Andrew Britton - The American

She frowned, then said, “I can tell my people, but we’re having a hell of a time with communications. The boys from Metro are pulling a lot of the vehicle checks, and they’re using UHF radios. It’s been giving us problems all day, but I’ll see what I can do. How are you for ID?”

It was Ryan’s turn to frown. “Harper couldn’t get me anything. You know, technically speaking, I’m retired from the Agency, and Landrieu had some problems with that. He wasn’t backing down.”

Wincing, she said, “That could be a problem.”

“I know.” He hesitated. “If you can just get word to your top guy out there, then I can probably start looking around without causing any distractions.”

She thought about that, began to nod when her earpiece sparked to life. She listened intently as Ryan looked on.

Rivers glanced up at him. “The president is about to arrive.”

Over her shoulder Ryan could already see the long procession of vehicles sweeping around the corner onto Maine Avenue. The lights on top of the Secret Service Suburbans were flashing, though the sirens remained silent. The sight of the motorcade’s approach caused a storm of activity in the press pool, as cameramen and photographers hustled for position in the overcrowded area. The distant roar of the demonstrators started to pick up as well, despite the fact that their view of the motorcade was all but obscured.

Ryan saw that Rivers looked nervous. She caught his attention and tried a weak smile. “That press area is giving me fits. It’s a lot bigger than I wanted, but McCabe had to give in to the pressure… The networks went crazy when he sent over our first set of requirements. We got to a third draft before they stopped threatening to sue. The first amendment is a terrible thing, at least from my point of view.”

He nodded his sympathy. “The AIC for Brenneman’s detail is here now,” he pointed out. “That should take some of the weight off you.”

“You’d think so.” She sighed, then turned her attention back to what he had been saying. “Okay, as far as my people are concerned, everything north of Ben Banneker Park is pretty much relegated to the rooftop countersniper teams. That’s a strange combination in and of itself; we’ve got Metro PD, Capitol Hill PD, and my own shooters up there, as well as a few Bureau people thrown in for good measure… All the same, comms are pretty good, with the exception of the Metro guys. I’ll try to let them know you’re coming, but I can’t make any guarantees. I don’t know what happened there; it was just one of the small things that we overlooked, and I’m pissed off about it.”

She looked pissed off, Ryan thought, and she looked pretty good, too. He couldn’t help but think it; her cheeks were flushed with anger, but it worked for her. If he didn’t know better, he might have pegged her as a fresh-faced grad student, the enthusiasm making her seem a few years younger than her age. Because he did know better, he felt a little bit sorry for her; the Secret Service was an environment thoroughly dominated by alpha males, and someone who looked like Jodie Rivers would have had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. He was sure that her current position had not come easily.

He let the thought go and tried to think of what else to ask her, but she was way ahead of him. “Do you need a vehicle?”

“No, I have one.” Harper was going to be stuck at Tyson’s Corner for the rest of the day, and had given Ryan the use of his forest green ’98 Explorer. “They’re still taking 12th back to the White House, right?”

She glanced at him, hesitated, then nodded. If Landrieu said he was cleared… “That’s right, for the most part. Since 12th Street is closed for construction between Pennsylvania and H, we have to turn onto 13th. We’re scheduled to head back around 11:40. Some of that depends on the weather. We’re supposed to be getting hit pretty hard this afternoon.”

“I heard it might pass us,” Ryan said, looking up as if to confirm the rumor.

“Yeah, well…” she shrugged as the president emerged from the vehicle and flashed a broad grin at the press pool, which immediately responded with a number of clamorous questions. “We’ll see.”

Despite the fact that he had not slept in almost twenty-eight hours, Vanderveen could feel the energy coursing through his body. It was hard to remain seated in the chair, and the mind-numbing scenery offered by the hotel window did little to alleviate his boredom.

He had been surprised and gratified by the extent of MSNBC’s coverage of the event. The cameras had transmitted a live broadcast of the president’s motorcade nearly twenty minutes earlier. A quick count had yielded thirty-six vehicles, which was something of a relief, as it told him that Shakib’s document had probably not been compromised. Of course, if it had, 12th Street would almost certainly not have been closed down, but it was reassuring to see that the Secret Service felt secure in its preparations.

It had never been his intention to attack the motorcade before the meeting took place. It was afterward, when they had already professed their profound commitment to one another, that the sudden death of the American president would do the most damage to the fragile coalition. And he was so very close…

He checked his watch: 9:31 AM. He smiled to himself. It was hard to believe it had all come down to these moments. Staring out the window, he marveled at the changes that would soon be taking place. The buildings at the intersection would suffer the most. Soon they would be faceless rooms, no longer marked by rough stone walls and sparkling windows, but by tangled steel and crumbling concrete, and the shattered bodies of those unfortunate people who resided within.

He was so lost in the images of fire and destruction that he didn’t immediately notice the solitary figure moving up the street. His eyes opened a little bit wider, and he stood up and put his nose to the window to get a better look. When his suspicion was confirmed, his breath hissed out between his teeth and fogged the glass. You should have been paying attention, he thought, but it wasn’t a problem; he still had time.

Vanderveen looked around quickly, thinking about what he would need. The decision came quickly; he pulled on his heavy jacket, and grabbed his key card and passport. Reaching for his temporary visa, but then thinking, No, better not to try too hard. Then he was moving fast toward the door.

Ryan had enough confidence in Jodie Rivers to believe that she would make the calls she had promised. He was tired of hanging around, so after a brief conversation with the same agents he had seen manning the press entrance, he passed through the metal detector with minimal fuss and headed back toward Harper’s Explorer. It was parked on 7th Street facing north, but when he got in and looked through the windshield, he was suddenly struck by indecision.

The street in front of him was crowded with vehicles, and the same was true on the other side of the road. He could see police officers walking up and down the rows, calling in license plate numbers and performing quick visual checks. There would be just as many cars on the streets running into 12th, and it seemed like at least half the vehicles were some type of SUV, which was exactly what he was looking for.

He slapped his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and got out of the truck. The streets were crowded with commuters at this time of the morning, and there was little he could do from a slow-moving vehicle. It would be better to walk.

He started up 7th — the time-worn Beretta firmly secured in a drop holster at the small of his back — nodding a greeting to the Metro cops that he passed on the street. He was shivering in the cold air, then remembered that he had left his jacket back in Harper’s vehicle. He debated for a second, then looked again at the long rows of vehicles. The sight gave him a sense of the enormity of his task, after which the decision came easily enough, and he walked quickly back to the Explorer.