“Never underestimate a woman,” said the only female of the three. “She can do anything she wants to.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the younger of the two men replied. “The question was whether she wanted to.”
“Don’t be absurd. If this is a marriage of political convenience, then it would be pretty stupid to miss a television spot that more than forty million people are expected to view live.”
“You seem to have some real insight here. Maybe you should go into politics.”
“Tempting. But I would hate campaigning. Can’t keep my mouth shut long enough. And I have a few skeletons in my closet.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Nerds are the only people who can run for political office in this country these days. To get elected, you have to be one of three possible things: old, homely-or male.” She smiled. “I’m none of the above. Also, I enjoy a healthy, unmarried sex life. I’m unelectable.”
“But if the reports and rumors I’m getting about the first lady are true-”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“But the scuttlebutt-”
“And she’s always there when he needs her, right?”
“But-”
“Don’t be so easily misled,” the woman said, pointing a finger so close, it almost touched his nose. “All the sex in the world can’t compete with the thrill of receiving the applause of millions of potential voters. Remember what Kissinger said.”
“And that would be?”
Her upper lip curled in a distinctively naughty manner. “Power is the greatest aphrodisiac.”
Joel Salter felt a shiver creep up his spine. Bad enough he had to be the only Feeb in the outpost without that woman here making him supremely uncomfortable. He could still recall a time when this would’ve been an FBI operation and the Secret Service agents, nominally under the direction of the secretary of treasury, would’ve been managed by the deputy director of the FBI. Ever since the Secret Service had been transferred to Homeland Security, though, he hated these assignments. He was worse than a third wheel; he wouldn’t be useful even in the event of a flat tire. Unless he had some intel to provide, they didn’t want any part of the FBI. The general attitude seemed to be that if the FBI had been doing its job, Homeland Security would never have come into existence. People like Carl Lehman and Nichole Muldoon didn’t want him tainting their operation.
Muldoon was watching through high-powered binoculars that allowed her to peer through the green-tinted windows of Cadillac One. “My God,” she said, “they’re not even sitting on the same side. I guess absence does not make the heart grow fonder.”
Salter cleared his throat. “My understanding is that she sits facing him so that when the rear door is opened, spectators and cameras will only see the president. An unshared spotlight. A generous gesture, really.”
Muldoon snorted. “More likely she wants a minute to pull up her pantyhose.” She lowered the glasses and gave Salter another one of those looks. “You might know that, Joel. If you’d ever seen a woman’s pantyhose.”
He smiled faintly, trying to be a good sport. Truth was, Nichole Muldoon was no worse than most of the women he’d met in his law enforcement career, and was better than some. Certainly smarter than most. But something about her made him feel awkward. And ancient. At forty-six, he was only about a decade older than she. He’d worked hard to get his position in the FBI, as opposed to her meteoric rise in Homeland Security. He had years of experience where she had brains. But all of this was beside the point. At the end of the day, he knew it wasn’t her brains that were intimidating him.
The woman was knock-down-drop-dead-heart-stoppingly-pulse-poundingly-oh-my-God beautiful. She didn’t even have to try. Didn’t need makeup. She could stand there in a beige business suit with a little gold-buttoned jacket and it looked like a floor-length ruby red ball gown with a slit up the side and cleavage down to her navel. Nichole Muldoon had the look-the Look-that forced you to fantasize about what it would be like to have sex with her, even though you knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of it ever happening.
He couldn’t even have the pleasure of blaming her for the effect she had on him, suggesting she was using sex appeal to get ahead. As far as he knew, she was totally oblivious to the impact she was having on his libido. Sure, she made remarks about the first lady’s sex life and the size of the president’s equipment, but who didn’t? That was SOP in the sheltered world of Protect-the-President. That was just being one of the boys. If anything, that behavior should make him forget she was a beautiful woman. But he didn’t. Not ever. Not for one second. All she had to do was toss that shoulder-length blond hair back and he was orbiting Jupiter.
“Did you hear what I said, Joel?”
He jerked to attention. “I’m sorry. I was…surveying the crowd.”
Carl Lehman frowned down at him. Great. Make the deputy director of Homeland Security think you’re an idiot. That’ll push you up the ranks. “I told you we still haven’t located Marshall.”
“Really?” He had to seem surprised, even though he wasn’t. “Did someone call his wife?”
“Yeah. She’s clueless.”
“Didn’t he disappear once before?”
“Yeah.” Lehman ran his hand over the top of his head as if he had hair, although there hadn’t been any for many years. But since he was so much taller than anyone else in the room, who could notice? “We weren’t on duty that day. Samson wasn’t out amongst the Philistines.”
“Any cause for concern?”
Muldoon jabbed him in the side. “You know Carl. The rising of the sun in the morning is cause for concern.”
“But your people know what to do, right?” Salter asked. “They don’t need Marshall breathing over their shoulders.”
“True enough,” Lehman agreed. “But it’s still strange. Damn strange.” He drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “I suppose I’m just an old man worrying about nothing. Look,” he said, pointing toward the tableau below. “Samson is getting out of The Beast.”
The first six cars in the motorcade passed by, but the seventh slowed precisely opposite where Ben and the others were standing. Two police motorcycles swirled around the car, sirens blaring. Ben felt a tingle course through his body. Even though the windows were tinted, he knew who was sitting in the backseat of that car. It would be hard to miss. The presidential seals were emblazoned on the rear doors; an American flag flew proudly from the bumper.
Zimmer talked into his sleeve again. “Roger. Samson has arrived.” He leaned closer to Ben. “See the presidential standard raised from the left front fender? That tells us that the commander in chief is inside the vehicle.”
Zimmer stepped forward and pressed the security release button under the handle that allowed the door to be opened from the outside. Ben felt a sharp intake of breath. At first, all he could see was the interior of the car- blue leather upholstery with wood veneer accents. He spotted a fold-out desk being returned to its upright position. A long leg in a blue suit emerged. Behind the dark, green-tinted window, Ben saw the outline of a familiar female face.
Beside him, Ben sensed Senator Tidwell inch ever so subtly forward.
Zimmer helped President Franklin M. Blake from the car while Gatwick positioned himself behind. A dotted circle of agents surrounded the car, some of them scanning the horizon, some of them scanning the sky.
Behind the rope line, a huge swell of shouting and applause erupted. The president waved, smiled, then turned his attention to the phalanx of people waiting to greet him.
The president spotted Senator Tidwell and nodded, spotted Ben and nodded…
Then he walked directly up to Mike and shook his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Major Morelli. A real pleasure.”
Mike was obviously stunned. His usual savoir faire had utterly abandoned him. “A…p-pleasure to-to meet you, too, Mr. President.”
“I was very pleased when I heard Senator Kincaid had invited you. Always glad to meet a true public servant, someone who puts himself on the line for the common good. If there could be any benefit emerging from 9/11, it’s that we’ve all come to realize just how important the work you and your brethren do really is.”
Mike was still shaking his hand. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” the president replied, gently using his left hand to extract his right. His
