Power and Empire

“Yep. Looks like he put up a fight, but the detention officer still got enough injected to knock him out. Murderous bastard decided to do the rest of the job with a dead-leg hanging. He hog-tied Feng and ran a noose from his neck to his ankle, hoping to let the weight of his own leg cut off the circulation to his brain and kill him. Lucky for Feng, another DSO showed up and cut him loose. Paramedics gave him enough Narcan to revive a horse, but he’s in pretty bad shape from the noose.”

“That’s rough,” Dom said. “So what’s next?”

“Sure you don’t want to tell me anything else about your friend John?”

Caruso shook his head. “Nope.”

“Whatever,” Callahan said. “I told you last night. I don’t care what you counterintelligence guys do so long as we find Magdalena Rojas.” She took another swig of her coffee and then nodded to his door. “Grab your stuff. We have bad guys to catch.”

24

Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery relaxed as much as anyone could in the small gym inside the White House residence. He stood in front of a Universal machine, doing wimpy sets of triceps extensions and attempted not to look too creepy while watching to make sure President Ryan didn’t fall off the treadmill and break something. The Secret Service customarily waited in the hallway while the President did his workout. The fact that Montgomery was present in the gym at all complicated things. If the President were to drop a weight on his toe or simply trip over his own two feet, it would be viewed by Montgomery’s superiors as something he should have prevented. So far this morning, President Ryan had been walking on the treadmill while he read from a stack of briefing folders he’d brought with him. He was an athletic guy and this was a task he did all the time, but it drove the agent crazy because of the fall hazard. No doubt the boss was coming up with the questions he posed every morning. So far, Montgomery had gotten him trained to engage in philosophical debates only after they were within the relatively safe walls of the White House.

As the SAIC of President Ryan’s Secret Service detail, Montgomery was supposed to be within arm’s reach — but that close proximity forced him to walk a fine line between close enough and too close.

The President asked good questions, and considered the answers as if they’d come from somebody important — no matter who was giving them. Jack Ryan was a nice guy — the kind of man Montgomery liked to have beer with — and therein was the problem. Both of Montgomery’s predecessors had warned him that this president was impossible not to like. It was, they warned, going to be monumentally difficult not to come off as aloof by constantly saying “I’d rather not, sir.” But the hard truth was that to protect another human being you just couldn’t be their buddy. You could be civil, politely answer questions, but the moment you let your guard down and started to look inward, to sit around and bullshit with your new pal, something important slips by and your new best friend gets assassinated.

Relationship creep was insidious, especially with someone who has an easygoing personality like President Ryan. At some point, Montgomery would have to sit down and give the “Mr. President, we can’t be friends” talk. To have that talk too soon would be presumptuous. Too late could prove disastrous.

Montgomery consoled himself by admitting that this was a good problem to have. Sometimes agents just plain didn’t like who they protected. Montgomery had worked on Kealty’s detail when he was vice president. Now, that guy was a real asshat. But Montgomery had done his job without question. In protecting any President or other dignitary under the purview of the Secret Service, he and hundreds of agents like him were protecting not only the person but the system of governance — and the good name of the Service itself.

Ryan just made it easy — in some respects, anyway.

The President stepped off the treadmill and tossed the briefing folder on the weight bench before climbing aboard a Schwinn Airdyne bicycle. There were two of the machines, presumably so Dr. Ryan could exercise next to her husband.

The boss was circumspect this morning, looking forward, staring a thousand yards away while he moved the upright handlebars back and forth in time with the pedals. The big fan where the front wheel should have been began to whir, gaining speed. Rather than ask a question at first, he gestured at the second bike with a little toss of his head.

Montgomery looped the towel over his shoulders and climbed onto the stationary bike beside the President of the United States. He was by no means a newcomer to this world, but even he had to pinch himself once in a while.

Ryan began to pedal faster now that he had apparent competition. “So,” he said, canting his head slightly as he looked at Montgomery. “I’m not going to read some exposé about how I relied on the Secret Service to tape up my injured foot for plantar fasciitis instead of going to a doctor, am I?”