Without knocking, Valerie Jones entered the Oval Office through the main hallway. She had a stack of folders under her left arm and a leather day-timer in her right hand.
“Good morning, Robert
“Jones continued across the room and set the folders on the left side of the president’s desk.
Hayes held up the schedule for her to see.
“What’s this you wrote here in the margin?”
Without having to look, Jones said, “Last-minute change.
Prince Kalib from Oman is on his way through town to see his father at the Mayo Clinic.”
Hayes tapped his capped Waterman pen against his cheek while frowning.
“And?”
“And…” Jones put her hands on her hips and smiled.
“You don’t want to know. Just take my word for it. It’ll be a worthwhile meeting.”
President Hayes nodded slowly. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Jones’s outfit for a split second. She was wearing a yellow silk blouse that was almost dark enough to pass for gold.
Hayes thought the bright blouse combined with the black skirt and scarf made her look like a bumblebee. Having a wife and two grown daughters of his own, he was smart enough to keep this opinion to himself.
“What else do you have for me?”
“The First Lady left Andrews about fifteen minutes ago and will be on the ground in Columbus just before ten. Which reminds me…” Jones stepped to her left and placed both hands on the surface of the desk. “I still think you should go to Columbus. You can fly out tomorrow afternoon and make the party with no trouble at all.” The president’s fifth grandchild and his namesake, Robert Xavier Hayes, was celebrating his first birthday tomorrow.
Hayes shook his head.
“I’m going to see little Robert in two weeks, and I’ll celebrate his birthday then.”
“I think you should go tomorrow,” persisted the chief of staff.
“I’m not going. It costs a lot of money to fly everybody over there just for the evening.”
“Fine.” At the insistence of the First Lady, Jones had given it one more try. The chief of staff grabbed one of the folders she had brought and opened it.
“I need your signature on about thirty documents. Some of them you’ll want to glance over, and others you can just sign.”
With a sigh Hayes began working his way through the stack of papers.
THE WHITE KNIGHT linen truck pulled up to the cobblestone entrance of the underground parking garage at the Treasury Building. A uniformed Secret Service agent stepped out from his guard booth and smiled at the driver saying, “How are ya. Vinney?”
Good’ Tony The driver stepped down from the cab. “You staying awake this morning?”
“Just barely.” The officer handed him a clipboard and asked, “Did you watch the game last night?”
“Of course. I hate those stinking Yankees I think I hate the Yankees more than the Red Sox.” Abu Hasan took the clipboard and signed his fake name ‘Vinney. Vitelli. Hasan had been working for the White Knight Linen Service for almost eight months. White Knight was in the middle of its four-year contract with the Treasury Department. Getting a job with the company had been easy, and passing the FBI background check had proved even easier. The only hard part was getting rid of the previous driver.
The old driver had come down with an incapacitating case of food poisoning the day after he had dined with Hasan about five months ago.
Hasan had conveniently stepped in and covered the man’s route until he was better. Two weeks after that, when the man was killed in an attempted robbery near his apartment, Hasan was right there to step in and take over the dead man’s route.
Hasan handed the clipboard back to the Secret Service officer.
“I have two extra tickets to the Indians-Orioles game on Saturday if you want them.”
The officer grabbed the clipboard.
“That would be great.
My kid would love it.”
Hasan smiled.
“Good.” He had worked hard to get to know as many of the uniformed officers as he could. It was crucial to the mission. If they couldn’t get the truck into the garage without being inspected, the entire plan would fail.
“Are you working tomorrow afternoon?” asked Hasan as he turned to go back to the truck.
“Yep”
“Good, I’ll bring them by.”
“Thanks Vinney. I appreciate it. “The guard tugged on the brim of his cap.
Hasan climbed back up into the cab and released the emergency brake. As the heavy steel gates opened, the terrorist looked to his left at the fence that separated the White House from the Treasury Department. He grinned and bit down hard on his tongue, fighting back the urge to smile as he looked beyond the gate at the most famous house in the world.
Hasan put the truck in gear, drove through the gate and down the ramp.
THE TAXICAB CONTINUED south down Pennsylvania Avenue and crossed the intersection at Seventeenth Street. The driver pulled in between two large, circular concrete planters, turned to the left, and stopped. Only a block away from the White House, the road ahead was closed to all motor traffic.
Anna Rielly sat in the backseat and looked out at the barricades the Secret Service had constructed in the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing. A row of concrete planters extended from each curb and stopped, leaving just enough room for a guard booth and a huge steel barricade with the word “STOP” emblazoned in white against a red background. The steel barricade was hydraulic and could be lowered to allow authorized vehicles to proceed to the next checkpoint.
Rielly paid the driver and got out of the backseat. She had a large black bag over one shoulder and a smaller purse over the other. While she adjusted the large bag, she looked up at the gothic-looking Executive Office Building and frowned.
Rielly tried to decide if she liked the building or not. She studied the ominous structure and brushed her shoulder-length dark brown hair back behind both ears. It was beautiful in its craftsmanship but seemed out of place among the rest of Washington architecture.
The young reporter was wearing pleated black dress pants and a matching jacket that were onset by a white silk blouse.
Wanting to savor every moment of this achievement, she took in the whole scene. Her skin was aglow in the early morning sunlight, and Rielly beamed with pride as she approached the guard booth.
“Hello, I’m the new White House correspondent for…” The uniformed Secret Service officer behind the bulletproof glass pressed a button on his panel and said, “Ma’am, I only check motor traffic at this gate. You may proceed down another block to the northwest gate, where they can check you in to the White House.”
Rielly thanked the guard and walked in between two of the planters. As she continued down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, she noticed the Blair House on her left, the president’s unofficial residence when he could not stay at the White House because of construction or some other problem. Rielly continued walking, taking it all in. At the next block she stopped at another guard booth, identical to the first. Anna Rielly proudly presented her credentials to the man behind the blue-hued bulletproof glass. She had finally made it to the big leagues after serving as a reporter and weekend anchor for the NBC affiliate in Chicago for the last five years. NEC had picked her to be their new White House correspondent.
Rielly looked around while she waited for the guard to run her through his computer. On the other side of the fence she could see all of the tripods and equipment that the networks left on the White House lawn for their live
