Bentley Little - The Burning

"His wife's corpse remains untouched."

There was silence in the room. Rossiter was not sure what to say. "Are there photos yet?" he asked.

"Yes. And streaming video that you can access, as well as a written report by the answering officer."

"I'll need to see the site for myself. I'll need to talk to on-duty personnel. I'll get over there right away and-"

"After." The director cleared his throat, looked around the room. "The president wants to see you first."

The president!

The situation was progressing from good to great.

Still, Rossiter was cautious. "May I ask what this is concerning?"

The chief of staff frowned at him. "At this point, everything is on a need-to-know basis. All you need to know right now is that you are to report immediately to the president in the company of Director Horn."

"Yes, sir," Rossiter answered.

The director frowned again, although whether it was at the chief of staff or himself Rossiter could not say. The director handed Rossiter a manila file folder, emphasizing that despite the high profile and public visibility of the crime scene, he was to do his utmost to ensure that word of what had occurred did not leak out to the press. "The last thing we need is publicity. Particularly right now."

That seemed to be a cue for the others to stand and take their leave. None of the men offered so much as a good-bye. They simply filed out of the room. The director stood up, pressing an intercom button on his desk. "Have a car ready," he ordered. Rossiter couldn't hear the response-he was not sure the director had even waited for one. He knew only that Horn was striding purposefully toward a nearly hidden side door in the office, making a single brusque motion indicating that Rossiter was to accompany him.

They took a private elevator to the first floor, where they got into a black town car with darkened windows. The director remained silent on the short trip through the D.C. streets, and Rossiter followed his example. There were questions he wanted to ask: Did the bureau believe that the tomb desecration had a supernatural cause? Was that why he had been called in? Were any connections suspected between this and the disinterring of Civil War dead at Arlington? But he sensed that this was a time to remain quiet, and he did.

The car passed through the White House gate and rolled smoothly by the guard shack without stopping. The residence, he noticed through the smoked glass, was partially hidden behind scaffolding and a gigantic billowing sheet of bright red tarp.

"Christo's new project?" he joked.

The quip was met with flat silence.

"They're making a few cosmetic repairs to the building. Touch-ups." They were the first words the director had spoken since leaving his office.

Rossiter said nothing, kept his eyes open and his mouth shut. He'd been in D.C. now for well over a dozen years, through three administrations, and he had never seen anything like this. He had no idea what sort of lunatic impulse had made him joke about the appearance of the White House; he'd merely been fishing for information about this obviously extraordinary sight, and he'd stupidly thought a stab at camaraderie would yield results. He should have known better.

One step back.

So much for the career rehabilitation.

The car stopped on the side of the White House opposite the construction. The door was opened for them by a uniformed marine. They stepped out from the backseat and were immediately ushered into one of the building's side entrances. Rossiter had been to the White House only once before, as part of a formal ceremony, and had entered through the front along with everyone else. This private entrance was new to him, but he remained passive, stoic, acting as though this sort of thing happened to him all the time.

They were led through a narrow winding corridor that did not seem to intersect any rooms, hallways or public spaces, and emerged in the antechamber of the Oval Office, where the chief of staff and the head of the Secret Service were already waiting, having beaten them there. Two other men were standing in the room as well, but the national-security adviser was missing. Rossiter had no idea what this could be about, but it had to be big.

The door to the Oval Office opened, and the president emerged. He looked taller than he did on TV, more presidential, and although Rossiter hadn't voted for him, he could see now why a majority of the country had. At the moment, the president was striding purposefully toward them with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. It may have been an affectation, but it got across the point that the man was busy and here to work, and Rossiter found himself standing < more stiffly at attention.

"Gentlemen," he said by way of greeting. His eyes locked on Rossiter's. "You're Agent Rossiter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Follow me. I have something to show you."

All seven of them, the president in the lead, strode down a tall wide hallway to a closed door guarded by military personnel. One of the uniformed men opened the door, and they stepped inside a large gallery that looked as though it hadn't been redecorated since Abraham Lincoln's day.

Only ...

Only the far end of the room was discreetly covered by a thick navy blue curtain that stretched from floor to ceiling and completely covered everything in back [ of it. The curtain was so jarringly out of place and so hastily put together that it was clear it did not belong and was not intended for use in some ceremony or celebration. Before Rossiter could even think about the possibilities implied by the drapery, the president | led them behind it.

And stopped.

Where a wall had once been, there was now a gaping hole surrounded by rubble. Beyond the missing section of room, Rossiter could see a series of other | galleries with shattered walls and that fluttering red | tarp outside at the far end. The entire east wing of the White House looked as though it had been|| crashed into by a gigantic wrecking ball or massive vehicle of some sort. A train, he thought, looking at the shape of the opening and the scarred floor. Throughout all of the affected rooms, military personnel were bustling about, although whether they were searching for the perpetrators or clues or were merely ^ trying to secure the area, Rossiter could not say.

The others had apparently seen the destruction already, but though presumably Horn had been told of it and knew what to expect, the FBI director still seemed shocked, and his normally unflappable demeanor was nowhere in evidence. "My God."

Rossiter remained unmoving and impassive, hoping the contrast would be self-evident.

The chief of staff cleared his throat. "The president believes that a train crashed into the White House and caused this damage."

"It was a train," the president insisted. "I didn't see it, but I heard it. And we all felt it." He looked around the room as though daring anyone to disagree. "It may have been invisible, but it was there, and it crashed through the east wing, whistle blowing, steam engine at full power... . Did I mention that it was a steam engine? Well, it was." For the first time, the president seemed distracted, unfocused. "I happened to be in the briefing room over there"-he pointed through the gaping wall-"along with most of the cabinet. We saw the impact. We saw the train crash through the walls, even though we couldn't see the train, and we saw the people scrambling out of the way, saw the desks and furniture smashed and shoved aside. Amazingly, only one man died. But that man was Jordan Mayhew. A Secret Service agent. My daughter's Secret Service agent." His eyes met Rossiter's. "I need to know what happened here. I'm told you're the man for the job, that you have some experience with this sort of occurrence."