to understand why you took authority that was not, at that time, yours to command. Why you violated protocol and moved the first lady.”
“I was trying to protect her!”
“Domino Bravo would’ve protected her. Your changes killed her.”
“Are you sure that’s what it was, Max?” Gatwick said, rising slowly to his feet. “Or was it maybe your own incompetence?”
“You son of a-”
“All I know is you were supposed to protect her while the rest of us covered the president. And you let her get killed.”
“Let her!” Zimmer felt his fists clenching so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “I did my best.”
“You should’ve taken the bullet.”
“I tried. I didn’t know where the shots were coming from.”
“Everyone else did. There probably was only one shooter. Were you confused because you panicked? Or because you are just fundamentally incompetent?”
Zimmer tried his best to swallow the bile and rage rising in his throat. He knew what Gatwick was doing. Trying to deflect Zimmer’s inquiries by creating phantom issues of his own. He had done everything he could to save Emily Blake. But he still felt guilty about what had happened to her and Gatwick knew it. He was exploiting the younger agent’s guilt to the best of his very great ability.
“I’m a good agent,” Zimmer said as calmly as he could manage. “You know that. I’ve been decorated twice. That’s why I’m on the presidential detail.”
“Your medals didn’t help the first lady.”
“Neither did you moving her into the sniper’s direct line of fire.”
“What the hell do you want from me?” Gatwick shouted. Whatever cool he had been maintaining was gone now. “The sniper was after the president. The first lady was collateral damage.”
“That’s what we’ve all assumed. But we don’t really know, do we?”
“Even if she were a target, we had no way of knowing the move would put her in the sniper’s path.”
“Well, certainly I had no idea.”
“You bastard,” Gatwick spat out.
“You’re getting very excited for a man who has nothing to hide. All I’ve done is state facts. If Emily Blake had not been moved, she would still be alive today.”
“Do you think I wanted her to die?” Gatwick screamed, totally out of control. “I’ve known her since I was in college. I loved her! ” His face froze the instant the words escaped. He moved his lips again, but nothing emerged. Some words could never be retracted, no matter how much you tried to explain.
Zimmer couldn’t help but notice that Gatwick was still holding his gun. Standard protocol was to unload while cleaning, but he’d seen Gatwick load it. Gatwick held the gun limply, but that could change in less than a half second.
“So it’s true,” Zimmer said quietly.
“Don’t-don’t misunderstand me,” Gatwick said, stumbling to assemble an explanation. “I’m not saying that anything…inappropriate occurred. I’m just saying I loved her. Hell, the whole country loved her.”
“Tom…”
“And don’t go spreading what I said all around the office. You know what will happen if that hits the rumor mill. Everyone will be talking.”
“They already are. Tom-I think we need to have a talk with Director Lehman.”
“I’m telling you, there was no unprofessional contact between the first lady and me.”
“Then you have nothing to fear from talking to Director Lehman.”
“I do if you try to twist this into something it isn’t.”
“Tom, you have to come clean about this. If there’s any chance-”
“If I were having an affair with Emily,” Gatwick shouted, “do you think I would want her to die?”
Zimmer paused.
“I mean, does that make any sense?” Gatwick crumbled back into his seat. “When you hold someone so… dear. So special. Do you think I would want her to come to harm? Do you think I would want her to be killed by a sniper’s bullet?” His head fell onto the desk. “I was trying to protect her. And I failed.” He drew in his breath. “It wasn’t you that failed, Max. It was me. You think I don’t know that?” His voice became barely more than a whisper. “It was me.”
Zimmer let himself out of the office quietly, unsure what to do. Should he report this to Director Lehman? Was there anything to report? Even if an affair did occur, it proved nothing. The fact that Gatwick moved the first lady proved nothing.
There had never been a turncoat, never a traitor, never once in the history of the Secret Service.
Was it possible he had just left the office of the first?
Zimmer stopped for a cup of coffee on his way back to his office, hoping a caffeine jolt would clear his head. One thing was certain: before he said anything to anyone, he needed more information. So he would find it.
20
Shohreh had not emerged from her safe room once since the brutal incident with Ahmed and his underwhelming associates. Her dedication to her cause had not weakened, but she knew that Ahmed would be seeking revenge and the General would be seeking her death. Ultimately, the only way to keep safe in a safe room was to never leave. So she remained inside, but she still worked her contacts. Through the magic of the Internet, anyone-even the General-could reach her, if he had anything to say.
As it turned out, he did. This time, he claimed, he would meet her in person, no substitutes, no intermediaries, and presumably, no attempts on her life.
She would have to be a fool to believe this. Shohreh was many things, some good, some not. But she was not now, nor had she ever been, a fool. All that had changed was that the General now understood that she could defend herself, a little secret she had managed to keep to herself while they worked together. He would still try to kill her. He just would not let anyone get close enough that she could use her Muay Thai skills against them.
What chance was left to little Shohreh, the tiny woman with no home, no connections, not even a real name?
She held out one small hope: that no matter what protection he brought with him, he would come himself, if only because she had no incentive to show herself unless he did. He knew what she wanted. Only he could provide it to her.
If he came, she would get to him. Didn’t matter how many thugs he brought along, didn’t matter what martial arts training they had, what weaponry, what black magic. If he appeared, she would get to him. She would find a way.
So when she got the e-mail inviting her to this most desolate section of Capitol Hill, using the encryption they had developed back when they all worked together, she left her safe room.
The wrought-iron sign on the door told her that the Congressional Cemetery, established in 1807, was the United States’ oldest national cemetery-but then, it was a very young country, wasn’t it? Tucked away in the darkness behind Christ Church, many congressmen and other notables were interred here-America’s Westminster Abbey. So why was it so desolate? Or was that just her imagination? Was the iconography of death that now surrounded her too foreboding?
She slipped on her night-vision goggles and slowly, one cautious step at a time, passed down the rows of
