Daniel reached for the remote and jacked the volume up, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“The first family is on its way to church today,” the reporter was saying, her hair blowing in a light breeze. “Since neither the president nor the first lady were able to travel to Brussels for the coming celebration of One Europe, we had expected the president to make a short statement in honor of the occasion. But, as you can see, an urgent phone call has diverted him for a moment. . . .”
The reporter droned on about the scheduled festivities in London, Paris, Bonn, and Brussels, but Daniel scanned the background for another glimpse of Lauren. She had been wearing a summery white dress, not her typical business attire, and he didn’t think her usual routine called for her to be in the office on Sunday morning. But perhaps she planned to join the Stedmans at church.
Desperate to fill air time, the reporter, Kathleen somebody-or-other, turned to ask another broadcaster for his opinion about the upcoming European celebration. As they babbled about trivialities, Daniel saw Mrs. Stedman’s hand float out of the limo’s backseat. She gracefully gestured toward the portico where a host of dark-suited Secret Service agents waited, then her hand reached out to close the door. The stately automobile rolled forward, probably to collect the president, and an agent stepped up as if to reopen the door. Daniel leaned toward the television, hoping for another glimpse of Lauren, but a sudden blast nearly jarred him out of his chair.
Fear shot through Daniel as smoke and flames abruptly filled the screen. The jabbering reporter flew forward, the camera tilted crazily, and Daniel caught a glimpse of blue sky and gauzy clouds before the screen went black and the roar of absolute silence filled his ears.
“No!” A cold sweat prickled on Daniel’s jaw as his mind slowly took in the obvious, inconceivable truth. His heart pounding like a trip hammer, he stood, then turned toward the professor and pointed to the television, unable to speak.
“I saw.” A tremor passed over the professor’s pale face, and a sudden spasm of grief knit his brows. “What is the world coming to? Who would do such a thing?”
Daniel pressed his hand to the back of his neck and paced in a tight little square, his eyes fixed to the television screen. In less than ten seconds the director cut to the CNN newsroom, but the reporters in Atlanta wore blank looks and spoke with heavy, stumbling tongues—as numb with disbelief and shock as Daniel.
He heard the soft sound of sobbing in the newsroom. They watched the television, waiting, watching for someone who could give a word of explanation . . . or hope.
After a moment woven of eternity, one clear thought surfaced in Daniel’s mind. “I’ve got to call Lauren.”
“You’ll never get through.” The professor sank slowly back to his chair and pushed his hand through his thinning hair. “Wait. The television will tell us . . . as soon as they know.”
Daniel tried to sit, but in less than a moment he was pacing again, his stomach twisting in knots of anguish. Lauren had been standing under that portico when the bomb went off—if it was a bomb that caused that blinding flash. Was she hurt? In the hospital? Was anyone looking after her, or was everyone concentrating on saving the president and the first lady?
Just when Daniel thought he would explode from frustration, the news camera returned to Pennsylvania Avenue. A different reporter stood behind the tall black bars surrounding the White House, his face contorted in a spasm of grief.
“This is a scene we thought we’d never see,” he yelled into the microphone as sirens wailed in the background. “Apparently—from what we can gather—the president’s limousine exploded a few moments ago. The driver, a Secret Service agent, and the first lady were inside the car, and two agents were standing within ten feet of the vehicle. Kathleen Winstead, the CNN White House correspondent on the scene, was knocked off her feet and is being tended by the paramedics. The president was not inside the car. I repeat—the president was not harmed in the blast.”
“Where’s Lauren?” Daniel ground the words out between his teeth.
The reporter paused to wipe his cheek with the side of his hand. “I have heard an unconfirmed report that everyone inside the car, as well as the two agents standing nearby, were killed instantly. As you can imagine, debris from the explosion struck others in the vicinity, and several ambulances are lined up at the security check points. Officials will not allow ambulances into the area, but several wounded are being carried out on gurneys, and others are being airlifted to Walter Reed.”
Daniel drew a deep breath and forbade himself to tremble. “I’m going to Washington.”
He turned and looked at the professor, who nodded. “Go.” He waved Daniel toward the door. “Take care of her.”
Daniel did not have to be told twice.
For security reasons, Ronald Reagan Airport was shut down, but Daniel told his pilot to fly into Dulles instead. He didn’t care how long it took to get there, but he would reach Lauren if he had to dig under those barricaded walls and crawl through the infamous escape tunnels under the White House grounds. As a kid, he had prowled around the external tunnels at the Canadian NORAD SAGE complex, and none of the guards had ever caught on. Daniel had made a game out of it—lying low when the video cameras scanned the passageways, moving so slowly that the motion detectors didn’t pick up his movements, even coming in dripping wet from the lake to hide from the infrared sensors. He had never actually made it into the SAGE base, but he had undoubtedly annoyed more than a few security guards.
At the thought of guards, he opened his briefcase and double-checked his security passes. He had rummaged through his desk and files in a mad rush, tossing anything that might prove useful into his briefcase. In the clutter Daniel found three different security passes, two name badges, and a half-dozen letters from Lauren and President Stedman. He’d also tossed in an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills, in case a bribe should prove necessary. He didn’t think the White House staff would be particularly susceptible to bribery, but there were probably a million reporters and traffic cops around the place by now. A well-placed c-note could save lots of time.
Daniel settled back in his seat as the jet began its descent. An urge rose up within him—born of desperation, probably—but Daniel obeyed it and whispered an urgent prayer: “God, be with Lauren. Please. And help me find her.”
He repeated the prayer over and over again as the plane touched down. He didn’t think that God needed to be reminded in a continuous verbal loop, but something about the act of asking for help soothed Daniel’s spirit.
He was still silently reciting the prayer like a mantra when he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him as close to the White House as possible.
Three hours and a thousand dollars later, Daniel began to make progress in his search for Lauren. The sight of cold, hard cash prompted a cameraman outside Lafayette Park to divulge the fact that Lauren had been airlifted from the White House with an injured Secret Serviceman. The president, the cameraman remarked, apparently thinking that Stedman was Daniel’s main interest, remained inside the White House under a doctor’s care. He had not been injured in the blast, but the assassination attempt and the loss of his wife had severely shaken him.
Daniel thrust a couple of wadded hundred dollar bills into the man’s hand and turned away, grateful to be away from the media circus that had besieged the president’s home. The country was mortified that a terrorist could strike within the walls of America’s power center, but Daniel could not share in the shock. He felt sorry for Samuel Stedman, for Victoria had been a gracious lady and a loving wife. But few nations had managed to escape terrorism as well as the United States. Statistically,Washington was long overdue for a terrorist strike.
No one was invincible or completely safe. Each time the security experts came up with new technology to foil terrorists, the merchants of mayhem went a step further and foiled the security experts. It was all a deadly game, a race to stay one step ahead of the competition.
And whoever had planted this bomb ran at the front of the pack. Daniel knew comparatively little about who was capable of what in the dark world of international terrorism. He suspected, though, that Brad would confirm that there were probably only two or three groups with access to the kind of technology that could have planted and exploded a device in the White House’s driveway.
The cab driver wove in and out of the snarled traffic, barking curses at other drivers and leaning on his horn. Daniel sat silently in the backseat with his arms crossed, his mind swimming in a tide of frustration, until the cab turned onto the avenue that led to Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
“Let me out here,” Daniel said, tossing the man one of the bills from his briefcase. “I’ll get there faster on foot.”
He didn’t wait for a response but slammed his briefcase shut and threw open the car door. In this area traffic had come to a virtual standstill as the media, the curious, and the naysayers gathered to make pronouncements and offer opinions.
Daniel prayed that security wouldn’t be too tight around the hospital. After all, the president was still back at the White House; only the support staff had been taken to Walter Reed.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, flashed one of his badges at a few cops and hospital security officers, then found himself in the long corridor that served as the main artery of the emergency wing. His pulse quickened as he hurried past open cubicles and peered behind curtains. Finally he stopped in an open doorway, his heart hammering. Inside the room, Lauren sat upon a gurney, a white bandage covering half her forehead, her hair mussed. Her eyes were wide, and unmistakable bloodstains marked the jacket and skirt of her white dress.
But she was sitting up . . . and alive.
Daniel whispered her name on a tide of relief. “Lauren.”
She lifted her head at the sound of his voice, and her blue eyes filled instantly with tears. A nurse turned and lifted her hand as if to ward Daniel off, but he ignored her and hurried to gather Lauren into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him like a frightened child.
“It’s okay,” he told the nurse, who glared at him with her hands on her hips. “I have a right to be here.”
It seemed an inane thing to say, but the nurse shrugged and threw up her hands, then left the room. Daniel ran his hand through Lauren’s hair and held her close, whispering comforting sounds while she choked on the words that rose to her lips.
“I tried—I tried to reach her, Daniel.” Lauren’s voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. “But I couldn’t see anything. And the fire was so hot, and I couldn’t get near her—”
“It’s okay, honey. You tried. But no one could have saved her.”
She yielded then to the compulsive sobs that shook her, and Daniel held her tight, grateful that she had accepted his comfort.
TWENTY-FOUR
9:45 A.M., Tuesday, July 20, 1999
TWO DAYS LATER DANIEL SAT VERY STILL IN LAUREN’S SMALL OFFICE, HIS EYES wide and contemplative as he watched her work. She had insisted upon reporting to the White House the day after the accident, and even in the midst of chaos, grief, and confusion her sheer organizational muscle had kept everyone else from falling apart. But she had sobbed in his arms on Sunday, so he knew a layer of vulnerability lay beneath that granite strength.
Would she ever reach out to him again?
Now she was studying her computer monitor, taking a video condolence call from the governor of Arkansas. Lauren thanked the governor for his concern, assured him that she would see that the president received word of his sympathy, then disconnected the call.
Her posture slumped in the instant the governor’s image vanished from the screen. “Another one,” she said, noting the time and message in her computer log. After fretting at the keyboard for a moment, she lifted her hands and wearily tucked her hair behind her ears, then gave Daniel a tired smile. “Why don’t you go see if Francine can order in some lunch? It’s after two; you must be hungry.”
“What about you?” Daniel’s eyes narrowed in concern. In the last forty-eight hours Lauren had responded to nearly a hundred phone calls from high-ranking government officials, sent thank-you telegrams to foreign leaders, and arranged for the computer system to apply the president’s signature to each and every condolence letter that arrived at the White House.
She had removed the bandage from her forehead, revealing a cut with six stark black stitches, but she wore her bangs curled over the wound in an attempt to avoid expressions of sympathy. She had eaten only two meals—at Daniel’s insistence—and though he had ordered her to go home, change, and get a few hours rest, he suspected that she had done nothing but toss and turn throughout the past two nights.
Daniel had again taken up residence in the Lincoln Bedroom,much to the chagrin of the federal agents prowling the grounds. They didn’t like civilian personnel on the premises, and at the moment anyone but President Stedman, regular White House staff, and professional security people fell under suspicion. But Lauren had asked the president to approve Daniel’s presence, and the dazed president had complied, so the Secret Service could do nothing to evict him.
Daniel’s thoughts filtered back to the moment he’d first seen the president after the explosion. Samuel Stedman had not been injured in what was now officially labeled as a terrorist attack, but Daniel could not shake the impression of Stedman as an injured man. When Daniel saw him on Monday morning, the president’s head bobbed uncertainly at every sound, presenting his advisors with a haggard, starved-looking gray face in which scared blue eyes occupied most of the available space.
Daniel glanced up at Lauren. “How’s the president doing today?”
The question caught Lauren off guard, and she looked up from her keyboard, surprise in her eyes. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s still in shock.” She lowered her gaze to the computer monitor. “I think we all are. But he’s scheduled a meeting in half an hour with General Archer.” She gave Daniel a brief, distracted glance, and tried to smile. “I have to go, so why don’t you come with me?”
“Me?” Daniel laughed. “I came to Washington for you, not for General Archer. I’ve had enough of his politics.”
“But the president trusts you . . . and so do I.”
Daniel felt his resolve melting under her soft blue gaze. What harm could it do? This was closet politics, not the public arena, and no one would know or even care that he was lingering in places where he had no business being.
“Okay.” He eased into a smile. “For you.”
At 2:30 he followed Lauren into the Oval Office and was surprised to find both Generals Archer and Herrick sitting on one of the striped sofas. Archer’s brows shot up as Daniel entered the room, and Herrick’s thin mouth twisted in a wry smile.
“Daniel Prentice,” Herrick said, his tone cool. “Imagine finding you here.”
“I might say the same to you, General.” Daniel took a seat next to Lauren on the opposite sofa. The president had not yet appeared, and an atmosphere of waiting filled the room.
Daniel tapped his knees and cast about for a topic of conversation. He suspected that he was not very popular with Herrick or Adrian Romulus at the moment. Though he had successfully met his goals for a very workable Millennium system, he had failed to convince President Stedman to join the European Union’s computer network. He had also failed to convince himself that working for Romulus was the right career move.
“I was speaking to Mr. Romulus just this morning,” Herrick said, a silken thread of rebuke in his voice. “He remarked that he has not heard from you. Apparently he made you a rather generous offer before you left Brussels—”
“Please tell Mr. Romulus that I cannot accept his offer at present.” Daniel cast a quick glance at Lauren, hoping she would understand the significance of his statement. “I have been distracted by certain situations in this country that demand my full attention.”
Herrick’s features hardened in a stare of disapprova
l. “Mr. Romulus will be most disappointed to hear the news.” He lifted a brow. “Perhaps I can tell him you might be available in a few months?”
Torn between his ambition and his conscience, Daniel looked away. Lauren would not want him to work with Romulus, but Lauren thought in terms of America first. Her thoughts were tinged with grief at the moment, though; she might not even care what Daniel did in Europe.
Daniel gave Herrick a bland, noncommittal smile. “Have Mr. Romulus keep the position open. I’ll be in touch with him later.”
The curved door abruptly swung open, and each person in the room automatically stood as Samuel Stedman entered the room. Shock flew through Daniel as the president nodded and took a seat in the velvet wing chair by the fireplace. Anxiety and grief had etched that handsome face; dark loss still shadowed his eyes. His cheekbones looked like tent poles under stretched canvas; his lips had shrunk to thin gray lines.
Daniel caught Lauren’s eye as they sat down. Is he all right?
She gave a quick nod, acknowledging his anxiety, then smiled and turned to the president. “I thought it might be good to have Daniel Prentice join us, since he has worked with both of these gentlemen,” she said smoothly, pulling a printed agenda from her leather notebook. “And I’m sure you’ll remember that this meeting was scheduled last week to discuss a possible merging of our military bases in Europe with those of the European Community. And there’s the matter of the official Day of Peace—”
“If you don’t mind,” General Herrick interrupted and leaned toward the president, “my superior, Mr. Romulus, has expressed his desire to participate in this meeting via telephone. I told him I thought a video call at 2:45 might be in keeping with our schedule.”
A flicker of surprise widened Lauren’s eyes, but the president merely rubbed the slight stubble on his chin. “Fine,” he answered, his eyes as flat and unreadable as stone.
Flee The Darkness Page 26