Andrew Britton - The American

Washington, D.C., in the half light of morning. The clouds were rolling in from the south, but the sun still poked through occasionally, sending bright beams spilling down over random objects and people. Looking around the waterfront, Jodie Rivers sipped from her travel mug and stood in quiet appreciation of the sight. She had worked herself to the point of exhaustion over the past week, and although there was a lot going on, she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to enjoy her morning coffee. Especially after getting called to the TTIC at one in the morning and the sleepless hours that had followed the meeting.

The colors of the city had that vivid look that is peculiar to a certain type of overcast weather. Across the sparkling surface of the channel, the grass of the East Potomac Golf Club seemed like an endless sea of emerald green. Although there was no precipitation, the air felt heavy and still, and she had received numerous reports of a storm moving in by early afternoon.

It would come too late to do her any good, though. For now, there was no trace of rain or snow on the ground, and no reason to cancel the boating excursion that was scheduled to begin in less than two hours. At least no reason that she could successfully argue to President Brenneman or his chief of staff, Ed Rigney.

She was painfully aware that they were presenting an irresistible target less than three weeks after two successive terrorist attacks. Unfortunately, the Secret Service served at the pleasure of the president, and once he had his mind made up, all they could really do was set up a good perimeter, surround him with as many agents as possible, and hope for the best.

The barriers leading into Maine Avenue were already doing their work. High above, using their high-powered binoculars the rooftop observers were scanning the assembled groups of demonstrators, now and then whispering a quiet description over the Service’s dedicated radio link. In response to the description, someone would get bumped in the crowd by one of the interspersed agents. In each case, the target of the bump was completely oblivious to the fact that he or she had just been thoroughly checked for weapons. The Secret Service agents posing as demonstrators carried no signs and dressed neatly, if not conservatively, but they did shout out the occasional slogan to keep up appearances. So far the demonstration was peaceful enough, for which the uniformed Metro cops were grateful as they looked on with watchful eyes and neutral expressions.

Headed south toward the waterfront was the endless procession of embassy limousines bearing French and Italian diplomats. USSS personnel from the Uniformed Division checked each vehicle for explosives with CCTV wands, which projected the undercarriage onto a 4.5-inch screen positioned at waist level. Credentials and faces were scrupulously checked against existing documentation while other agents looked on with MP5s held low by their sides. Two junior aides from the French embassy who were missing their passes were pulled out of their vehicles and held for twenty minutes while their identities were confirmed, much to the consternation of the French ambassador and his head of security.

The preparations had been endless, and they seemed to be paying off, Rivers thought. Still, the integrity of the perimeter was largely dependent on the mind-set of a potential assassin. She knew that there was no way they could guarantee protection if an individual was willing to die himself in order to kill the president. An individual alone on a suicide mission was the greatest fear of any Secret Service agent, and Rivers was no exception. She found herself thinking about William Vanderveen: God, I really hope he wants to live.

“Daydreaming again, Jodie?”

She turned her head to smile at Joshua McCabe. “No, just enjoying the scenery. Pretty, isn’t it?”

He followed her eyes to the golf course opposite the channel. “Yeah. Too bad for the golfers, huh?”

“I guess.” The course had been shut down under PDD-62, on the grounds that it was too large a space to cover with their limited manpower. “What’s going on?”

“Everything’s moving right along. You did a good job getting the French and the Italians on file, by the way. We’ve been able to clear them pretty quick.” She bobbed her head at the compliment. “Did you hear about Virginia?”

She looked up sharply. “No.”

He grimaced and shook his head. “Someone should have told you… The raid went to shit. Vanderveen set a trap and took out a bunch of guys from HRT. They didn’t find a vehicle in the barn.”

“How did he do it?”

“Some kind of bomb. They’re still looking into it. Anyway, they assume he’s coming our way. So…”

She closed her eyes and thought about it. “I don’t know what else to do,” she finally said, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. “We don’t have the manpower to extend the perimeter anymore. Did you pass this along to Storey?” Jeff Storey was the Agent in Charge of the president’s detail, and scheduled to arrive in two hours with the main party.

“Of course. I took it to the president as well. Obviously, he wasn’t happy about it. We’re still on, though.”

“Well, hell,” she said in frustration. “What’s with this guy? Doesn’t he realize how serious the threat is?”

“He knows.” There was a pause. “He’s desperate, Rivers. If he pushes this through, he might pick up enough support to start thinking about another four years. Otherwise, he’s done.”

“It’s kind of hard to run the country if you’re dead,” she mumbled.

McCabe winced. “Don’t let anybody else hear you say that, for God’s sake. Listen, I’m needed back at Tyson’s Corner. You can reach me there if you need to, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” He nodded and walked back to his waiting car. Jodie Rivers stared into the gray waters of the channel as a series of awful scenarios raced through her mind, one after another. After letting her imagination run rampant for five minutes, she reluctantly moved off to double-check the perimeter and the list of foreign dignitaries who had been cleared for access.

Please, God. Not on my watch.

The TTIC was a nonsmoking facility, and Jonathan Harper had given up the habit years ago. With the pressure he was currently under, however, he needed some way to vent, and he wasn’t a screamer.

He smoked outside as dawn broke, with Ryan standing next to him. The younger man was crossing his arms one minute, shoving his hands deep in his pockets the next, as if unsure of what to do with himself. They were alone on the broad expanse of concrete, and they had known each other for seven years. There was nothing awkward in the silence. The deputy director sensed that Kealey was coming to a decision, and waited for him to speak.

“I want to go to the marina.”

Harper took another long drag and exhaled slowly. “Not much for you to do down there,” he observed.

“I know that.”

“What do you need?”

“Some kind of identification,” Ryan said. “I want people to know who I am. I don’t want somebody stopping me every five feet.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Not through us… through the TTIC, maybe. And I’ll talk to McCabe.”

“I need my gun. I have it with me… I just don’t want it to be a problem.”

“It won’t be.”

Harper finished his cigarette, and they stood in companionable silence as the sun topped the trees. “What do you think of Naomi?”

“I like her. She’s… tough.”

“Not bad-looking either.”

Ryan smiled. “Not bad.”

Harper tossed his butt toward the sandpit, missing badly. “I didn’t really want her in on this at first. She’s kind of rough around the edges, you know? Hasn’t really learned to handle people yet. She’s learning, though… Think she’ll find anything?”