Pursuit

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Mr. Davenport was afraid he couldn’t get here quickly enough.” The calmness of Jess’s tone belied the hard knot of tension forming in her stomach. “I brought a car. It’s waiting outside. We should go, before . . .”

  A small but comprehensive gesture finished her sentence: before somebody figures out who you are and the shit hits the fan.

  “Don’t give me that. He’s drunk as a skunk.” Mrs. Cooper abruptly stood up, the legs of her chair scraping loudly back over the wood floor. Despite the potentially attention-attracting sound, Jess breathed a silent sigh of relief. It had just occurred to her that if Mrs. Cooper didn’t want to move, she had no way of budging her. Tugging the brim of her cap lower over her face, and tucking an envelope-size, absolutely gorgeous, and totally inappropriate crystal-studded evening bag beneath her arm, Mrs. Cooper stepped away from the table. “All right, let’s go.”

  Without another word, braced for the possibility of discovery with each step, Jess turned and led the way to the door. As she skirted their tables, the basketball fans leaped to their feet, cheering in deafening unison and nearly causing her heart to leap out of her chest. She stopped dead. A glance over her shoulder showed her that Mrs. Cooper, likewise clearly startled, had stopped in her tracks as well, her mouth dropping open, her eyes shooting fearfully to the celebrating crowd. But their noisy exuberance had nothing to do with her, and, indeed, the rowdy focus on the TV provided some much-needed cover for their hastily resumed exit. Walking quickly once the initial shock had passed, they made it safely out of the bar without anyone noticing them at all.

  At least, so Jess hoped. But with cell phones being as ubiquitous as they were, all it took was one vaguely curious onlooker to snap a picture and . . .

  I am so out of my league here.

  The dim, old-fashioned lobby was about twenty feet wide and three times that long, with the reception desk and bell stand opposite the bar and an adjacent restaurant that was now closed and dark. Only a single female clerk in a red blazer stood behind the reception counter, talking on the phone and paying no attention to the two women newly emerged from the bar. The bell stand, located a dozen wide marble steps down from the reception desk, at street level, was deserted. A red-jacketed doorman waited beside the triple glass doors, holding one open for—whom? Jess couldn’t see who was on the way inside, but someone definitely was, and as a consequence she felt more exposed than ever.

  Keep moving.

  “This way.” Keeping her voice low, she indicated the main entrance with a gesture. Mrs. Cooper nodded and fell in beside her.

  Jess was just thankful that Mrs. Cooper finally seemed to be aware of just how vulnerable to discovery she was and how disastrous that discovery could be. Keeping her head down, the woman took care to stay between Jess and the wall. Striding along beside her, Jess held her breath, her heart pounding, her gaze fixed on that open door. Anyone could walk through it, glance up, and . . .

  Just as they reached the top of the steps, a pair of middle-aged men, low-level executives from the quality of their suits, brushed through the open door one after the other, each dragging his own battered suitcase on wheels, which clattered along behind them like noisy, overweight black dogs.

  “Can I take those for you?” the bellman asked. The businessmen brushed him off with curt shakes of the head and began lugging the suitcases up the steps themselves while the doorman, deprived of his hoped-for tip, scowled after them. Hugging the paneled wall on the opposite side of the stairs, Jess and Mrs. Cooper hurried on down. As far as Jess could tell, neither the businessmen nor the doorman even so much as glanced their way.

  I’m not qualified for this. Scandal Quashing 101 wasn’t even on the course list in law school.

  “Where’s the car?” On the last step now, Mrs. Cooper looked out at the street through the plate-glass doors that were just ahead. She seemed tense, on edge—just about as tense and on edge as Jess felt.

  “Out front.” Jess hadn’t thought to tell the driver to wait anywhere else. A screwup, probably, she realized now. She probably should have looked for a side entrance, but she had been in such a hurry at the time that she had just told the driver to stop at the entrance and scrambled out. She could only hope that in the end it wouldn’t matter.

  “We need to hurry. They’ll be looking for me.”

  “Who?” Jess asked before she thought, although the answer was almost instantly clear: most of official Washington. The press corps. Her husband.

  “The Secret Service.”

  Oh, yeah. Them, too. Although, come to think of it, Mrs. Cooper could probably use a bodyguard about now. And I could certainly use some backup.

  As she pushed through the thick glass door at the far end of the trio from the one the businessmen had used, the knot in Jess’s stomach twisted tighter. For the first time it really dawned on her what she was doing: spiriting away an unprotected, emotionally overwrought, on-the-lam First Lady. On Davenport’s instructions, she reminded herself, but the sensation that she was getting in way over her head here persisted.

  Next time the phone rings at midnight, I don’t answer it, she promised herself as the cold, fresh air of the early April night blew her hair back from her face and plastered her jacket against her body. The smell of car exhaust notwithstanding, its briskness was a welcome antidote to the overly warm mustiness of the aging hotel. You don’t have to be at Davenport’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, you know.

  But the sad truth was that she did, if she wanted to keep collecting her nice fat paycheck. Which, thanks to her always-good-for-a-complication family, she now needed more than ever.

  “So, where is it?” Mrs. Cooper meant the car. She stopped on the sidewalk beside Jess, who had paused, too, briefly taken aback. The car was not parked where it had been when she had exited it some ten minutes before, which was just to the left of the front entrance, mere steps from where they now looked for it in vain.

  Good question, Jess thought as she glanced swiftly around. The white glow of the hotel’s marquee was too bright for comfort. She felt like they were standing under a spotlight. Other nearby businesses—a sushi bar, a liquor store, a pharmacy—spilled light out over the sidewalk, too. A steady stream of vehicles cruised the street in both directions, their headlights providing even more illumination. There were people everywhere, strolling the sidewalk, entering and leaving stores, exiting a car that had just parked in front of the sushi bar. Their noise rose over the steady hum of the traffic. Anyone could glance their way and . . .

  “Can I get you ladies a cab?” the doorman asked, making Jess jump. He was right at her shoulder, and she hadn’t heard him approach at all.

  “N-no, we’re fine, thanks.” With a shake of her head she fobbed him off, then, without thinking about the whole breach of protocol such a gesture probably constituted until it was too late, caught Mrs. Cooper firmly by the arm. Heart thudding, desperately scanning both sides of the street for the errant car, she pulled the First Lady away from the bright lights of the hotel. Please let it be here some . . . Hallelujah. There it is. Her breath expelled in a sigh of relief. “The car’s right up there.”

  The black Lincoln that Davenport had sent waited at the end of the line of cars parked bumper to bumper at meters almost to the intersection. It had pulled over to the curb in the no-man’s-land between the legally parked cars and the traffic light. Red parking lights glowing at them through the darkness told Jess that the driver had, as instructed, kept the engine running.

  “Oh, shit, there’s Prescott.” Ducking her head, Mrs. Cooper picked up the pace. She moved quickly between Jess and the buildings on her right, her shoulders hunched now as she sought to deflect the casual glances of passersby.

  “Who’s Prescott?” Voice hushed, Jess cast a hunted look over her shoulder.

  “One of my detail.”

  “Secret Service?” Jess perked up. At least the responsibility for keeping this woman safe would no longer be hers alone. Yes, there he was, a
tall, well-built man in a tailored dark suit talking to the doorman in front of the hotel. White shirt, dark tie. Short, neat, dark hair. Handsome, clean-shaven face. Lifting his hand to his mouth to say something into his fist. He might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign.

  Reinforcements at last. Thank God.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Cooper grabbed her hand when Jess started to wave at Prescott to signal their location.

  “You need protection and . . .”

  “Protection?” Mrs. Cooper’s laugh was bitter. The hand holding Jess’s tightened until Jess’s fingers hurt. “They’re more like wardens.” Her eyes blazed into Jess’s. “Don’t you understand, you stupid little girl? I’m a fucking prisoner.” Her gaze shot past Jess’s shoulder. “Get back in the car.”

  By this time they had reached the Lincoln. Mrs. Cooper’s fierce command was hurled at the driver, a burly redhead in a black chauffeur’s uniform who was at that moment coming around the front of the car, presumably to open the door for his passengers.

  As she spoke, Mrs. Cooper jerked open the rear passenger door and ducked inside. With one hand on the open door, Jess exchanged glances with the startled driver. He shrugged and obediently reversed directions. Her gaze slid toward the Secret Service agent, who was looking their way.

  Jess hesitated. The First Lady was way more upset than a simple fight with her husband should dictate, and . . .

  “Get in,” Mrs. Cooper barked.

  The driver was already sliding behind the wheel.

  His eyes fixed on the Lincoln, now clearly suspecting that his principal was inside, the Secret Service agent turned, waved, and started to jog their way.

  “Go. Now,” Mrs. Cooper shrieked. Jess looked down just in time to watch as the First Lady’s hand slapped the back of the front seat hard.

  There was no time. The driver put the car in gear. Heart thudding, Jess flung one more doubtful glance back at the man who was now racing toward them. Then, throwing herself into the backseat with the woman she’d been sent to collect, she slammed the door just as the Lincoln screeched away from the curb.

  2

  The crash scene was horrific. Smoke roiled in thick gray coils from the overturned car. Having blazed so hot that the tires had exploded and the pines in which the vehicle had come to rest had gone up like torches, the fire, courtesy of the multitude of orange-coated firefighters who were still wetting down the surrounding areas, was now out. Shortly after the crash, the flames had blazed so high that he had been able to see the bright red glow from ten miles out as he had raced to the scene. The smell on the wind—Secret Service Agent Mark Ryan didn’t want to think about that. It reminded him of charred meat.

  Word was, three people had died in the overturned black Lincoln at the bottom of the ravine. Officially, the identities of the dead had not yet been confirmed, but unofficially he knew that one of them was Annette Cooper, the First Lady of the United States. Mark thought of the thousands of threats against the First Family that poured into the White House monthly, of the hairy foreign tours to hostile regions they’d shepherded the First Lady through, of the dozens of protesters waving signs and shouting slogans at nearly all her official engagements, at the constant threat of the lone nut job of whom they lived in fear because it was the hardest to prepare for, and thus defend against. He thought of the bomb-sniffing dogs and bulletproof limos and rooftop snipers and legions of police and military types and, yes, the best personal protection agency in the world, the U.S. Secret Service, deployed for the First Family’s protection everywhere they went.

  There was no other security apparatus to equal it anywhere in the world.

  And yet the First Lady of the United States had just died in a fiery car crash.

  Already, at one-thirty-five a.m. Sunday, a little less than an hour after the crash, the news was starting to reverberate around the world. And all hell was breaking loose.

  As the head of her security team, or, as he was officially known, special agent in charge of detail, he was responsible. The unthinkable had happened on his watch. The knowledge rode like a stone in his gut. His throat felt tight, like someone was gripping it hard. He was sweating buckets even though the temperature had dropped during these predawn hours to the mid-forties.

  How the hell had it happened?

  “Halt! This is a protected area. You’ll have to go back.”

  One of the marines whose unit guarded the site belatedly became aware of Mark’s presence as he slid the few remaining feet to the bottom of the steep, brushy slope, and stepped forward to confront him. About a hundred feet beyond the marines, a circle of klieg lights had been set up to illuminate the crash site in a merciless white glow. To Mark’s left, at the edge of the flat area at the base of the slope, tall pines swaying in the wind blocked much of the star-studded sky. A rain-swollen creek rushed past, gleaming black through the thicket of tree trunks. It was dark and hazy where he came to an obedient stop just outside the reach of the bright blaze of the rescue lights, and the equally bright blaze of the TV crews setting up shop on the roadway and bridge above. Having already penetrated the first level of protection designed to keep reporters and camera crews and everyone else at bay, Mark had his ID in hand.

  “Secret Service.” He flashed his gold shield and was allowed to pass. The final circle of protection, the FBI, swarmed near the car. Over the snap, crackle, and pop of the superheated metal, the hiss of the settling foam, and the thump-thump-thump of the helicopters circling overhead, he could hear them shouting at one another through their transmitters. Closer still, a forensics team in orange coveralls was already setting up shop. Clenching his jaw, he picked his way carefully through the knee-high brush, eyeing the flattened bushes and shorn-in-half trees that marked the car’s death roll from the highway forty feet above. Finally, his gaze settled on the smoking hulk of the car, which rested on its crushed roof.

  Fury, disbelief, shock, all combined to send adrenaline surging through his system. Uselessly. Because it was too late. There was nothing he could do.

  What was she doing outside the White House? What was she doing in that fucking car?

  A stretcher was being carried up the slope toward one of the half-dozen ambulances that waited, silent but with strobe lights flashing, on the highway above. Mark didn’t know the identity of the body-bagged victim, but he knew who it wasn’t: Mrs. Cooper was already gone, having been taken away first in the medevac helicopter that had been rushed to the scene. He’d been en route when the word had come that she was dead, killed in the crash, her body so badly burned that she was almost unrecognizable. But he had continued on, driven by a fierce need to see the site of the impossible for himself.

  What the hell had gone down here?

  When he had left the White House at eleven p.m., just over two and a half hours earlier, the First Lady had only moments before excused herself from a dinner for the president of Chile. Pleading a headache, she stepped into the East Wing private quarters’ elevator that would whisk her up to the family residence. He had watched the doors close on the slim figure in the glamorous white evening gown, said a few words to Will Prescott, the agent on post in front of the elevator, and proceeded on down to the Secret Service White House command post in the basement. Once inside, he had spoken briefly with the agents covering the monitors streaming real-time, full-color views of all hallways and rooms except the most private areas of the residence. At the large electronic board that displayed color photos of every member of the White House Secret Service detail, he’d punched a button to transfer his name to the off-duty column. Then he’d glanced at the digitized protectee locator board that tracked each member of the First Family from room to room, and noticed that only Mrs. Cooper was in the residence, and she was in her bedroom.

  Safe and secure for one more night. Or so he had thought.

  Now she was dead.

  What the hell had gone wrong?

  “Who the—oh, it’s you.” The speaker was FBI Special Ag
ent Ted Parks, whom Mark had known for the twelve years he’d been with the Secret Service and disliked for at least half that time. Of average height, wiry and bald as an egg at forty, making him four years Mark’s senior, Parks had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets as he surveyed the scene. His narrow face looked ghastly in the harsh glare of the rescue lights. Shock or grief, Mark supposed. Annette Cooper had been wildly popular—at least with those who didn’t know her personally. “This is un-fucking-believable.”

  Mark didn’t even grunt in reply. He just kept on walking toward the car. The chemical smell of the foam they’d used to put out the flames was almost stronger than the burned smell. Almost.

  “Hey, sorry about Prescott,” Parks called after him.

  Prescott. The name hit him like a blow to the stomach. It confirmed something he’d been told but still didn’t want to believe: Secret Service Agent Will Prescott, his subordinate and a good guy, had been in that car. Last time Mark had seen him, Prescott was settling in for a long, boring eight-hour shift in front of the elevator. The job was like that: endless hours of routine punctuated by the rare few minutes of excitement. God save them all from those few minutes.

  Prescott and the First Lady in a car of unknown origin speeding away from the White House to an unknown destination. What the hell had happened while he’d been picking up his belated dinner at a Mc-Donald’s drive-thru and heading home through the Virginia countryside to the house he now shared solely and reluctantly with an emotionally needy cat?

  The third victim was reported to be the driver. A professional chauffeur. He’d been IDed, but Mark couldn’t remember his name. All he knew at this moment was that whoever the guy was, he had no business driving Annette Cooper. She had official vehicles with highly trained drivers and full-bore protection to take her anywhere she needed to go. No way should she have been in that car.

  “I’m sorry, sir. No one’s allowed past this point.” Another marine blocked his path. Just beyond him, an official barricade of sawhorses and police tape was being set up around the destroyed car. Now that the last of the bodies had been removed, emphasis was shifting to investigating the crash. He stopped, because there was nothing to be gained by going any nearer. He was already so close that he could feel the residual heat of the burned-out wreckage on his face. There was no brush here where the car had landed, and the dry thicket of last year’s grass beneath his feet was short. Short and crisp and black because it had been charred in the fire.