Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“Name’s George,” he said. “George Kozak.”

His hand was to Lou’s as Lou’s was to Notso Brite’s.

“Okay. Notso and George,” Lou said. “Pleased to make your acquaintances. I’m Lou Welcome.”

“That’s Dr. Lou Welcome,” Cap corrected. “So behave or he’ll take out your liver.”

“Fat chance,” George mumbled, turning to face front again. “Yo! Yo!” he cried out. “You’re losing ’em, Cap. Hell, man, you need me to drive?”

“I didn’t even want you to come. ”

“Yeah, sure. You know you can’t separate me from my car.”

“That’s right,” Notso chimed in, “or me from my Glock.”

He pulled his handgun from a shoulder holster beneath his black Windbreaker and set it on his lap.

Lou’s heart stopped. Then, with utterly unpleasant slowness, it began pumping again. Two decades in the ER had featured far too many gunshot wounds, and far too many deaths of all ages. He could count the number of times he had held a gun on the fingers of one hand, and could not even stand being this close to one.

Handguns and beets, he had said on more than one occasion, enumerating the two things in the universe he hated most.

“Jesus, Notso, put that thing away!” he snapped.

“Easy, Lou,” Cap said. “The muscle we’re tailing are almost certainly packing. Notso just wants to be prepared. Stow it, big fella.”

Notso looked at Lou queerly and slipped the Glock back into its holster.

“Who the hell are these guys, anyway?” George asked.

“I have no idea. Did you get a look at them?”

“A couple of white guys with thick necks and bulges in their jackets. One of them has a cheesy mustache.”

“Meet any thick-necked white guys lately who’d want to tail you?” Cap asked, making another turn.

“What are they driving?”

“See that Caddy a few cars up ahead?” Cap said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s them.”

Lou leaned forward to get a better look. “Don’t know the car,” he said. “Thanks for putting your piece away, Notso. I work in an ER and I’ve seen too many holes in too many people.”

“Don’t worry about my cousin,” George said. “My aunt got it right about him. The only thing we’re going to be shooting with on this trip is my digital camera.”

“What’s the camera for?” Lou asked.

“Information, my friend,” George answered as he snapped a couple of pics of Lou without triggering the flash. “We don’t know what we’re going to find, so this way we can capture the memories.”

“Where’d you get that camera from anyway?” Notso asked. “Yo mama’s so poor, she can’t even pay attention.”

“Funny,” George said, feigning a laugh. “I got it from school, blubber belly. It’s for a project I’m doing.”

“You’re in school?” Lou asked with more incredulity than he had intended.

“Yeah, college,” George said.

“ Community college,” Notso corrected.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you bucket of lard. Last time you picked up a book you freaked out because it had already been colored in.” He turned back to Lou. “I’m a sophomore-well, a junior with four more credits.”

“That’s terrific,” Lou said. “What are you majoring in?”

“Biology.”

“He’s learning how to grow weed,” Notso said.

“You wish. Believe me, if I ever start growing weed, you’ll be the last to know.”

Cap groaned his displeasure. “George, will you shut your mouth and keep your eyes locked on that car ahead. This ain’t a joke.”

“Why do you think I called you about them? I know bad when I see it.”

For a short while, the four fell silent. Cap managed to stay four or five cars behind the Caddy without losing sight of it. After a mile or so, it turned onto the highway headed west. Another mile, and Lou had it figured out.

“Cap,” he said. “I believe I know exactly where these guys are headed.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?”

“Kings Ridge, Virginia,” Lou said.

Notso smiled. In the flash of approaching headlights, his teeth shone. “That’s way cool,” he said. “I ain’t never been to Virginia before.”

Darlene knew what she was about to do might end her marriage-if not in fact, then at least to all intents. Martin had learned about her meeting with Russ Evans almost as soon as it happened. Should he learn of this one, he would never understand-especially if she turned out to be wrong about Evans.

But she wasn’t wrong.

An anxious young woman’s voice on a high-tech recording told her so. And hopefully, very soon, she would have proof. Of course, it was always possible that the tape was a fabrication, but to what end? Even if someone put together a fake, even if the young woman was an actress, Russ Evans was finished politically.

The three cars escorting Darlene and Kim to the movies-a town car and two nondescript sedans-pulled to a stop a block past the iconic Regent Street Theater. Dusk was settling over the district. During the intentionally circuitous ride from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Darlene gazed out at the streets teeming with people, moving through their lives, making connections only when they wanted to. She had willingly given up that privilege when she and Martin entered the campaign. Now, she felt wistful that Russ Evans could no longer walk comfortably among people without attracting unwanted attention.

With half an hour to go before the movie, the advance team of agents completed its assignment with trademark efficiency and radioed to Victor Ochoa that it was safe for Buttercup and Wildcat to enter the theater. Darlene had forgotten the name of the film they were going to see until she read it posted out front on the illuminated marquee. Double M had chosen a PG-13 chick flick.

Darlene’s mouth was dry with tension. She was defying the man she had married, and about to deceive the people who had been sworn to protect her at any and all cost. But her friend since childhood and more recently her professional soul mate had been destroyed-framed. And now, the man she and Kim called Double M wanted her help at least to clear Russ Evans’s name.

Why? With nothing tangible, what does he expect I can do?

Darlene pushed the questions to the back of her mind. It was imperative that she remain sharp-aware of everything and everyone around her. Slipping free of Ochoa and his crew was not going to be easy, even though only he and a female agent named Bonnie would actually be in the theater, seated in the back.

Darlene wore a pair of tinted glasses with thick white frames, and an auburn, shoulder-length wig beneath a gold print satin scarf. The outfit was one of several-the most effective, in fact-that she used when she wanted to keep gawkers and disrupters to a minimum. In addition, she had on a pair of faded blue jeans and a brown leather jacket with the Hard Rock Cafe emblem sewn onto the back.

Ochoa handed Kim and Darlene their tickets. “Bonnie and I will be in the back,” he said. “Just make sure you take the seats we’ve designated for you.”

“Sorry it’s not your type of movie, Victor,” Kim said. “My girlfriend told me that there are no car chases, and no one gets shot.”

“Hey, I like sweet, endearing romantic comedies as much as the next guy who gets paid to carry a gun.”

Darlene hooked her chief of staff’s arm and, eyes down, escorted her into the theater and down to two seats on the side aisle. There were fifteen or so other patrons scattered throughout the remaining seats, but none anywhere near the two of them. The film, nearing the end of its run before DVD, seemed to have been carefully chosen by Double M, and to this point, at least, no one appeared to be paying any attention to them.