stopped what I was doing. “Um, sure, Nano. What?”
May we suggest that you go shopping? A higher standard of apparel will present you in a more favorable light during our trip. We recommend the purchase of a suitcase also.
“Oh, you do, do you?” And since when had they acquired fashion sense?
I glanced at the duffle bag I usually carried my workout gear in and the few clothes I was stuffing into it: Jeans. Sweat pants and long-sleeved t-shirts.
Drat.
Yes, Gemma Keyes. We estimate that you have two and one-half hours of unscheduled time in which to make your purchases before leaving for the Sunport.
You know, I’ve never been much of a clotheshorse, but most of my jeans and shirts hung loosely on me since I’d become as active as I was. Then I remembered who I’d be meeting, and that cinched my decision.
“Right. Good call, Nano.”
You will need a better coat, Gemma Keyes, and boots, hat, and gloves. The weather is much different at our destination.
They popped up the D.C. weather: A whopping 44° with a 10° wind chill off the Chesapeake Bay. Two inches of snow on the ground.
I grumbled at the added tasks and effort, but twenty minutes later I arrived at Dillard’s in Winrock Center. I chose two outfits to wear on the plane and one especially nice ensemble that would, I hoped, be presentable enough for my “encounter.” To those purchases I added a camel-colored wool calf-length coat, matching knit beret and gloves, a pair of fleece-lined, water-resistant boots with thermoplastic rubber soles, and three pairs of thick socks. Then I selected a Hartmann herringbone “spinner” case and headed for the cashier.
As I was on my way to check out, I pulled my credit card and license directly from my hip pocket.
“Huh.”
No wallet, no purse. Just a hip pocket? Wouldn’t I be the odd duck?
I wandered over to the handbag displays and chose a small shoulder bag and matching wallet. Caught a glimpse of myself in one of those mirrors customers use when they try on hats, scarves, and jewelry.
“Oh, crud.”
What is wrong, Gemma Keyes?
“Look at my hair! I-I look like I’m deranged.”
My hair was a shaggy, disheveled mess. Well, I’d been invisible for weeks, and my grooming had, frankly, gone to the dogs. No one had been able to see me—including myself—so why bother?
The nanomites said nothing. I sighed and turned from the mirror. Headed (again) for the cashier. Paid for my purchases.
Gemma Keyes.
I gathered the two shopping bags and wheeled my suitcase away from the counter. “Yes?”
You have an appointment for a cut and style at Mark Pardo’s on Juan Tabo in twenty minutes.
“What? How did you do that?”
Your stylist had a cancelation. We booked you into her open slot.
“Had a cancelation? Pretty convenient, isn’t it?”
The client called your stylist and rescheduled.
“Really?”
This is what the stylist believes.
“Wait. Let me figure this out. So, first you pretended to be the client who ‘called’ the stylist to reschedule her appointment. Then you pretended to be the stylist who ‘called’ the actual client to move her appointment?”
Yes. That opened up an appointment today. We booked you into the open slot.
I shook my head, concerned that I might need to give the nanomites a lesson in integrity. “Okaaay. Not entirely ethical but, given the gravity of our mission, quite convenient for me.”
I hurried out of the mall toward my car when a particularly ironic thought hit me. “So, Nano. Um, you’re not going to throw a chipping, chittering, stinging fit when the stylist washes and cuts my hair, are you?”
I can only describe what followed as the nano version of The Cold Shoulder. It was so quiet in my head that I could have sworn I heard faint echoes.
I’d loaded my loot into the back of the Escape and left the mall parking lot before they deigned to speak to me again.
The discourtesy of your question was entirely uncalled for, Gemma Keyes.
How’d they do that? They even managed to sound aggrieved!
I giggled all the way to the salon.
An hour later I left Pardo’s feeling like a new woman. My clean, shoulder-length hair was artfully feathered until it framed my face and bounced on my shoulders. I ran my hand through the shaped tendrils, marveling at how a good cut could make such a difference.
I rushed home, tore labels from new clothes, and packed. Thirty minutes after that, with my stylish case in tow and my new purse slung over my shoulder, I left for the Sunport. An hour later, I boarded my flight.
***
The house was purported to be the most secure in the country, and it probably was—but the Secret Service could not have prepared for me. For us.
The visitors approved for the last tour of the day were lined up at the visitors’ entrance off East Executive Avenue, so I, hidden by the nanomites, lined up with them. Waited while they checked in through security. Went inside with them.
I followed along with my tour group and paid attention to the guide’s spiel because I’d never been inside the White House and, well, the history and grandeur of the place was all very interesting and inspiring.
Besides, I had plenty of time.
I trailed along as the group marched through the East Wing lobby, down the East Colonnade, through the East Garden Room into the White House’s ground level. The guide led us through the east end of the Center Hall and into the Vermeil Room (nice portrait of Lady Bird Johnson over the fireplace), the China Room (lots of official White House china place settin
gs in glass-fronted cases), and the library (lots of books: no surprise there).
While the group crowded into each room to gawk and listen, I stayed out in the hall where I was able to maneuver and keep out of the way. I peeked into the rooms as the guide lady talked. The house was festive with poinsettias, garlands, and lights; I counted three decorated Christmas trees just between the East Wing lobby and the Center Hall.
The Center Hall. I stared ahead, down that imposing gallery. The tour group wasn’t allowed to go that direction, and two guards were stationed there to make sure no one tried to. But, if I were to head down the Center Hall and cross the length of the White House, I’d come to the Palm Room. If I walked through the Palm Room, I’d end up on the West Colonnade. There, I’d pass the rose garden and approach the West Wing where the Oval Office was. Where the President and his Secret Service detail were.
No worries. I had different plans.
The guide led the group from the east end of the Center Hall up a flight of marble stairs to the State Floor. We trooped into the East Room (it was big and mostly empty) then through a connecting door into the Green Room. (Surprise! The Green Room has green wallpaper.) I’m partial to watermarked silk, so I liked the look. We crossed from the Green Room into the Blue Room (nice oval carpet and a lot of blue, of course) and then into the Red Room (cool red sofa with carved, ornate feet partially covered in gold-leaf).
After a brief visit to the State and Family Dining Rooms and a walk halfway back down the red-carpeted Cross Hall, the tour group took a left into the formal Entrance Hall where heads of state are received. We marched down the Entrance Hall stairs and exited through the North Portico facing Pennsylvania Avenue and Lafayette Park. The tour guide led her group down the drive toward a guard shack on Pennsylvania where they were processed out. As it was a Friday and ours was the last tour of the day, my group exited close to 1:30 p.m.
I didn’t leave the grounds with my group. Instead, I hung around under the portico and enjoyed the view from this side of the White House perimeter fence. After all, not many people got a leisurely opportunity to stand and gawk from my perspective. For twenty minutes, I watched the tourists lining the fence as they pointed and peered through the iron bars. I wondered what they would have thought, had they been able to see me.
Then I got down to business. I still had hours to kill, but I needed the time to better acquaint myself with the Secret Service’s protocols and security measures.
So, I took a little walk.
It’s a common sight for DC police to openly patrol the public face of the White House, either on foot or bicycle. The public side is outside the White House fence; inside the fence, Secret Service personnel walk their routes discreetly, and an unknown number of snipers watch from the White House’s rooftop and from a select number of buildings surrounding Lafayette Park. I kept out of the Secret Service’s way, the nanomites steering me as I walked, but I kept my eyes open, memorizing the lay of the land and the number and placement of agents.
Just in case.
An asphalt walkway led west from the portico; I strolled down the walkway onto the West Wing’s driveway. The drive wrapped around in front of the lobby’s north-facing exterior doors.
A lone Marine stands post outside those doors whenever the President is in his office. Although the guard’s presence is largely ceremonial in nature, the fact that the Marine stood there this day told me where the President was.
I didn’t get too close; I just observed as the Marine acted as doorman to whomever came in and out of the West Wing. Actual protection of the President falls to the Secret Service and, within the West Wing, the agents directly assigned to the President’s protective detail are close by, an ever-present force to be reckoned with.
Just so you know, there’s more to White House security than the Secret Service agents themselves. For example, while the President is at work, his detail stands outside the Oval Office, not inside. However, rather than watching through peepholes or using cameras to keep an eye on their protectee, the Service installed weight-sensitive pressure pads under the carpet. That way they know exactly where the President is within the Oval Office at all times. If he were to, God forbid, collapse onto the floor, his detail would infer the situation immediately.
But, again, I wouldn’t be approaching the man in his office.
The Service also utilizes high-tech electronic technologies to control access to restricted areas of the White House. The type and placement of these technologies aren’t made public, but I was confident that whenever I encountered motion sensors or motion-activated cameras, the nanomites would handle them—one way or another.
The situation is a bit different in the Residence, which encompasses the two floors above the State Floor. Access to these two floors is tightly controlled by agents standing post at the entrance points. Within the Residence? If I encountered a few of the above-mentioned technologies in the halls, they would not present a problem.
I supposed that I might need to dodge a maid or an usher upstairs. The White House’s domestic and service staff consists of ninety-six full-time and two-hundred-fifty part-time employees including butlers, ushers, maids, chefs, plumbers, doormen, and florists. Most of the staff works behind the scenes (the White House has two levels below ground), but a number of them have access to the Residence. Fortunately, the President and his wife preferred to ready themselves for bed rather than keep staff up late unnecessarily.
I returned to the North Portico. The door was locked, but the nanomites disabled the security device attached to the door, then unlocked the door and spoofed the video feed so it did not show the door opening and closing as I entered. I stepped inside, turned right, and wandered west through the Center Hall. Along the way, the nanomites swarmed ahead of me, drawing energy from every electrical box and defeating whatever security devices they encountered.
I put my head in a few doorways and, a couple of rooms before the end of the hall, found what I was looking for: the Secret Service’s command center.
The nanomites flooded into their network. I went with them. We scoured the schematics of the house, those closely guarded details, and uploaded them and all the security protocols to Alpha Tribe. It was quite enlightening, the many physical and technological measures employed to keep the President safe. For his sake, I was pleased—although their deterrents wouldn’t matter a snap to us.
I’d picked this day because the President and First Lady were attending a concert with the Japanese Ambassador and his wife and would be returning home late. Although tomorrow was Saturday, the President had an early breakfast meeting with the Vice President, a working breakfast to focus on an important piece of legislation the House was preparing. These details were covered in the President’s public schedule.
I’d had to infer additional factors that shaped my planning. Such as? Such as how most people agree that the President and his wife enjoy a happy marriage.
Once, during an interview, he had let slip an intimate comment: “Whenever the First Lady and I have a late night and I have an early start the following day, I have the couch made up in our living room. That way, my early wakeup call doesn’t disturb the First Lady’s sleep.
“We’re not getting any younger,” he’d joked on late-night television. “Mrs. Jackson is a light sleeper, and we both have busy, demanding lives, so I take pains not to disturb her when I have a short night and she has an opportunity to catch up on her sleep.”
I’d finished my reconnaissance and had a long wait before me, so I tiptoed past the agent guarding the stairs to the Residence. Once I reached the Residence floor, I entered the West Sitting Hall that separates the President’s quarters from the Center Hall and divides the Master Bedroom from the President’s personal dining room. Of course, I made for the dining room.
Well, I was hungry.
I found the tiny kitchen just off of the dining room, and the fridge was nicely stocked. I made two thick sandwiches, piled some fruit into a bowl, and
grabbed a bottle of water.
Just to see what Mr. and Mrs. Jackson liked to snack on, I opened a couple of cupboards. That’s when I spotted a plate of fancy cookies bristling with shaved coconut and chocolate chips. The White House chef is one of the best in the world and the cookies looked, well, amazing. I took two, then added two more, promising to apologize to the President for pilfering his pantry when we spoke.
Armed with sustenance, I walked east down the hall and peeked into some empty bedrooms. I chose the Lincoln Bedroom to wait in so that I could later tell Zander I’d spent part of a night there. I picked a spot on the other side of the bed on which to sit. My dinner would be out of sight, should anyone enter unexpectedly.
The Lincoln bed is huge, by the way. It is eight feet long and has an enormous carved-wood headboard. The bed would have been plenty big for Mr. Lincoln, but I read somewhere that he never got a chance to sleep in it.
I plopped down onto the carpet, leaned my back against the mattress, and arranged my dinner beside me. Turns out the White House staff keeps a very tidy house; the carpet was, literally, clean enough to eat off of. I settled down in my casual setting, enjoyed my dinner, and reviewed the details I intended to share with the most powerful man in the world.
When I finished eating, I decided to check out the top floor, also technically part of the President’s Residence. I found the stairs next to the President’s elevator, tiptoed up them, and came out in the top floor’s Center Hall. The floor had six more bedrooms, an office, a sitting room, game room, music room, workout room, solarium, and lots of storage and miscellaneous-use rooms for whatever the President or his family needed. However, what I was most interested in was outside.
I eased out the Solarium’s door onto the Promenade, the walkway that ran around the roofline. The walkway did not make an entire 360° circuit of the house (it ended on the north side of the roofline), but it came close to it. I wandered from one end of the Promenade to the other, relishing a view of the White House grounds and Washington D.C. that few individuals can lay claim to have enjoyed.
Stealth Retribution Page 20