by Andy McNab
I looked excited. ‘Would it be possible to see the briefing? I’m a bit of a media junkie, I really like that sort of thing.’
Davy looked at me as if I was mad. How could something like that be interesting? ‘Sure, no problem.’
I looked over at Sarah as we walked. She knew what I was doing. All we had to do was keep this up until midday. If the players were going to show, they’d be at the media brief.
We’d reached the bottom of the stairs of the North Portico leading into the mansion. Davy pointed to the stage on the grass opposite, still receiving its finishing touches. He nodded towards Pennsylvania Avenue. ‘The cameras will be on that side of the stage, with the TV reports made from the media area we passed earlier.’ We both nodded and looked extremely interested, which wasn’t difficult. Josh wasn’t so enthralled. He asked Davy, ‘Where to now?’
‘You wanna see the alley?’
We continued to walk past the Executive Mansion towards the east wing. The drive we were walking on went from the white gatehouse the press used and swept in a semicircle to the far right of the lawn, where there was a similar security post. An ERT guy was walking towards it from a line of black Chevy pickups parked in line on the driveway. Their red and blue light racks, darkened windows and antennae made me remember that there were probably more guns within a 200-metre radius of where we were standing than Jim’s had sold in its lifetime. We would have to be careful not to get zapped ourselves when they took on the players.
We now had an uninterrupted view down into the lower area the other side of the staircase. I couldn’t help noticing the paint. It was more cream than white, and it was peeling. We moved a bit further along and went down some steps that took us below the level of the grass. At the bottom, Davy turned and walked backwards so he could face us as he explained, ‘This is the part the public don’t get to see.’ We bent down to get past some large steel ventilation pipes. He pointed at the Executive Mansion. ‘This is really the ground floor. Behind this wall are some of the state rooms, like the Diplomatic Reception Room, the China Room, that kinda thing.’ He indicated the area below us. ‘But this is more interesting . . . the basement, that’s where it’s at. In fact, there are two basements. Bowling, rest areas, paint shop and repairs. There’s even a bomb shelter down there.’ Looking to the right, I saw windows that opened onto rooms under the White House driveway and lawn.
We came to a white, glass-panelled double door. Actually, it was more grey than white, now. You could tell this was the admin area. Davy kept the door open for me and Sarah. Josh followed.
We were now under the main staircase. Across the way the satellite crew were working under the eagle eye of an ERT escort. Davy gave him a wave. ‘Hi, Jeff, good to see you, man.’
Davy steered us towards the door that was nearest the other entrance, into which all the cables seemed to lead. Once through it, I was hit straight away by the smell: the heavy odour of school dinners and cleaning products that I’d known as a child and which, as I got older, I came to associate with army cookhouses or stairways of low-rent accommodation. We were in a hall about four metres wide, with polished floor tiles. The walls were stone, with a plaster skim and many years’ worth of cream gloss paint. Grooves and concave shapes had been gouged into the plaster by carelessly pushed food trolleys, an empty one of which was parked up in the corridor.
Following the cables, we passed a lift and staircase on our left, then went through another door. It was like walking into a different world. We emerged into the opulent splendour of marble walls and glass chandeliers, hanging from high cross-vaulted ceilings. The smell had disappeared. Blocking the view to our left were two tall brown screens, positioned like a roadblock. Davy and Josh muttered greetings to the ERT and two Secret Service agents who were in the area. One of them had a blue tie with golfers in various poses, the other had a yellow one covered in little biplanes.
Davy said, ‘This is the ground floor hallway. We can’t see down it today as the president will be here later on. He won’t want to see all this stuff trailing around.’ He was pointing to the cabling.
Sarah wanted to know more. ‘Why, what’s happening in here? I thought everything was going on outside?’
Two television technicians walked past from left to right, escorted by their ERT minder. Josh was still talking quietly to the two Secret Service guys.
Davy whispered, ‘At about eleven, Arafat, Netanyahu and the president will be in the Diplomatic Reception Room for coffee.’ He nodded his head towards the TV crew, who were now walking back towards us. ‘These guys are rigging up a remote for CNN that’s going to put out live coverage. The leaders stay there for twenty to thirty minutes, then move out for an early lunch.’
Sarah was trying to work out where the Diplomatic Reception Room was, pointing past the screens. ‘That’s the oval-shaped room down there on the right, isn’t it?’
Davy nodded. ‘Yeah, after lunch they then move to the Blue Room. That’s the same shape and directly above on the first floor. Then, at one o’clock, they walk out onto the lawn and get blasted by the heavenly choir.’ He screwed up his face again at the thought of 200 kids out of tune.
Josh came over and joined us. ‘Hey, guys, I think we’d better move on.’ We got the hint. The Secret Service guys didn’t want us around so near coffee time.
We started down the corridor to the right, following the cables. Davy sparked up, pointing at a large white double door at the end of the corridor. ‘That leads to the west wing, where the briefing area is.’ The cable went through a door on the left of the corridor. We turned right and entered one of the admin areas. The smell came back to me. To the left was another lift. ‘That’s the service elevator for the State Dining Room.’ Davy was clearly enjoying his role as tour guide. ‘It’s directly above us on the first floor.’ To the right of the lift was a spiral staircase.
We stopped by the elevator. Davy had a huge grin on his face. ‘I gotta show you folks the burn marks you Brits made last time you made an unannounced visit!’
A trolley headed towards us, pushed by an efficient-looking, mid-fifties black guy in black trousers, waistcoat, tie and a very crisply laundered white shirt. It was laden with coffee pots, cups and saucers, biscuits and all sorts. The guy said, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ then saw Sarah and added, ‘and lady,’ in a very courteous manner as he cruised past, the cups rattling on the metal trolley. Basically, of course, he was just telling us to get the fuck out of the way. He was a man with a mission.
We climbed down the spiral staircase as Davy continued his running commentary. ‘We have two other elevators, one hundred and thirty-two rooms and thirty-three bathrooms.’
Josh chipped in. ‘And seven staircases.’
I tried to raise a smile of acknowledgement. At any other time this would be interesting, but not now.
At the bottom we stopped by a pair of fire doors with thick wooden panels inset with two rectangular strips of wired, fire-resistant glass, and covered with dirty handmarks where they got continuously pushed. Above them sat a large slab of stone supporting the archway. Black scorch marks were clearly visible.
‘We’ve kept them there just as a little reminder of the sort of thing that happens when you guys come to town. Not that you stayed that long; we’d had more than enough of you by then.’
There was more laughter. I saw Sarah check her watch.
Davy said, ‘You know, people think that it was called the White House after you Brits burned it down. Not so, it only got its name in 1901, under . . .’ He turned to Josh for the answer.
‘Roosevelt.’ Josh looked at us sheepishly. ‘Hey, if you work here you have to know these things.’
There wasn’t much we could say, and there was only so much burned stone we could look at. After a minute or so, Davy said, ‘OK, let’s go bowl a few.’
27
As we pushed our way through the fire doors, I could see maybe twenty-five or thirty metres of white painted corridor in front of me, eac
h side of which were white wooden doors slightly inset into the walls. The whole area had a functional feel. It was lit by strip lighting, with secondary lighting boxes positioned at key points in case of power failure or fire. The same cookhouse-and-polish smell hung in the air. There was no activity down here at all. Our footsteps squeaked on the tiles and echoed along the corridor.
We came to a pile of cardboard boxes and bulging bin liners stacked against the wall. ‘It’s just like any other house,’ Davy said. ‘All the junk goes into the basement.’
We passed several of the white doors and came to a grey metal one with a slowly flashing red bulb above it. Davy pointed up. ‘Let’s see who’s in.’ He swiped his ID card through a security lock and said, ‘Welcome to Crisis Four.’
He opened the door and gestured us in. I followed Sarah into a darkened room which contained a bank of at least twenty CCTV screens, set into the wall in banks of three. Each carried a different picture, with a time code bar at the bottom ticking away the milliseconds. The coloured views were of large, richly decorated rooms, and hundreds of metres of corridors and colonnades. On a desktop that ran the whole length of the console, illuminated by small down-lighters, were banks of telephones, microphones and clipboards.
I went in and moved to one side so that Josh could follow. The temperature was cooler in here; I could hear the air-conditioning humming gently above me. Lined up in front of the bank of screens were four office chairs on castors. The sole occupant of the room was sitting on one of them, dressed in ERT black, his baseball cap illuminated by the screens as he mumbled into one of the phones.
I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were glued to the screens; I could see the light from them reflecting off her face.
The phone went down and Josh called out, ‘Yo, Top Cat! How goes it?’
TC spun round in his chair and raised both arms. ‘Heyyya, fella! I’m good. It’s been a while.’ He was white and looked in his mid-thirties, with a very smart, well-trimmed moustache.
They shook hands and Josh introduced us. ‘This is Nick, and this is Sarah, they’re from the UK. Friends of mine. This is TC.’ We both walked over to him, and he stood up to shake hands. His chin already had shadow and he looked as if he needed five or six shaves a day; either that, or he’d been on duty all night. He was maybe about five foot six, with short dark-brown hair under his black cap.
TC’s firm grip contrasted with his very soft Southern accent, but both oozed confidence. ‘What have you seen so far?’
‘Josh has been showing us what happened the last time the Brits were down here.’
Sarah had a question to ask Davy. ‘Do you think it would be possible to see the State Dining Room? It’s just that I’m a big fan of Jackie O and . . .’
Davy looked at TC, who shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you folks that no-one can go upstairs today.’
Josh felt that he had to explain. ‘Access depends on what is going on. Just about any other day would have been fine. Hey, thousands of people visit most days; it’s one of Washington’s biggest attractions.’
Sarah and I both started waffling variations on the theme of, ‘It’s no problem, it’s great just being here. We’re really enjoying it.’
Davy sounded like he had a good idea. ‘I tell you what, from here you can see it all anyway.’ He pointed at the screens, and then proceeded to give us a quick rundown. ‘As I said, this room is Crisis Four. It’s one of the control centres from where any incident in the White House or grounds can be monitored and controlled. Which control centre is used depends on where the incident occurs.’
Sarah and I were all eyes and ears as we looked at the screens, especially the one that showed the press briefing room. Not much had changed in there. I kept my eye on it, though.
TC took over the brief as he went back to his chair. ‘Crisis Four could be used, say, if anything happened upstairs – the president and first lady would be moved down here to the secure area. It also doubles as the bomb shelter. There’s a kinda neat room beyond this for the VIPs.’ He pointed at a screen. ‘There’s the State Dining Room. That’s kinda neat, too.’
It didn’t look as if lunch was going to be served there today. The long dark wood table just had silver candelabras placed along its centre. Apart from that it was bare. Sarah studied the picture for a while, as if taking in all the detail of the decor. My eyes were focused on the shot of the briefing room.
‘Is that the Diplomatic Reception Room?’ Sarah put her finger on a screen to my left, pointing to a doorway. Looking over, I could see the brown screens blocking off the ground floor corridor, and the ERT escort standing over the CNN guys, who were still fiddling about with cables.
TC confirmed it. ‘That’s right. Any minute now you’ll see the big three appear and walk in there. At the moment they’re across the hall, in the library.’
As I watched the picture he was indicating, flicking back to check the briefing room every few seconds, our friendly waiter came out of the reception room and walked back towards the brown screens. This time his trolley was empty. I heard comms mush coming from TC’s earpiece. ‘The coffee’s there, all we need now are the drinkers.’ The ERT guy began to move the CNN people out of the corridor, back towards their wagon. I flicked my eyes over at one of the screens again. Shit! Bill Gates was in the briefing room. At least, the hair and glasses matched what I thought he looked like. He had walked in and was just looking around. I needed Sarah to confirm, but she was the other side of Davy as we all stood around TC in his chair. I kept looking at her, trying to catch her eye. I couldn’t say anything yet; I could be wrong. Why wasn’t she also checking that screen? They were focused on the other one with the four Secret Service men at the far end of the corridor.
More mush was coming from TC’s earpiece. ‘Here they come . . .’
A few seconds later the three world leaders walked out into the corridor and turned towards the camera. They were moving quite slowly so that Arafat could keep up. I checked Bill Gates. He was now sitting down and writing. I looked back at the other screen, then at Sarah. Come on, look at me, check the screen, do something! She was oblivious to anything but the three leaders as a group of advisers followed them, clutching folders and nodding with each other as they walked.
‘Hey, let’s give you folks a listen.’ TC leaned over the desktop and hit a button on the console. A speaker in front of us burst into life. A very quick, but calm New York voice was giving commands over the net. People were acknowledging him in just the same tones. It sounded like mission control at Houston. Small red buttons were now lit on three of the microphones on the desk. I checked Bill Gates. He hadn’t moved.
They walked along the corridor for a short way, Clinton between the two others as they moved in line abreast. A few paces more and they turned left into the Reception Room.
I looked across at Sarah. She was checking the large green digital display clock on the wall. It was 10:57; they were right on time. ‘Hey, Sarah, isn’t that Gatesy? You know, that reporter friend of yours?’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I pointed and everyone turned to look.
Sarah took a step forward and looked at the figure sitting down, reading his notes. Standing back, she looked at me. ‘No, it’s not. His hair is much darker. But they do look similar.’
TC stood up ‘That’s it, folks, I’ve gotta go.’ He hit the console button. The sound and red microphone lights died.
We all shook hands again. ‘I hope you people have a good trip. Ask these two nicely, see if they’ll take you over to the Treaty Room.’
Davy said, ‘It’s on the itinerary, after the alley.’
TC nodded as he headed for the door. ‘See you guys. Hey Davy, don’t forget, four thirty this afternoon, we’ve got that meeting.’ They ran through a few details of their work admin while Sarah and I, the gooseberries, just stood by, keeping an eye on the briefing-room screen.
We followed TC out of Crisis Four. When we were all out in the corridor he mad
e sure the door was secure, then turned right and walked off towards the fire doors with a cheery wave of the hand.
A couple of Hispanic women came squeaking along in white overalls and white patent-leather shoes, looking like a cross between cleaners and nurses, and talking at 100 mph in their own language. They stopped as they passed us, nodded and smiled, then returned to their warp-speed conversation. We turned left and moved further down the corridor.
Josh had an idea. ‘Hey, you know what? I’ll go over and see if I can get us into the Treaty Room, and maybe even the VP’s office.’
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Would we still be able to watch the press brief?’
Sarah joined in. ‘Yes, I’d love to see that as well. I have—’ Josh smiled as he put his hands up defensively, like a parent fending off an overenthusiastic child. ‘Hey, no problem. In a few.’ He turned and walked towards the fire doors. Sarah and I exchanged a relieved glance as Davy led the way. We stopped two doors down.
Davy grinned. ‘This is the best room in the house.’ He opened the door. Inside was an open space, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen, with stackable plastic chairs arranged around the walls, the same as in the briefing room. Beyond that, in shadow, was a single-lane bowling alley.
The floor was highly polished lino. The walls were painted white, and covered with a couple of posters of bowling teams, and pushed against it was a large wooden box, also painted white, with compartments which looked as if they were holding about eight or nine pairs of bowling shoes.
There was whirring and clicking as all the bits and pieces of alley machinery came to life and the strip lighting along the alley flickered on.
Davy smiled back at us as he walked towards the shoes. ‘I’ve got a great story for you guys.’
By now the bowling balls were rolling up onto the stand and the pins were being positioned by the machine at the bottom of the lane.