William Bernhardt - Capitol Conspiracy

The president smiled the sort of wide, friendly, earnest-looking grin that could get a man elected to the highest office in the land. “I said I liked it, Brad. Signing is a whole different thing. You can’t marry every woman you like.” He pivoted. “Which reminds me of a woman I like very much.”

As he turned, the first lady, Emily Blake, stepped from the limo. If anything, the chorus of hooting and hollering that followed exceeded the reception that had been given the president. Emily Blake was younger than her husband, but not by so much as to attract discussion. She was medium-sized, dark-haired, and dressed in a tasteful but sensible manner that reflected her tasteful but sensible demeanor. Ben knew she was extremely popular, especially in the Southwest.

The president took her hand, helped her off the curb, then raised both their hands into the air. The crowd went wild.

“Listen to that,” Tidwell murmured in Ben’s ear. “Her approval ratings are considerably higher than his and he knows it. He’s milking her for everything she’s got.”

“Isn’t that a bit cynical?” Ben said, as he watched the First Couple bathe in the limelight. “It’s hardly unusual for a man to bring his wife to a major event.”

Tidwell made a snorting noise. “He didn’t bring her. She flew in from Tucson. They met at the OKC airport down the road.”

Ben nodded. Oklahoma City’s Will Rogers World Airport was one of only three very special airports named for men who died in a plane crash. “She probably had a fund-raising event. It’s that time again.”

Tidwell shook his head. “It’s a marriage in name only, contrived purely for political purposes. They don’t do anything together. They don’t share anything. Not even the First Bedroom.”

Ben reared his head back, appalled. “How could you possibly know that?”

Tidwell shrugged in a nonchalant manner that Ben found extremely off-putting. “Word gets around. If you travel in the higher circles.”

Which, Ben knew Tidwell was implying, he didn’t. But of course-Tidwell was right. Ben didn’t know what to make of Tidwell’s gratuitous scuttlebutting of his party’s leader. Was he ticked off because the president greeted him last? Or was there something more going on?

The Secret Service agent closest to the president lightly touched his sleeve, which Ben knew was the signal for him to move on. Even with all this security, they never liked the president to stay in one place for too long until he had arrived at his destination.

As the First Couple turned toward the dais, the first lady stopped. “Senator Kincaid!”

Ben stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am?”

She smiled, exuding warmth. “Where’s that pretty little wife of yours?”

Ben fumbled for words. “She’s…in the audience. With my mother.”

Emily Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Well…”

“Tell that lovely redhead I’m inviting her to the White House for tea. We need to have a heart-to-heart.”

The president took his wife gently by the arm. “Now, Emily. We don’t harass a man about his wife. Even if he is a Democrat.”

“But, Frank-they’re newlyweds.”

“That’s right. It slipped my mind.” He gave Ben another wink. “So what the hell are you doing here, son?”

Secret Service agents Zimmer and Gatwick flanked the president and slowly escorted him toward the dais from which he would speak. All around them, Ben saw agents scurrying into position, watching all possible angles, talking into their sleeves. Ben knew there were at least as many, possibly more, agents working undercover, filtering quietly through the crowd looking for signs of trouble, as well as numerous sniper nests covering not only the ground but the surrounding downtown skyscrapers.

Ben and his group took the stage several steps behind the First Couple and were escorted to their seats. Risers had been erected opposite the reflecting pool to create a presidential platform with seats for important dignitaries behind and to each side. A podium bearing the presidential seal stood in the center. Just beyond the podium, a dense crowd of reporters hovered with mikes and minicams.

Ben marveled at all the activity, all the work that went on behind the scenes of a relatively simple presidential appearance. But he was cheered by the realization that, after so much work, caution, and preparation, nothing could possibly go wrong.

At the rear of the stage, Agent Zimmer made a slow circuit from stage right to stage center. He tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. All the agents got their suits a little big in the chest to disguise the fact that they were carrying weapons, currently. 357 SIGs. Personally, Zimmer had preferred the previous nine-millimeter version, but oddly enough, the director of Homeland Security hadn’t asked for his opinion when the decision was made.

He met Agent Gatwick in the rear center.

“You getting the same reports I’m getting?” Gatwick asked, not looking at him. With the dark sunglasses, it would be impossible for a spectator to know exactly where he was looking.

“About Marshall?”

“Yeah.”

“You worried?”

Gatwick scanned the Oklahoma City skyline surrounding the memorial complex. “I don’t think it’s worrisome. Weird. But not worrisome.”

“He’s always played point man for presidential appearances in the past.”

“Because he wants to, not because he has to. He knows he can trust us.”

Zimmer subtly stepped forward, adjusting his gaze ever so slightly to examine a Middle Eastern-looking woman wearing an overcoat about three people deep behind the rope. An overcoat on a warm Oklahoma City spring day? That was more than enough to raise his suspicion. He whispered into his sleeve, sending three agents to check her out. “So you think that’s it? He’s decided he can let the little birds fly free?”

Gatwick shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Maybe he got tied up in some Senate meeting. It’s happened before.”

“Congressional oversight of Homeland Security was a big mistake.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, bro.”

Beyond the rope, Zimmer saw his agents approach the woman in the overcoat and quietly search her and run a metal detector over her body. Through his sleeve receiver, he heard the result. She was clean. Claimed she had some weird disease that lowered her body temperature. Like some kind of human lizard-she was cold even when the sun was shining. Still, Zimmer told them to take down her name and address.

Returning his attention to his partner, he noticed that Gatwick was scrutinizing the first lady.

“I don’t like where we’ve got her,” Gatwick said flatly.

“Who? Juliet?”

“Right. Too close to Samson.”

“She’s to the right and two feet back. Exactly where Samson likes her. So when the cameras shoot him from their assigned station, she can be seen in the background beaming at him with adoring eyes.”

The tiniest of smiles cracked Gatwick’s stoic facade. “I’m moving her.”

“What? Why?”

He tucked his head forward in a quick and almost imperceptible nod. “Only skyscrapers in range are to the south. She doesn’t need to be in the potential line of fire.”

“Don’t we have snipers up there?”

“Yeah. But still-I’m moving her.”

Agent Zimmer’s brow creased. “I thought it was agreed-Domino Bravo.”

“I’m making a slight alteration.”

“Don’t you think you should get approval first?”

“From who? Marshall’s out.”

“Then Deputy Director Lehman.”

Gatwick bristled. “I’m in charge, at least on site.” He whispered a few terse commands into his sleeve. “I’m just moving her to the other side of the stage. What difference can it make?”