Born to Run

“With my son on the front line, concern is probably a good word.”

“I can understand that. I know the FBI has given you assurances about Jack’s safety, but in the world of personal protection, I trust no one more than Frank. I’d like to arrange for him to be assigned to you.”

“I appreciate the gesture. But that’s not really necessary.”

“I insist. He has experience on the vice presidential side of things with Phil, so it’s an easy transition. We’ll make the reassignment first thing in the morning.” The president took one last swallow of coffee. “You look tired, Harry. Go to bed.”

“I am beat. Thank you, sir.”

Harry said good night to both the president and the new special agent in charge of vice presidential protection, and then he left through the north door. Agent Madera remained behind with the president. Neither seemed eager to be the first to speak, each waiting for the other’s reaction.

“You told him too much,” said Madera.

“He’ll be fine. Harry Swyteck wants to be vice president in a bad way. Much more than he lets on. Now that he’s in the loop about Chloe Sparks and Phil Grayson, he has no choice but to toe the line.”

“You trust him that much?”

“I do now that you’re on his security detail.”

“Nice touch, the way you couched it in terms of personal safety.”

“I’m sure he sees through that. The only question is how far he can see.”

President Keyes rose and stepped toward the window. Surrounding city lights gave the south lawn a warm glow on a cold December night. “Do you think…”

He stopped himself.

“Do I think what?” said Madera.

“I have this unsettling suspicion about his son.”

“He does seem a bit too friendly with Paulette Sparks since coming to Washington.”

“Not to mention Marilyn and Elizabeth Grayson.”

“All on the heels of that e-mail.”

The president leaned against the window frame, his back to Agent Madera as he spoke to his reflection in the pane of bullet-resistant glass. “It could be paranoia on my part. But I’m beginning to wonder if Jack has already figured out that Phil Grayson having sex with an intern has absolutely nothing to do with the power to bring down the Keyes administration.”

“That would be our worst fear,” said Madera.

He shook his head, speaking in a solemn voice. “You want to know my worst fear, Frank?”

Agent Madera did not respond.

President Keyes was a student of history, and in times of stress, snippets of White House history seemed to rise up from the floorboards to haunt him.

“Did you know that President Garfield was brought to this very room after he was shot in the summer of 1881?”

“Is that what keeps you up at night, assassination?”

“Of sorts,” he said, turning to face him. “My worst fear is that the entire world is about to know what the Greek knows. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

Chapter 19

The Greek was the last customer of the night at Mahoney’s Pub. He walked past the empty booths and pulled up a stool at the Formica-topped bar.

“What’ll it be, old man?”

The bartender was young, short, and skinny-the complete opposite of the Greek, who was an imposing figure even when seated.

“Shot and a beer,” he said.

The beer was dinner. Or breakfast. Whatever worked at 1:00 A.M. for a guy with a huge problem on his mind and who couldn’t sleep. Alcohol touched his lips only when the back pain flared up-something he’d dealt with for almost fifty years, ever since those thugs had thrown him off an apartment building in Nicosia to watch him splatter like a watermelon. The doctors had told him he was lucky to be alive, lucky not to be paralyzed. They obviously didn’t know Demetri Pappas. Luck had nothing to do with it. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. It was a cliche, but the Greek lived by it. Swimming in the Mediterranean Sea had whipped his body back into shape. A mile a day for over forty years. Then cycling. Seventy miles in a single day had been commonplace in his prime. Finally, he was ready to run. He’d finished eight marathons in his lifetime, and he was determined to run another before he hit seventy. He still smiled at reruns of that old TV show, Ironside. The Greek should have been that guy in the wheelchair. Instead, he was Ironman.

The bartender set him up. He downed the drinks quickly.

“’Nother round.”

The Greek’s brain was buzzing, but he was still thinking clearly. He never let himself drink to the point of intoxication, never did anything to cloud his judgment. Especially when it was decision time.

Plan A was dead-literally. Chloe Sparks had totally conned him. He should have known that serious money from the Inquiring Star was out of the question when the editor had refused to negotiate and handed him off to a young reporter. Plan B had seemed like a better idea. What politician wouldn’t pay a king’s ransom to launch himself overnight from second-in-command to head of state? It certainly would have worked that way in Cyprus-and not just because Shakespeare had written of such false loyalty in Othello.

“Here’s to you, Iago,” he said, and then he downed the second round as quickly as it was poured.

The bartender switched off the glowing neon beer sign in the window. “Closing time, old man.”

“How about a coffee?”

“There’s a diner across the street.”

The Greek grumbled, but he was angrier with himself than anyone. He should have known better than to put his trust in the likes of Jack Swyteck-a lawyer and the son of a politician. Swyteck-what the hell kind of a name was that, anyway? Must have been another one of those hatchet jobs by immigration officials at Ellis Island. The Greek had once known a Jozef Swatek from Galicia. Or was it Prague? Could have been Russia.

Fucking Russians.

The Greek tipped back his beer glass and found one more swallow. Plan C would be the charm-as soon as he figured out what it was.

The bar was empty, and the bartender looked ready to head home. “Twenty-four bucks,” he said.

The Greek checked his wallet. Four singles. He was twenty dollars short. Two hundred fifty thousand and twenty dollars short, to be exact.

“You take an IOU here?”

“This ain’t no charity.”

“World keeps getting crueler every day, don’t it?”

The bartender started wiping down the Formica. “Tell me something I don’t know, pal.”

The Greek snatched the towel, giving the bartender a start.

“What the hell, old man?”

With a quickness that belied his age, the Greek brought his hand up from his lap and rested it on the bar top. It was wrapped in the towel.

“I’m telling you something you don’t know.”

The bartender glanced uneasily at the towel. “What you got wrapped up in there?”

“Could be just my hand. Could be my hand holding a bobcat.”

“A bobcat?”