Power and Empire

“It would indeed,” Ryan said. “I read just the other day about a firefighter near the eastern shore of Maryland who had half his body burned when he responded to a car fire. The heat of the magnesium breaks up the water molecules and releases hydrogen — not good stuff to have around an open flame. My dad used to warn me about that when he was trying to teach me to hold on to my blue-collar roots.”

“That’s exactly what it sounds like, Mr. President,” Burgess said. “Chinese ship, Chinese oil rig, Chinese money… That’s no coincidence, sir.”

“I know what it’s not, Bob,” Ryan said. “So let’s have some theories on what it is.”

Ryan stood and rolled down his shirtsleeves, grabbing his coat but not bothering to put it on. “I know it’s Friday, but I’d like some ideas on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Special Agent Montgomery opened the door and followed the President out of the Cabinet Room and into the Oval just long enough for Ryan to grab his briefcase. He wasn’t done for the day by a long shot, but things happened fast around here and he didn’t like to be too far from his notes. Montgomery opened the door to the Rose Garden and Ryan stepped out, hanging a left toward the residence. He looked over his shoulder at the hulking form of his lead agent.

“Walk up here beside me so I can talk to you,” Ryan said.

“I’d prefer to stay back a step, Mr. President,” Montgomery said.

“Of course,” Ryan said. He’d been under protection one way or another for decades, first from John Clark and Domingo Chavez in the CIA, and now the Secret Service. Even so, he’d never get completely used to someone following him around like this.

Jim Langford, another agent on the day shift, joined them before they reached the residence elevator. Only then did Montgomery move forward as Ryan had requested.

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“I’d be interested in your opinion.”

Montgomery looked mildly pleased. “On what, sir?”

“On what?” Ryan frowned. “You were there in the meeting. China, the recent events in the news. Whether I should invoke the Ryan Doctrine and… You get the picture. Some people under protection may figure the Secret Service is wallpaper, but you hear things. You have ideas. I can see it in your eyes.”

Special Agent Langford stared at the elevator buttons, unwilling to catch the eye of his boss or his boss’s boss.

Montgomery gave a sly smile. “I’m just a knuckle dragger, Mr. President. You have some supremely intelligent people in your cabinet.”

“Cut the shit, Gary,” Ryan said. “You guys are worthy of a lot more than ‘trust and confidence.’ There’s at least one of you in half the meetings I attend. You can’t tell me you agents don’t sit around down there below the Oval Office in W16 and talk about how you would handle things if our roles were reversed.”

Montgomery nodded slowly, exchanging a look with Special Agent Langford as all three men stepped on the elevator.

“What?” Ryan asked. “You’re thinking if the roles were reversed, I couldn’t protect you?”

Montgomery shook his head. “Not at all, Mr. President. I was just thinking that I’ve been doing this job for nineteen years and no one I’ve protected has ever asked my opinion about anything other than their own security.”

Ryan gave him an isn’t-it-obvious shrug. “You’re a smart guy,” he said. “I’m always interested in the opinion of smart people.”

“That’s kind of you, boss,” Montgomery said as the elevator door opened. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you in the gym.”

16

Kelsey Callahan pushed her chair away from the table, if only to put more distance between herself and the slimy little shit on the other side. Unlike the dark concrete-and-steel rooms depicted by Hollywood, the interrogation room at the Dallas federal building was carpeted and well lit. The table was veneer rather than real wood, purchased off a list of approved vendors by the General Services Administration. In this instance, the table and four chairs that surrounded it came from prison industries at the Federal Correctional Institution in Sheridan, Oregon. The taxpayers saved a little money, federal prisoners made a little money, and Callahan’s ass hurt from sitting in a piece-of-crap chair that threw her back into a helpless and uncomfortable knees-up position.

Trooper Sergeant Derrick Bourke sat next to her at the table. If the angle of his chair bothered him, he kept it to himself.

Eddie Feng was handcuffed in front and chained to a steel ring lag-bolted to the concrete floor underneath the institutional carpet. Callahan’s line of questions had seen his ashen pallor go nearly purple. Saliva foamed at the corners of his lips and his left eye twitched as if he were sending messages in Morse code.

“I am telling you,” Feng said for the tenth time. “I didn’t sleep with that girl.”

Callahan rolled her eyes. “But you already admitted that you did.”