the hallway walls. Presidential protection was the most visible of the responsibilities entrusted to the Secret Service, but it was not, in fact, the department’s raison d’etre. The Secret Service had been established at the close of the Civil War in order to combat the proliferation of counterfeit paper currency. Not until 1901, following the assassination of President William McKinley, did Congress direct the Secret Service to provide protection for the nation’s commander in chief. In 1917, the directive was expanded to include the entire First Family. Shielding the vice president didn’t come about until 1962, and in 1971, Congress voted to provide Secret Service protection to visiting foreign heads of state. Although it was with these protective responsibilities that most Americans associated the Secret Service, the vast majority of special agents continued to be assigned to investigation of counterfeiting and other federally punishable fraud. Most often Bo dealt with currency crimes. Unless the Twin Cities was expecting an important visitor.
He could feel the timbre, the tense energy that preceded all high-level visits. Coyote was already seated in the office of Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru.
Stuart Coyote was a block of granite chiseled into a man. He had a broad face that broke easily into a smile, coal black hair, and skin that was a soft-toned earth color, the genetic legacy of the coupling of his Kiowa father and his French mother.
As Bo stepped in, his boss glanced up from a document she was scanning.
“Get yourself a new pager,” Ishimaru greeted him. “Today, if not sooner.”
“How’s Tom?” Bo asked.
“Unconscious but alive. Sit down.”
Bo pulled up a chair beside Coyote. “What happened?”
“He was on his tractor in the orchard last night,” Coyote said. “Hit a branch and got knocked off. The flatbed he was hauling ran over him, crushed his pelvis. He hit his head, too. In a coma now.”
Ishimaru took it from there. “The First Lady’s been notified. She’s flying in this afternoon. ETA is twelve- fifteen. She wants to head immediately to the hospital, of course. After that, she’ll be driven to Wildwood. Stu will be liaison with local law enforcement and public service. Bo, you’re on rotation to be in charge of the Operations Center this time. Jake Russell’s signing out the ordinance and perimeter equipment. He’ll join you at Wildwood. Additional agents are coming from Fargo and Sioux Falls to help. They’ll be in this afternoon.” Ishimaru looked down at the top document on her desk. “Tom Jorgenson was admitted to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. I’m sure the First Lady will want to visit regularly. I have the contingency plans for routes and hospital security. Here.” She handed both agents a copy of the document. “I’ll be in touch. Any questions?”
“Just one,” Bo said. “Is Chris Manning still in charge of the FLOTUS detail?” He used the common acronym for the First Lady of the United States.
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. But he might have a problem with me.”
“Special Agent Manning’s primary concern is the protection of the First Lady. I’m sure that consideration will override any uncomfortable history between you two. And I’m sure he appreciates that I’m putting my best agents at his disposal. He’d better, by God, appreciate it.” She stood up. “Gentlemen, I have four thousand things to see to.”
Stuart Coyote and Bo left her office.
“Promise me one thing,” Stu said as he headed to his own office.
“What?”
“Don’t hit Manning this time, okay?”
chapter
five
Bo always kept a suitcase packed and ready. He spent less than ten minutes in his apartment in Tangletown, then took I-94 east out of St. Paul, eighteen miles to the St. Croix Trail exit, where he headed south through the little river town of Afton. A couple of miles beyond, he turned east onto a private drive. He passed beneath a stone arch with the name WILDWOODset in big tile letters. The drive threaded between tall cedars for a quarter mile, then approached the gate of a seven-foot-high stone wall. The gate was open at the moment and the gatehouse deserted. That would change as soon as the rest of the protective detail arrived. Beyond the wall lay the orchards of Wildwood.
After his wife passed away, Tom Jorgenson had come home to the estate to retire, but he didn’t retire long. Within two years of his return, he’d established, in conjunction with the University of Minnesota, the Myrna Jorgenson Institute for Global Understanding, a think tank for world peace and prosperity. An invitation to his annual Symposium on World Unity was a highly sought-after prize, and his home had become a destination for leaders of nations all over the world. A full decade after abandoning the politics of Washington, D.C., he’d proved instrumental in negotiating the Abu Dhabi Accord, which clearly enunciated the guidelines for humane treatment of international refugees. Because of his efforts he’d been short-listed for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Bo had been in charge of security at Wildwood on numerous occasions. Although former vice presidents were not accorded Secret Service protection (a benefit enjoyed only by former presidents), the Secret Service did have the responsibility of protecting visiting heads of state. Jorgenson was famous for putting his guests to work in the orchards, regardless of their rank. Prime ministers, premiers, presidents, and sultans propped and pruned and picked the fruit. While they sweated at a labor as old as mankind, they talked with Tom Jorgenson and with one another. And while they talked, Bo and his fellow agents kept them safe.
The house, nestled in the orchards, was a big place, three stories, white frame, half a dozen gables, and a wraparound front porch. Forty yards south stood the guesthouse. There were two outbuildings, one a sturdy red barn and the other an equipment shed, and near the main house a small swimming pool.
Bo parked on the gravel drive in front of the house, under a sycamore. Annie Jorgenson must have been expecting him, because she opened the door as he stepped onto the porch.
“Hello, Bo.” She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.
“How is he, Annie?”
“Not conscious. They tell me it could go either way.”
Annie Jorgenson was in her early sixties. A slender woman, she stood nearly as tall as Bo, and when she spoke to him, her crystal blue eyes were level with his own. Bo had always admired the intelligence and beauty in those eyes. Now he saw tears there.
“Ruth’s with him,” she said, speaking of Jorgenson’s youngest daughter.
Someone called from inside, “Annie?” Bo had been on detail at Wildwood often enough to recognize that the voice belonged to Sue Lynott, who prepared the meals for the Jorgensons and their guests, and also for the Secret Service agents while they were on protective duty at Wildwood. Her food was considered one of the true perks of the job. “Shall I fix you and Bo some tea?”
“Thank you, Sue,” Annie called back. “That would be nice.”
They sat in the porch swing.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He was going down to the river bluff to look at the moon. You know his ritual. He’s been taking the tractor lately because he twisted his knee a couple of weeks ago. When I finished the dinner dishes, I went out to join him and there he was. A branch had knocked him off his seat and the flatbed had run over him. He must have been careless.” Her voice, by the end, had broken.
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much.”
“The team will be here soon to set up. I’ll keep things quiet if you’d like to try to get some rest.”
“I’m fine, Bo.”
Sue brought them tea, said hello to Bo, then went back into the house. From the orchards came the sound of a meadowlark. Annie’s eyes seemed to try to track the source of the song, and for a while she simply stared at the apple trees and drank her tea.
