the time is right. I am certain he will be invited to the infidel wedding.”
“Of course, you know best, Doctor,” the skinny Pakistani muttered. “I am but a simple hotel keeper. But think on this. If we continue on your original plan, and Hartman Drake does not attend this wedding, he will have the power to do untold damage.”
“I ask you to trust me,” Badeeb whispered, bowing his head.
Mujaheed Beg held his breath. The doctor paid him well, but there was far more to his work than mere employment. He saw the doctor’s dedication, saw the devotion the man gave to his jihad. Of all the men in the room, Beg was perhaps the only one who could have faith in the doctor’s plan-and when it concerned Hartman Drake, such faith was proving difficult even for him.
The man needed to die.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Washington 0830 hours
Nancy Hughes sat in her favorite white wicker chair overlooking the rolling lawn of the Naval Observatory. The grass glistened from an overnight rain. A white porcelain cup and saucer rested on her lap, steaming peacefully in the quiet air.
She took a sip of her Earl Grey and tipped her head at her new assistant. “Mrs. Peterson is ill today. Think you can handle her duties along with your own?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” Amanda Deatherage gave an impish smile that Hughes found unsettling. She was a small girl, not much over five feet tall, with narrow, girlish shoulders and piercing hazel eyes. Her stiff, red wool suit and large Wilma Flintstone pearls gave the impression of a child playing dress-up. She had a tendency to tug at her clothing as if it was bunching up and her stockings sagged noticeably above the heels of scuffed pumps. Her resume was impressive enough and she possessed decent organizational skills. It was the rumpled appearance that had put her number two behind Grace Smallwood on the applicant list.
“Excellent,” Hughes said, taking another sip of tea before setting the cup on the porch. She took up a small notepad and situated a pair of gold reading glasses on her nose. “So, how will I earn my keep today?”
Deatherage opened the burgundy leather appointment calendar and studied it for a long moment, pen poised above the pages.
“Let’s see, ma’am…” She scanned the schedule.
“Nine a.m., you meet with the head of the Kiva nonprofit… uh
… at the Smithsonian Castle.” She looked up, mouth open in reverent awe. “That is, like, the coolest thing ever. Anyways, after that, at eleven-thirty, you have lunch with the first lady at Ben’s Chili Bowl…”
Hughes closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Are you sure? For some reason I thought that was Monday.”
Deatherage’s auburn bangs bobbed as she shook her head. “It says right here: Secret Service notified… SLOTUS and FLOTUS-Ben’s Chili Bowl eleven-thirty a.m.”
Hughes made a face as if she’d just eaten something bitter.
“I prefer you don’t call me that, dear.”
It was common knowledge that POTUS stood for the president of the United States. The first lady got FLOTUS, a name that made one envision gliding gently above the ground. Nancy Hughes had no problem being the second lady, but the vice president and his wife were saddled with the VPOTUS and SLOTUS — terms that her oilman brother said suggested an erectile dysfunction drug and some sort of skin disease.
“Yes, ma’am…” Deatherage looked quizzically at the calendar. “Oops… like, I mean the biggest oops ever. You were right, Mrs. Hughes. The dinner with FLOT… the first lady is Monday. After the Kiva meeting today, your schedule is open to work on the wedding.”
“Excellent,” Hughes said, resisting the urge to point out that Gail Peterson never had “oops” moments when it came to schedules concerning the first lady. “We have a great deal to do and a short time to get it done.”
“May I ask a question, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Certainly, dear.”
“I’m, like, all afraid I’m not working as hard for you as I should be…”
Hughes lowered her reading glasses. “How do you mean?”
It looked as though the poor girl might actually be welling up with tears.
“I… I admire you so much, Mrs. Hughes. You, like, volunteer your time to all sorts of great causes. I just want to be a real help with this wedding.”
“Of course you’re going to help me, dear,” Hughes scoffed, attempting to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“But you won’t even tell me where the wedding is supposed to be.” Deatherage sniffed back a sob, hand to her chest as she worked to regain her composure.
“You’re to help with the guest list, dear.” Hughes shook her head. “The vice president believes the fewer people know the location until the last minute, the better for everyone.”
“I understand.” Deatherage sniffed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is all, like, just such an honor for me.” She turned to the back page of the appointment book. “So far you have sixty member of Congress and fifteen senators who have RSVP’d.”
“We do expect a fair number of dignitaries,” Hughes said. “Security and transportation are going to be a nightmare. At last count we had heads of state from Australia, the U.K., Germany, and Brazil. Have we heard from any others?”
“Tom Selleck’s publicist called last night to say he plans to attend,” Deatherage said, her mouth hanging open. “This is crazy-before she died, my mom used to watch old Magnum, P.I. reruns all the time. I can’t believe Tom Selleck would come to your daughter’s wedding.”
“He’s a family friend,” Hughes said. She leaned forward, touching the girl on the knee. “I had no idea your mother had passed away, dear.”
“I was fifteen,” Deatherage sighed. “She and my dad were killed in a car wreck on a trip to the Grand Canyon. They left me with friends…”
“That’s just awful,” Hughes said, about to cry herself. A sudden thought made her smile. She got to her feet, motioning Deatherage to follow her. Words spilled out as she walked. “I’ll tell you what you need. You need a project to really sink your teeth into. There will be a gob of politicians at the wedding. The heads of state have security, so their details have been made aware of the location. The remainder of the guests will be in the dark until the last minute-to keep the terrorists at bay. We’ll be making their transportation arrangements. It’s a big job, but I’m going to assign you transportation coordination. Think you can handle it?”
Deatherage trotted along dutifully behind, pen and appointment book in hand. “I… yes, I’m sure I can.”
Hughes stopped abruptly. “You’re my wedding assistant, Amanda. The vice president will just have to realize I need the help. I’d have to tell you sooner or later. It may as well be now.” She leaned in close. “But remember, this truly is a matter of national security. You have to promise to keep this between us.” Nancy Hughes flushed. It felt good to do good.
Amanda Deatherage looked up at her with beaming eyes and grinned. “Of course, ma’am.” Deatherage nodded. “Cross my heart and hope to die…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Western China
The wizened old Uyghur who picked them up at the Kashgar airport wheeled his lime-green VW Santana away from the chipped curb and onto Yingbin Avenue. The paved road would take them six miles to the south and
