“I guess I’d better get going,” Clive could stand here all night holding Linda’s hand in his. He squeezed her fingers and she squeezed them back.
“I don’t have the words, Clive.”
He did his best not to show his disappointment.
“But,” she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “but if you can give me some time, I promise to try to find them.”
Without thinking, he gathered her into his arms and held tight.
And she held him back.
For now that was enough.
The phone rang again. They both looked at the display declaring it was again from Chef Klaus.
Clive didn’t bother to answer it. Instead, he kissed Linda far too briefly, then raced down the tight spiral staircase that descended close beside the dumbwaiter.
Linda felt a little dazed and lightheaded as she stepped out into the hall. It was completely transformed.
The crowds were all gone, as was the pianist. A waiter picked up dishes and glasses and a janitor followed closely behind cleaning every cleared surface. A large vacuum cleaner started up at the far end of the hall.
Only five people remained: Dilya with her parents, former President Matthews, and a huge black man who must be his bodyguard.
Dilya rushed over, slamming into her arms and giving her such a hard hug that it took her breath away. Linda hugged her back and took the brief liberty of resting her cheek on the girl’s hair. Her parents were so lucky. Though it wasn’t all luck. They were parents who behaved the way parents were supposed to.
“It appears that you had an interesting evening,” President Matthews commented drily.
Then Kee Stevenson, Dilya’s mom, stepped over, planting her feet firmly on the carpet and her fists on her hips. She looked as if she could whip Linda’s ass one-handed, despite being pregnant.
“Did you just nearly get our daughter killed?”
Linda could only nod. If she’d been even two minutes slower, they’d all be dead. She squeezed Dilya once more and let her go before the teen could figure out she’d actually bonded with an adult.
“Damn it!” Kee pounded a heel on the carpet. “God damn you, Archie.”
Linda could only blink in surprise. She’d thought she was the one in trouble.
“You know how much I hate being out of the action. You ever try your ‘wouldn’t it be fun to have another kid’ pitch on me again, I’m gonna bust your balls.”
“Better than my arm,” Secretary Stevenson, proving he was a brave man, simply stepped in and slid an arm around his wife’s shoulder.
Kee slammed an elbow into his gut, but he was braced for it and merely laughed.
“That was really cool, Thor,” Dilya squatted down to play with him.
“Ma’am,” the massive agent came up beside them. He tapped his earpiece. “I’ve been asked to pass on to you that initial analysis shows that the explosive was TMETN.”
“Odorless. That would explain why the dogs didn’t alert to it. But the power…” The briefcase hadn’t been very heavy. Linda didn’t see how that little weight would do more than kill the few people closest to it.
“TMETN and sarin gas. Probably in containers shaped to look like normal objects when X-rayed. If the agents X-rayed the Secretary of State’s briefcase at all,” the last was delivered with a snarl that said on his watch it damn well would have been.
There was a stunned silence. Everyone on the entire Second Floor of the Residence would have been dead within ten minutes. Most within one.
“Who the—” Kee flashed from frustrated to furious.
“Mallinson,” the Secretary stated. “He couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
“That’s what you figured out,” the President pointed at Linda.
“Right. His departure in the middle of the reception for a meeting was the piece that didn’t fit. But I don’t understand why he did it.”
President Matthews laughed. It was bitter, but it was a laugh. “This one I know. The Secretary of State is fourth in line to the presidency. By the way, the first three were also in this room tonight. He was trying to stage a coup. A very bloody one.”
“But the clues. Chinese, Japanese…”
“Whether they were a smokescreen or the attempt of a foreign power to gain power over our government, that will be someone else’s problem to figure out. Tonight you protected the White House and this government. You are a credit to the force,” the President’s tone made it clear that was the end of that topic.
For a moment she wondered if he meant the Secret Service or the White House Protection Force—then understood that he meant both.
He held out his arm to her and she could only blink at him in surprise.
“We’re late for dinner. And as my wife’s flight from Vietnam is delayed, I believe that you are my date. I’ll tell you about a rather nice ranch you and your boyfriend should visit in Montana someday.”
With Thor’s lead in one hand and former President Matthews’ elbow in the other, she led the way down the Grand Staircase while she tried to digest the word “boyfriend.”
Epilogue
“I found the words,” she told Thor.
He licked her face, which made her glad about her staunch refusal to wear any makeup.
“You ready?” She scrubbed her fingers into his sides and he wiggled with delight. “Of course you are,” she acknowledged in her squeaky dog voice.
“He’s always ready,” Dilya laughed. “He’s a dog. How about you?”
Linda looked over at her. This time their dresses matched, or were at least color coordinated. Dilya had insisted and Linda had known better than to argue.
“You never were fifteen, were you?”
Dilya shrugged. She could pass for twenty-five in the elegant dress of pale-lavender silk with a wide white sash emphasizing her waist. She wore her hair down—the only styling battle that Linda had won in this entire affair other than no makeup. If Dilya’s hair was down, then she could leave her own down as well.
“You’re still short, you know,” she teased Dilya.
“So are you!” Her maid of honor stuck her tongue out at Linda.
“Taller than you,” Linda returned the salute with an added raspberry.
“Not much,” Dilya pointed to her own bright red boots with two-inch heels.
Linda had won the shoe battle by arguing that she wanted to dance with her new husband and didn’t want to trip. Dilya had finally caved and allowed her to purchase white flats, but it had cost her two inches in the height battle and left her with only a narrow lead.
There was a discreet knock. Dilya answered and then let former President Matthews into the room. Linda rose to her feet.
“You look very nice in your suit, President Matthews.”
“That’s Secretary of State Matthews, thanks to you. It’s so good to have something useful to do. I can never show you my full appreciation for coming up with the idea. And you look amazing in that dress.”
“Thank you. I had the best help ever,” she placed a hand on Dilya’s shoulder in thanks. Then she did a slow turn for him and he made a point of applauding. She watched herself in the East Bedroom mirror, a room that the First Family had loaned her for the occasion.
The wedding would be small, but the President and First Lady had insisted on holding it in the Residence’s Central Hall where she’d saved everyone’s lives three months before.
Dilya had understood her well enough to choose a simple white knee-length dress, with a lace sheer and a lavender waistband to match Dilya’s dress.
She’d considered a bouquet of chocolate, then thought of apple blossoms instead. How perfect a gift Clive had given her.
“You know, I tried to perform the ceremony for Emily once.”
“How did that turn out?”
Secretary Matthews grimaced. “Not well. I lost a shoe in her pond.”
“No ponds here, you should be safe.”
“I hope so. I like these sho
es. Are you ready for this? If so, we should do it before the groom melts down like one of his chocolates.”
She used a bit of lace to tie the rings onto Thor’s harness.
Linda bit her lower lip for a moment, then nodded. As ready as she was ever going to be to completely change her life in a single moment.
Former President Matthews had been an obvious replacement for the jailed Secretary of State Mallinson. He knew global politics from his own two terms of office; because of his wife’s directorship with the UNESCO World Heritage Centre, he had continued to travel widely, and he was immensely respected around the world—by both friend and foe. The way he had lit up the moment she’d suggested the idea over Clive’s luscious dessert soup, she knew it had been one of her better ones.
“Oh, wait,” Linda dug into her purse—because Dilya had finally won that war—and pulled out the thin gold ribbon. It was from the one chocolate bouquet she’d gotten to eat on that night a lifetime ago. She looked at the words on it for a moment.
Freedom and Unity.
It might be the Vermont motto, but it was also a good message for herself: freedom from her past and a new unity in her future. Tied up in a gold knot.
“Could you give this to him?”
Secretary Matthews took it cautiously, then read the words and smiled. Without comment, he stepped over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the forehead. He did the same for Dilya before heading out the door to get in place so that he could officiate the wedding ceremony of Linda and Clive Andrews. It would be a relief to be rid of her family name.
Dilya followed through the door when the pianist started the Wedding March on the grand piano. The First and Second families would be rising to their feet, along with Dilya’s parents. Linda had decided against inviting her own—a choice Clive had agreed to after a brief, very brief, visit to Vermont. But there absolutely was a contingent from the Secret Service K-9 teams with their dogs.
She’d found a team as fine as the 75th Rangers. They gave her a place and a purpose.
Linda might not have recognized the vivacious older woman who had offered her services as photographer if not for her gold locket and piercing blue eyes. She was tall, with long silver hair, and looked slimly elegant in a black von Furstenberg pantsuit as she wielded her cameras. If Clive had caught on that it was Miss Watson, he certainly hadn’t mentioned it.
Clive.
He was the one who had given her the greatest gift of all.
His patience and love.
It had taken her two months to find the words “I love you” inside herself. The moment she’d found them and managed to speak them (which had been a whole separate challenge), they’d both wept.
Then and there—while the tears still streamed down her face for only the second time since her childhood had ended—he had gone down on bent knee to propose.
Clive had given her a promise she’d never imagined possible.
He’d promised a future and a family.
She only had to find two more words to make it all come true. She’d already written “I do” on a piece of paper clutched in her fist just in case she couldn’t say them aloud.
But she knew she would, and stepped out the door in confidence. She would walk down the aisle herself with Thor to escort her.
She’d be able to say them because, just like his chocolate, Clive’s promises would turn out to be ever so perfectly delightful.
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Dilya knew the future wasn’t to be trusted. But could she even trust her past?
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On Your Mark (excerpt)
If you liked this, you’ll love Jim and Reese. Coming Feb. 28, 2018. Pre-order it now!
On Your Mark (excerpt)
Malcolm was happier than a horned toad at a mayfly festival.
And when his English springer spaniel was happy, Jim was happy.
It was one of those impossibly clear days that Washington, DC dished out like dog treats in February. The hard winter nights were probably behind them. In another month, even the occasional below freezing nights would be nothing but a memory. Now it was an hour past sunrise, the temperature was already above forty, and the maples and beeches along the White House fence line looked as if the tips of their branches had been dusted with just the tiniest bit of bright green. The ornamental cherry trees were already dusted pink.
The air smelled fresh and vibrant with possibility. He loved the way that every city had its own smell and he’d now been in DC long enough, each season wrapped about him like fireflies on a summer evening with its own special particulars. He’d lived most of his life on the road in one way or another, but two years here just might be enough to anchor him in place for a lifetime.
He often wondered what Malcolm smelled on such days. The freshening grass? The latest civilian dog pee-o-gram on a tree trunk? The track of the other US Secret Service PSCO explosives-sniffing dog currently on patrol?
Handling a USSS Personnel Screening Canine—Open Area, also known as a Friendly or Floppy-eared dog, around the White House perimeter was the best duty there ever was. He and Malcolm had been walking this beat for two years now, putting even the mailmen to shame. Just because a blizzard and a hurricane had ripped through last year, each shutting down the city, didn’t mean the security at the White House put its feet up—at least not these six paws. The only things that had been moving in the whole area during either event were emergency services, the guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier out at Arlington Cemetery, and White House security.
The snowstorm had been a doozy by DC standards, almost as deep as Malcolm’s legs were long. The next morning had been a surprisingly busy day at the fence line as tourists had trudged through a foot of heavy, wet snow to get photos of the White House under a thick, white blanket. Most of the crazies had stayed warm in their beds that day.
Not even the worst of the crazies came out during the hurricane.
Today it was the sunshine and the madness that drew people to his patrol zone along the White House fence. Separating the two before Malcolm did had become one of his favorite games to occupy the time. He figured the visitors to the fence fell into five distinct categories, only two of which Malcolm was trained to give a hoot about.
The True Tourist. They would just stand and stare though the steel fence. It had been formed to look like the old wrought iron one, but was far stronger. These people were often the older set—marked at a distance by taking pictures of the White House rather than taking selfies of them at the White House.
The Clickbait Tourist. They’d barely glance at the magnificent building. But even if they never actually looked at it, everyone inundated by their social media feeds more than made up for the lack.
The Squared-away Vet. The ex-military who arrived to see the representation of everything they had given. Whether standing tall or rolling along in a wheelchair, they came to see, to understand. He liked talking to them when he could. Jim had done his dance. Nothing fancy—a “heavy” driver for three tours hauling everything from pallets of Coca-Cola to Abrams tanks.
The Mad Vets and the Crazies. These guys were damaged. The less toxic ones just wanted to tell their story to the President so that he “really” understood. But there was a sliding scale right up to the ones who wanted retribution. These were the fence jumpers. They might have a protest sign, an aluminum foil hat, a .45 tucked in their pocket, or a load of righteous wrath strapped to their bodies. No real plot or plan, they were solo actors and had to be picked off one at a time. He and Malcolm caught their fair share of those—maybe more because Malcolm was such an awesome
explosives detection dog. These were the main target of the fence patrol.
The Terrorist. Bottom line, that’s why his team and all of the others were here even with them all knowing they were, at best, an early warning of any concerted attack. They’d all seen the movies White House Down and Olympus Has Fallen. It was amazing how much Hollywood could get wrong and still scare the crap out of you—definitely not entertainment to anyone who worked guarding the White House. They discussed worst-case scenarios all the time. And he sure prayed that it didn’t happen until after he was dead and buried—though he’d wager that he could be pissed just fine from the grave.
It was still early enough in the day that the fence line was almost exclusively the top three categories. The Mad Vet and the Crazies category typically didn’t kick in hard until later in the day when their morning meds wore off.
He saw a Squared-away Vet standing at the fence. The officers were particularly easy to pick out. They liked everything in order and would instinctively find the exact centerline—at either Lafayette Square to the north or the curving line of the President’s Park to the south. As predictable as sunshine on a clear day, they would come to a halt at precisely the twelve or six o’clock positions and simply stare.
Normally they didn’t notice him or react if they did. This one stared at him…no, at Malcolm with eyes so wide it was a wonder that they remained in his head.
“Gute hund,” he instructed Malcolm—training him in German avoided confusion with an alert word accidentally spoken in a sentence. He’d met a dog once trained with the numbers in Japanese: Ichi—sit. Ni—stay. San—down. Shi—heel… Pretty darn slick. He’d thought about retraining Malcolm to be bilingual for the fun of it, but it seemed a dirty trick to play on a perfectly nice dog.
Off the Leash Page 17