by Kim Baldwin
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my reasons for asking you to do this, Andrew,” Thomas said. “I realize I’m asking you to take the fall, as it were, for the reversal of my decision. But I hope I can count on your discreet support.”
Andrew wasn’t certain how to respond, with his own political ambitions at stake. “With all due respect, Madam President, even if I do as you ask, I’m not certain I can single-handedly kill this plan if you continue to push it. We’ve gained too much momentum to stop it.”
“I’m sure you’re underestimating your influence, Senator. Start working on the reasons why you’ve had a change of heart regarding the bill. I’ll be holding a press conference soon on this issue, and I want you well prepared to oppose me.”
Without waiting for a reply, the president disconnected.
Andrew paced for the next hour, waiting for the follow-up phone call, hoping it would better explain what was up with Thomas. He’d kissed a lot of asses and called in a lot of favors to engender support for the illegal-arms plan, and he was getting angrier by the minute at Thomas’s unreasonable request, especially in light of his fervent support of her from the beginning of her presidential bid.
He’d just about decided to tell Thomas that he wouldn’t be her fall guy when the phone rang again. Glancing at the clock, he confirmed that exactly an hour had passed since the president had hung up on him.
“This is Andrew.”
“Good morning, Mr. Schuster. This is the Broker.”
A chill went through him. This wasn’t possible. The organ dealer who’d helped his son was the “mutual friend” he shared with President Thomas? “I’m listening.”
“I presume you were anticipating my call?” the icy voice inquired.
“Yes and no. I hardly expected you to be on the other end.”
“A man in your position should be well familiar with the real movers and shakers in Washington,” the Broker replied.
“It is the extent of your influence that’s surprising.”
“Well, now you know, which should be reason enough to follow through on what the president asked you to do. If you comply, your political career might still be salvageable. I’d hate to have to leak to the media the story of why your son is alive and well today and able to play with his friends. And I’m sure you want to keep it that way. I have this nasty habit of being an Indian giver.”
The clear threat to Matt instantly deflated every objection he’d worked up to disregard Thomas’s bizarre request. “You can rest assured,” he told the Broker, “that I’m now fully on board with whatever the president needs me to do.”
“Excellent. I knew you’d see it my way.”
*
Southwestern Colorado
Reno knocked on the door to Montgomery Pierce’s office and got an immediate “Enter.” Pierce had called him the first thing this morning to ask what he’d come up with via the computer searches that had kept him up most of the night. Reno understood Pierce’s impatience at getting good intel for Harper Kennedy, since Shield suspected the Agency could be involved in the assassination attempt. The CIA was one agency that even the EOO kept clear of—Reno was under strict instructions to never even attempt to hack into their database without prior clearance from Pierce himself. So far, that had never happened.
“What have you got?” Pierce said without preamble. “Shield checked in a little while ago and is due to call back in a couple of hours.”
“As expected, it’s been difficult to find anything significant about the president that wasn’t in the file you already gave her,” Reno replied. “Can’t get access to Lighthouse’s phone records, computer, anything of that sort. The Castle’s security is impenetrable.”
“And Watchdog?” Pierce asked.
“Better luck there. The guy earns two hundred and eighty grand a year, or thereabouts—the White House has to report all staff salaries. And his past earnings on tax returns averaged a hundred and fifty grand a year while Thomas was in the Senate. Yet the guy lives in a four-thousand-square-foot home and drives a Mercedes. They also have a country place in Vermont, and he and his wife frequent some of D.C.’s finest restaurants once or twice a week, according to his credit-card bills. It can’t be family money either. Both he and his wife come from middle-class backgrounds.”
Pierce sat up straighter. “So he’s on the take with somebody, and for a while. Where’s the money coming from?”
“He’s pretty clever, this guy,” Reno replied. “Has the usual D.C. area bank accounts, but aside from his government paycheck, many of his deposits show as cash—under ten thousand dollars each time, so it doesn’t have to be reported, but usually close to the limit. And it gets better. He has a fairly new Grand Cayman account that’s worth something in the neighborhood of two mil. I’m still trying to trace the origin of the money. No luck so far.”
Pierce let out a low whistle. “Phone records?”
“The guy’s landline and cell records don’t show anything unusual. Certainly no calls to the Agency, just routine stuff you’d expect. Nothing stands out in the way of frequent contacts with any one individual or government department. Let me clarify that slightly as saying his registered cell doesn’t turn up anything odd.”
“Explain.”
“His credit-card record showed he purchased a couple of cheap, prepaid cells at a Walmart in Maryland two months ago. His registered one is a BlackBerry.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the Walmart type, but maybe he got them for his kids or something.”
“Possibly as gifts,” Reno said. “Though his one son is grown and has a good job, and his wife already has an iPhone5.”
“Anything else?”
Reno shook his head. “Nothing significant. No criminal record, aside from a DUI a couple years ago that was hushed up.”
“I’ll put out some feelers with my contacts in Defense, the Bureau, and Homeland Security. See if they have anything additional,” Pierce said. “When Shield calls back, I’ll transfer her to you.”
“Roger that. Hope she’s wrong about Agency involvement,” Reno said as he got up to leave.
“Calling in favors from the CIA should really be a last resort,” Pierce replied. “We need to exclude every other possibility before we do that. But we need to do it in a hurry because Shield is at risk until we know, and we don’t want to spin our wheels only to find out the Agency will just cover it up again.”
Chapter Thirteen
The White House
That evening
As Ryden ate her dinner in the private second-floor dining room across from her bedroom, she wondered why Kennedy—who’d been with her all day—had now been replaced by a Secret Service agent named Jason. She sat alone at the long table, two waiters catering to her, while he read a magazine from a chair by the door.
Tonight’s fare included Caesar salad, beef bourguignonne, potatoes Florentine, and fresh asparagus with a balsamic reduction. She always ate until she was stuffed and included dessert with lunch and dinner, because her fast metabolism, combined with the stress she was under, burned up the calories with alarming speed. She’d already lost five pounds since she’d been here.
Ryden had never eaten a bigger variety of delicious meals. Betty always asked her in generic terms if she would prefer this or that—chicken or fish, potatoes or rice—but when the waiter served at dinnertime and announced the menu it was like listening to a foreign language. She’d never been to expensive restaurants, and although her crash course in French and culinary cuisine helped decipher some of the dishes, she still had no idea what to expect.
The same applied to the different wines they would present her with and expect her to choose from. As far as Ryden was concerned, they all tasted good, and since she really couldn’t tell the difference, she usually left it up to the White House sommelier.
She liked to take her meals here. The view of the grounds was compelling, and she could shed Thomas’s high heels and designer suits for more comfortable
slippers and loungewear without fear of being seen by anyone but her servers and guards. But something was missing tonight. She’d gotten used to Kennedy’s presence during dinner. The bodyguard would either stand or sit by the window and occasionally look outside. Although they rarely said anything, Ryden found comfort in her calm presence and silence. It wasn’t until Kennedy became her shadow that she realized how tired she had grown of eating alone in her small apartment or in diners.
As a child, she would have dinner with whatever foster family she was placed with, which was her least favorite time of the day. Either her foster parents would find it the most appropriate time to argue, or the other foster kids would massacre each other over who got the larger serving. The only other person she had ever shared a meal with was Magda, during work in the back. She had found Magda’s constant need to gossip about their customers tiring and only seldom amusing.
Even though Ratman had probably hired Kennedy, the bodyguard was the only one of the two of them who, despite the truth, still treated Ryden with respect. For some unknown reason, she felt safe when Kennedy was around, though vulnerable.
Kennedy had stayed at her post all day, but Ryden had seen little of her because she’d spent most of her time in closed-door meetings. She was sure Kennedy’s absence now, when they would have been alone, had to do with the horrible way she’d treated her at the dinner event last night. Had Kennedy been allowed to quit? And if so, wasn’t someone obliged to inform her of that fact? She looked at the male agent and cleared her throat.
“Yes, Madam President?” He immediately set aside his magazine and stood.
“What happened to Kennedy?” she asked nonchalantly.
“She’ll resume her duties later tonight, Madam President.”
“I see.” Ryden felt relieved. “So, she’s taking a break from me?”
Jason smiled. “Not from you, Madam President.”
“Whom else?” Ryden smiled back. Why couldn’t she let it go?
“I think she needed some private time.”
“Oh? Is she all right?”
“Nothing serious, I suppose, since she’s still in the House.”
Ryden scooped up the last of her dessert—tiramisu this evening—and chewed slowly. Was Kennedy avoiding her until she was off to bed so she didn’t have to face her? And if so, was she even allowed to? Sure, Ryden had snapped at her, but that was no excuse to forgo her duties and…ignore her. “Do you know where she is?”
The guard had remained standing. “I’m sorry, I don’t, Madam President. I can find out in just a moment.”
Ryden finished her wine and got up. “Don’t bother. I’m going to retire early tonight.”
Jason followed her toward the bedroom. She had just reached the door when she saw Kennedy walk out of the Yellow Oval Room farther down the corridor still wearing her trademark dark pantsuit and starched white shirt.
*
Shield had requested a time out for personal reasons without further explanation. She’d used the time to call the EOO for any news and to plant a listening device in Thomas’s bedroom, using the adjoining door from her room while the president was eating dinner across the hall. She hadn’t mentioned the eavesdropping to Pierce, but no risk was involved. Since she was the president’s primary and the one responsible for the routine, weekly sweep of the room for bugs, the Secret Service wouldn’t find the device by chance. She might, however, be able to overhear a private conversation between Thomas and Moore.
She’d eaten dinner then and was headed to her bedroom to get her cell for another call to Pierce, when she spotted the president leaving the private dining room.
“Does this mean you’re on duty again?” Thomas asked her.
Shield was used to the cold, formal attitude of her subjects and even found it interesting when it came to attractive women, but Thomas had pushed all the wrong buttons when she’d accused her of playing on the job. Shield knew she had to be a professional and swallow her pride when it came to difficult and downright rude individuals, but nothing vexed her more than unfairness. That, combined with the fact that the EOO hadn’t been able to offer any news yet in response to her inquiry, had put her in a less than pleasant mood. “Yes, it does, Madam President.”
“Good, because I would like a word with you.”
“Of course, Madam President.” Shield looked at the other agent and nodded. Jason headed toward the stairway while she started down the hall toward the president.
Thomas met her halfway and gestured toward the room Shield had just come out of. “I don’t see why we can’t talk in there. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Shield let the president go first into the Yellow Oval Room and shut the door behind them.
Thomas scanned the room and her gaze fell on Shield’s meal tray. “I didn’t know you were allowed to take your dinner in here.”
“The perks of not being your average Secret Service.”
Thomas approached the small table by the open balcony doors where Shield had sat and looked down at the bottle of wine. “They let you drink on duty?”
“You may have noticed I haven’t opened the bottle.”
“Then why is it here?”
“Because I felt the need to look at it since I can’t be at home,” Shield explained.
“I don’t understand. You want to look at the bottle?”
“It reminds me of home and the job I love. I make my own wine.”
“As in moonshine?”
“As in, I have my own company. A vineyard back home in Tuscany. It’s quite a successful label.”
Thomas picked up the bottle. “Il Grigio Angelo,” she read. “They serve this here, although I haven’t tried it yet.” She sounded surprised.
“Here. In Europe. In every good restaurant.”
“So, if you live in Tuscany, how did you end up in Washington?” Was Thomas going to get to the point of her request to see her, or were they going to talk about Shield’s bio?
“The organization I work for—”
“The EOO.”
“Yes, has us stationed all over the world. I usually baby…guard,” Shield corrected herself, “European political dignitaries, and occasionally American ones. It depends on where I’m needed.”
“Are you as good as they say?” the president asked.
“I must be, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“How does the wine fit into your life?”
“It’s what I do when I’m not on a job.”
Thomas sat down at the table, on the armchair opposite the one Shield had been in. “How did you decide to start a vineyard?” She sounded sincerely interested.
Shield sat down, too. “I started out by helping the owner—a friend. Eventually, I inherited the vineyard, improved the wine, and marketed it worldwide.”
“I doubt you need this job, then.”
“I don’t. I do it because part of me wants to—even though I hate being taken away from my home—and part of me has to.”
“Has to?”
“It’s a long story, but let’s just say I’m contracted to work for my employer indefinitely. In other words, until I’m no longer fit for my work.”
“It must be difficult to leave your loved ones.”
“Not really. I don’t have any.”
“I don’t just mean a girlfriend,” Thomas said.
“Why would you assume I had a girlfriend?”
“I…I simply meant I saw the way the waitress was looking at you.”
Shield was glad for the opening. “About that. I never play on the job, and I have a strong disliking for being accused of something I didn’t do.”
“My apologies,” Thomas said. “I never meant to offend you. I was tired and looking for someone to blame. I should never have reacted the way I did. It was uncalled for and unprofessional.”
“I won’t argue that.”
“It’s why I wanted to see you. I wanted to say I was sorry.” The president was looking at her with an expression of
sincere regret, a response Shield found uncharacteristic in light of her previous bodyguard’s experience, but welcome nonetheless. Elizabeth Thomas continued to confound and surprise her.
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m glad.” Thomas smiled. “But what I meant earlier is that I assumed you prefer the same sex.”
“How presumptuous. Is it because of my job?”
“I don’t have to be a homosexual to have a gaydar. Am I wrong?”
Shield snickered at Thomas’s use of the word gaydar and the president smiled. “No, you’re not wrong. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all. What you do in your spare time is none of my business.”
“I’m glad,” Shield repeated, and smiled, too.
“How about your family?” the president asked next. “Don’t you miss them?”
“I don’t have one. I was adopted by the organization when I was six.” Shield rarely volunteered such information, but with Thomas, it didn’t matter. The president certainly had a briefing file somewhere about the EOO, if she cared to read it.
Thomas looked at her intently, then averted her gaze. “That must have been rough.”
“I guess…at times, anyway. I’ve never spent too much time dwelling on what could or should have been.”
“You’ve never wondered what it would have been like to have a family?”
“Sure, but I can’t say I’ve ever missed it,” Shield replied. “It’s hard to long for something you’ve never experienced.”
Thomas stared out the window toward the Washington Monument in the distance for a long while, seemingly lost in thought. In Shield’s experience, people often felt sorry for you when you told them you were adopted, but Thomas instead looked hurt. “So, I assume you’ve never felt the need to look for them,” the president finally said.