career, Inspector O'Day had heard that one many times, and whenever possible he'd given the subject the opportunity to keep his word— but they all folded, dropped their gun, wet their pant's, or even broke down into tears when confronted by real danger instead of the kind more easily considered over beers or a joint. But not this time. This Bad Guy was serious. He had a hostage. A child, perhaps. Maybe even his own little Megan. The thought made his eyes narrow. A gun to her head. In the movies, the Bad Guy would tell you to drop your weapon, but if you did that, all you were guaranteed was a dead cop and a dead hostage, and so you talked to your Bad Guy. You made yourself sound calm and reasonable and conciliatory, and you waited for him to relax, just a little, just enough to move the gun away from the hostage's head. It might take hours, but sooner or later—
— the timer clicked, and the target card turned to face the agent. O'Day's right hand moved in a blur, snatching the pistol from its holster. Simultaneously, his right foot moved backward, his body pivoted and crouched slightly, and the left hand joined the right on the rubber grips when the gun was halfway up. His eyes acquired the gunsights at the bottom of his peripheral vision, and the moment they were aligned with the head of the «Q» target, his finger depressed the trigger twice, firing so fast that both ejected cartridge cases were in the air at the same time. It was called a double-tap, and O'Day had practiced it for so many years that the sounds almost blended in the air, and the two-shot echo was just returning from the steel backstop when the empty cases pinged off the concrete floor, but by then there were two holes in the head of the target, less than an inch apart, between and just above where the eyes would be. The target flipped side-on, less than a second after it had turned, rather nicely simulating the fall of the subject to the ground.
Yes.
'I think you got 'em there, Tex.'
O'Day turned, startled from his fantasy by a familiar voice. 'Morning, Director.'
'Hey, Pat.' Murray yawned, a set of ear protectors dangling in his left hand. 'You're pretty fast. Hostage scenario?'
'I try to train for the worst possible situation.'
'Your little girl.' Murray nodded. They all did that, because the hostage had to be important enough in your mind. 'Well, you got him. Show me again,' the Director ordered. He wanted to watch O'Day's technique. There was always something to learn. After the second iteration, there was one ragged hole in the target's notional forehead. It was actually rather intimidating for Murray, though he considered himself an expert marksman. 'I need to practice more.'
O'Day relaxed his routine now. If you could do it with your first shot of the day—and he'd done it with all four— you still had it figured out. Two minutes and twenty shots later, the target's head was an annulus. Murray, in the next lane, was busy in the standard Jeff Cooper technique, two rapid shots into the chest, followed by a slower aimed round into the head. When both were satisfied that their targets were dead, it was time to contemplate the day.
'Anything new?' the Director asked.
'No, sir. More follow-up interviews on the JAL case are coming in, but nothing startling.'
'What about Kealty?'
O'Day shrugged. He was not allowed to interfere with the OPR investigation, but he did get daily summaries. A case of this magnitude had to be reported to somebody, and though supervision of the case was entirely under the purview of OPR, the information developed also went to the Director's office, filtered through his lead roving inspector. 'Dan, enough people went in and out of Secretary Hanson's office that anybody.could have walked off with the letter, assuming there was one, which, our people think, there probably was. At least Hanson talked to enough people about it—or so those people tell us.'
'I think that one will just blow over,' Murray observed.
'GOOD MORNING, Mr. President.'
Another day in the routine. The kids were off. Cathy was off. Ryan emerged from his quarters suited and tied— his jacket was buttoned, which was unusual for him, or had been until moving in here—and his shoes shined by one of the valet staff. Except that Jack still couldn't think of this place as a home. More like a hotel, or the VIP quarters he'd had while traveling on Agency business, albeit far more ornate and with much better service.
'You're Raman?' the President asked.
'Yes, sir,' Special Agent Aref Raman replied. He was six feet and solidly built, more a weight lifter than a runner, Jack thought, though that might come from the body armor that many of the Detail members wore. Ryan judged his age at middle thirties. Good-looking in a Mediterranean sort of way, with a shy smile and eyes as blue as SURGEON'S. 'SWORDSMAN is moving,' he said into his microphone. 'To the office.'
'Raman, where's that from?' Jack asked, on the way to the elevator.
'Mother Lebanese, father Iranian, came over in 79, when the Shah had his problems. Dad was close to the regime.'
'So what do you think of the Iraq situation?' the President asked.
'Sir, I hardly even speak the language anymore.' The agent smiled. 'Now, if you want to ask me about who's lookin' good in the NCAA finals, I'm your man.'
'Kentucky,' Ryan said decisively. The White House elevator was old, pre-Art Deco in the interior finishings, with worn black buttons, which the President wasn't allowed to push. Raman did that for him.
'Oregon's going all the way. I'm never wrong, sir. Ask the guys. I won the last three pools. Nobody'll bet against me anymore. The finals will be Oregon and Duke—my school—and Oregon will win by six or eight. Well, maybe less if Maceo Rawlings has a good night,' Raman added.
'What did you study at Duke?'
'Pre-law, but I decided I didn't want to be a lawyer. Actually I decided that criminals shouldn't have any rights, and so I figured I'd rather be a cop, and I joined the Service.'
'Married?' Ryan wanted to know the people around him. At one level, it was mere good manners. At another, these people were sworn to defend his life, and he couldn't treat them like employees.
'Never found the right girl—at least not yet.'
'Muslim?'
'My parents were, but after I saw all the trouble religion caused them, well' — he grinned—'if you ask around, they'll tell you my religion is ACC basketball. I never miss a Duke game on the TV. Damned shame Oregon's so tough this year. But that's one thing you can't change.'
The President chuckled at the truth of that statement. 'Aref, you said, your first name?'
'Actually, they call me Jeff. Easier to pronounce,' Raman explained as the door opened. The agent positioned himself in the center of the doors, blocking a direct line of sight to POTUS. A member of the Uniform Division was standing there, along with two more of the Detail, all of them known by sight to Raman. With a nod, he walked out, with Ryan in tow, and the group turned west, past the side corridor that led to the bowling alley and the carpenter shops.
'Okay, Jeff, an easy day planned,' Ryan told him unnecessarily. The Secret Service knew his daily schedule before he did.
'Easy for us, maybe.'
They were waiting for him in the Oval Office. The Fo-leys, Bert Vasco, Scott Adler, and one other person stood when the President walked in. They'd already been scanned for weapons and nuclear material.
'Ben!' Jack said. He paused to set his early morning papers on the desk, and joined his guests.
'Mr. President,' Dr. Ben Goodley replied with a smile.
'Ben's prepared the morning brief,' Ed Foley explained.
Since not all of the morning visitors were part of the inner circle, Raman would stay in the room, lest somebody leap across the coffee table and try to strangle the President. A person didn't need a firearm to be lethal. A few weeks of study and practice could turn any reasonably fit person into enough of a martial-arts expert to kill an unwary victim. For that reason, members of the Detail carried not only pistols, but also Asps, police batons made of telescoping steel segments. Raman watched as this Good-ley—a carded national intelligence officer—handed out the briefing sheets. Like many members of the Secret Service, he got to hear nearly everything. The 'EYES-ONLY PRESIDENT' sticker on a particularly sensitive folder didn't really mean that. There was almost always someone else in the room, and while the Detail members professed even among themselves not to pay any attention to such things, what that really meant was that they didn't discuss them very much. Not hearing and not remembering were something else. Cops were not trained or paid to forget things, much less to ignore them.
