information from a very reliable source.”
“What are we talking about, a car bomb, a plane… what?”
Kennedy cleared her throat.
“We were told an assault. That’s all the information we have, and we are trying to get more.”
Warch pushed his chair away from his desk and stood.
“What?” he asked incredulously.
“An assault. That’s impossible.
They’d need a tank if they wanted to breach our outer perimeter.”
“Jack, I don’t know how they plan on doing whatever it is that they are going to do,” started Kennedy in a calming voice, “and I’m sorry I can’t give you anything else at this point. But the bottom line is we are taking this very seriously. For obvious reasons Director Stansfield wanted me to call you first. We suggest that you tighten things up over there without alerting the press, and as soon as we find more out, we will let you know.”
Warch continued to squeeze his forehead.
“Today. You think it’s planned for today?”
“Yes.”
Warch looked at his watch. It was almost nine A.M.
“I’ve got to get moving.” He grabbed his digital phone from the desk.
“If you hear anything more, call me on my mobile.” He gave Kennedy the number and then hung up. Warch, who was more entrusted with the president’s life than any other person in the Secret Service, took every warning, no matter how small, very seriously. And a warning from the Cia’s lead official on terrorism ranked about as serious as it could get. Leaving his office in a hurry, he walked quickly down the hallway and started to run through a mental list of options. As Warch moved toward the exit, his mind fixed on the question of what type of assault could be planned. The Secret Service made it a priority to practice defending against different attacks on the president. They spent millions of dollars running their agents through their training center in Beltsville, Maryland, on a monthly basis. They practiced motorcade tactics, lope-line tactics. Air Force One and Marine One evacuations-almost every scenario one could think of. The analysis was in on truck bombs. With the barriers that were set up around the grounds, it would be impossible for a truck to get close enough. There would be a lot of broken glass, but the president would be safe. A plane, Warch thought. In every scenario they covered, an attack by a plane loaded with explosives represented the most lethal threat to the president.
As Warch walked out the door and onto West Executive Drive, he raised his hand mike to his mouth and said, “Horsepower, from warch. Tell Hercules to look sharp, and tell them I want the stingers out and ready.” Hercules was the call sign for the part of the detail that handled the rooftop. Warch hesitated for a second. He was tempted to put the entire White House detail on full alert but decided he should consult the president first. Hayes didn’t like surprises, and despite Kennedy’s intensity, this would not be the first time the Secret Service had been given a false alarm.
ANNA RIELLY POKED her head into her new basement office. The windowless room was smaller than the kitchen of her not very roomy one-bedroom apartment back in Lincoln Park. There were three desks against three of the walk and barely enough room for all of the chairs in the middle. A handsome man in his early forties, whom Rielly recognized from TV, stood to greet her.
“You must be Anna Rielly.” The man extended his hand.
“I’m Stone Alexander, ABC’s White House correspondent.
We’ve been expecting you.”
Rielly shook his hand and looked dejectedly at her new office.
Alexander read the disappointment on her face and said, “It’s not quite what you expected, is it?”
“No. I mean I didn’t expect the Taj Mahal, but this is ridiculous.”
“Don’t worry. Look at the fringe benefits.” Alexander grinned and held his arms out.
Rielly eyed his sculpted hair, handsome face, and waxed eyebrows.
“And what would those be?”
Alexander smiled, showing a perfect set of bleached white teeth.
“You get to work with me.”
“Really?” said Rielly
“Yeah, really.”
Alexander placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her out into the hall. “I was just on my way to get some coffee before you got here.
Let’s go get a couple of cups, and I’ll show you around and introduce you to everyone.” As they walked toward the White House mess, Alexander continued his small talk.
“So, how long have you been in town?”
“Just got in yesterday.”
“Has anyone shown you around yet?”
“No. I haven’t even unpacked.”
Alexander put his hand on her back and ushered her into the mess first.
Rielly noticed that he let his hand linger on her back for an inappropriate amount of time. She looked around the cafeteria and was once again shocked by how small it was.
There were probably twenty people sitting at the rectangular tables drinking coffee, eating, talking, and reading various newspapers.
“So are you married?” asked Alexander.
Rielly hesitated for a second and figured lying would do no good.
“No.”
Alexander grinned with optimism.
“Maybe I could show you around tonight. I know a great new restaurant in Adams Morgan
“Thanks, but I have a lot of unpacking to do.”
“A person has to eat,” he said persistently.
Rielly realized Mr. Hormone would need to be dealt with a little more firmly and said, “Thanks, but I have a rule about dating reporters.”
“And what would that be?” asked Alexander, his smile still plastered across his face.
“I don’t,” Rielly said as she continued to look around the room.
“And why is that?”
Rielly turned around and, with a sarcastic grin, replied, “I don’t trust them.” Alexander laughed.
“Are there any other rules I need to know about?”
“Yeah. I don’t like to date men who are prettier than I am.”
“THIS IS THE Roosevelt Room. It is called that because of the two portraits that hang on its walls.” Piper stepped into the room and motioned to the two paintings. Aziz strained to remain calm as Piper stopped at every painting, statue, and room on the way to the Oval Office. Acting his part as a West Wing tour guide, Piper babbled on about the history of the building, and Aziz nodded politely.
“You’ll notice that the portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hangs above the fireplace mantel and the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt hangs over here to our right. It has become a tradition at the White House that whenever the sitting president is a Republican, Teddy’s portrait hangs over the fireplace, and when a Democrat is in office, the portraits are switched and FDR’s portrait hangs in the position of honor.” Piper folded his hands in front of his robust midsection and smiled at the rendering of his party’s icon.
While Aziz feigned interest in the artwork and historical rooms, he had marked and counted the exact position of every Secret Service officer and agent they had passed. It all seemed so easy as he casually walked among them. He was a welcomed and honored guest in a place he did not belong. All of the fences, high-tech security, and heavily armed Secret Service agents were there to stop him, and not a single one of them had the slightest clue that within their midst walked their greatest fear.
