Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“Is POTUS in position?” Kim spoke into her radio.

A crackled reply came back, “Ready to go.”

“Good.”

Kim nodded to her assistant, and moments later the musicians began to play the Irish march, “Wind That Shakes the Barley.” President Callaghan emerged through the Oval Office French doors to enthusiastic applause. She stood in front of the podium, waving to the powerful and influential guests, many of whom had Irish heritage, strong ties to her country, or both.

Scanning the crowd, Kim stepped away from the podium and listened from the lawn nearest to the risers. She was startled by a light tap on her leg and looked down to see a mocha-skinned girl with ebony pigtails, wearing the plaid pinafore and black tights of the girls, smiling up at her shyly. Kim knelt down.

“Honey, you’re supposed to be on the riser with the others,” she whispered. “Your song is right after President Mallory makes his entrance.”

“But I need to tell you something,” the child said in a honey-sweet voice.

“Me? What is it, sweetie?”

“A man said to tell you that your present is in your purse.”

Kim took in a sharp breath.

I’ll be in touch.

“What man?”

“The one who came up to me right after I got off the bus.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“He had a red and white Washington Nationals hat on. They’re my favorite team.”

The crowd was settled, and Kim realized that the director of the chorus was looking over at them.

“Everything okay with Simone?” he said in a stage whisper.

“Fine,” Kim said. “You did good, Simone. You did perfect. Now, go back with the kids and give us a terrific concert.”

A Washington Nationals cap.

Double M seemed to be an expert at disguise by diversion. Give a person like the bartender and this child something easy to focus on, and in all likelihood, that would be all they recalled.

Kim glanced quickly around the Rose Garden, just as she had that night in Bar None. The results were the same.

Nothing.

Yet somehow, Double M had managed to slip something into her purse. The man was sharp, resourceful-and quick.

The Irish march was over, and the musicians had begun “Hail to the Chief.” With the first notes of the James Sanderson march, Martin Mallory emerged from the Oval Office to what Kim considered a polite standing ovation. As he waved to the crowd, she checked her shoulder bag. A small white box, held closed by a red elastic, rested on top of her clutter. It weighed no more than a couple of ounces. Nothing to be wary of.

Stepping backwards out of the line of sight of almost everyone, she pulled the elastic off. The box held six compartmentalized pieces of chocolate. It took Kim a few seconds to realize that only five of the pieces were real candy. The sixth small chamber contained something else.

Something not at all edible.

An earpiece.

“Hail to the Chief” was winding down, to be followed by the national anthems, but Kim could hardly hear the music. Her pulse was a kettledrum in her ears.

Ahead and to her right, the president was waving and smiling for the cameras.

Kim pretended to adjust her earring and fiddled with the small apparatus until it slipped inside her left ear. Immediately, she heard static, then a man’s tinny voice, probably electronically altered. Still, his words, even heard through her pulse, were quite audible.

“This is the end of the recording. It will loop for ten minutes more before its contents become permanently erased. Darlene Mallory must listen to this recording and agree to help.”

Already on high alert, Darlene tensed even more when she saw Kim approaching. Something had happened between her chief of staff and the young girl from the chorus. And whatever it was, Darlene strongly suspected, had something to do with Double M. Then, when Kim stealthily brought out a small white box from her bag, opened it, extracted something, and quickly closed it again, she was certain.

Martin was at the podium now, waving to the crowd. God, but he loved his job. Each percentage drop in his popularity had been like a dagger in his heart.

Hard as his plummeting numbers were on him, both physically and mentally, he maintained an unyielding belief in his programs and in his vision for the future of America. But lately, reassuring him, deflecting his bullwhip temper, and validating his decisions had become something of a second full-time job for Darlene.

Then there was the matter of her pledge not to contact or mention Russ Evans to him again. It was for this reason Darlene had decided not to tell her husband about Double M-at least not yet. She never had much in the way of craftiness, and Martin generally could see right through her when she tried holding anything back from him. Revealing her connection with D.M., as she and Kim sometimes called the informant, had to be carefully orchestrated, and kept secret until she knew what the man was about.

Kim stood by Darlene’s right shoulder, blocking most angles, and bent down far enough to whisper in her ear. “It’s him.”

“Now?” The First Lady kept her gaze forward and her face expressionless.

“Lower your hand,” Kim said.

Darlene did as instructed, keeping her fingers curled to form a makeshift cup. The plastic object Kim placed there was smaller than a marble and surprisingly heavy. At the same moment, Martin began his address. A screech of feedback from the podium’s single microphone sent a flock of birds into flight, and the AV tech scurrying for his control knobs. Martin tapped twice on the microphone head.

“There,” he said in a voice now rich with electronic reverb, “the First Lady is always telling me to expect the unexpected.”

The laughter was prolonged and genuine.

“That feedback was probably caused by this earphone,” Kim said. “Very powerful. Double M knows his stuff.”

Darlene nodded, smiling for those still looking at her. Kim straightened up and stepped back toward the crowd.

“Thank you all for being here today,” Martin continued. “This is a wonderful opportunity to express America’s deep gratitude and appreciation to a country that shares so many of our values. Our bond is formed not only in the history we share, but in the perseverance that defines our two nations. And I say this not only as a president who can claim and document a deep Irish heritage, but also as a man who is extremely fond of a perfectly poured Guinness.”

The laughter this time was even more enthusiastic.

Darlene knew this speech well, and was prepared for the reaction to Martin’s Guinness joke. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. With the attendees distracted, she pretended to adjust her earring. The earpiece slipped into place without any difficulty.

The first thing she heard was a brief, rather unpleasant hissing sound. It was followed quickly by a clearly understandable man’s voice that sounded as though she were hearing it through a tin can microphone.

“Darlene Mallory must listen to this recording, and she must agree to help.”

Through her left ear, Darlene could hear her husband speaking.

“Before I begin my remarks, and before President Callaghan delivers hers,” Martin said, “it is my great pleasure to introduce the Young People’s Chorus from Washington, D.C., who are here today to welcome us all with their moving rendition of ‘The Face of the Waters.’”

The children began to sing. The harmonies of their angelic voices engulfed the remarkable scene.

“You don’t have to be afraid of us,” Darlene heard a man’s harsh voice say. “You come well recommended for this part, so all you have to do is follow my instructions.”