The Threat

This struck a sore spot; they exchanged grimaces. Gunning said yeah, sometimes the aides got tasked to carry luggage or do other personal tasks. The president and first lady both had personal assistants, but when they weren’t immediately available or had too much to do, the aides would be expected to step in.

“When he’s in the Residence, the duty dog can take things a little easier,” Gunning said. “Just keep your eye on the daily schedule, and track his whereabouts on the monitors. And kind of respond to his staff — you’ll get to know them. Now, there’s different gangs. There’s Holt’s people — you know them already. And our boss, Charlie Wrinkles, the guy who’s always got a lollipop stuck in his jaw—”

“Yeah, I met him.”

“Charlie’s getting bigger every year. Director of the military office, the guy who controls all the perks for the staff — that swings weight on the Acres. Then there’s Varghese’s gang, the original Nevada Mafia. Steer clear of them. And the first lady’s people, keep them at arm’s length too if you can. We pull twenty-four-hour duty days. I showed you the bedroom. Or use the sofa in the office. You can work your collateral duties — like Mike said, the mess, or the valets, or the planning for the next overseas trip, whatever.

“When he has an event outside the compound, say Kennedy Center or the Gridiron, most of the planning for that, the pol staff and the Secret Service take care of. We just hop in the motorcade and go along.

“It’s when he travels it really picks up for us. We schedule seating on Air Force One and do the transport and comm liaison. There’s binders on that, too.”

“What uniforms will I need?”

“Good question. Official events: class A’s, with the aide badge, and the aiguillette on the right shoulder. Unofficial events: sports coat and tie, usually. And this pin.” Gunning pushed a Secret Service pin across to him. Dan fingered the tiny gold star and blue shield. “There’s a walk-in closet where you can keep your uniforms and your civilian combinations, like for quick changes. There used be an enlisted guy to help out, but he’s long gone.

“Now, close up to POTUS and FLOTUS, in the personal entourage, it’s different from being over in the West Wing. Certain things you will hear, and not repeat. See, and not recall. Even after you leave here, or retire, you will never talk or write about them. Never.”

“FLOTUS?” Dan said.

“First lady of the United States,” Gunning said. “Code name Tinkerbell, but Pit Bull would fit better. Okay. Over the next few days, I’m setting you up with briefings from the other staff agencies. We’ll go over what to do in case there’s a transfer of command authority — like last year, remember when he had that gallbladder operation and the vice had the stick for eight hours when he was on the table. Then you’ll do hover tours, looking over the shoulder of the guy who’s on duty. Or gal — we got Francie Upshaw, too. Next week you can go out to Camp David with Mike. The rest, you pick up on the job.” He stretched, joints cracking, then heaved himself up. “Any more questions?”

“Hundreds.”

“Sure, but that’s enough for today. Zero-seven tomorrow, here. And we’ll start getting you read in.”

“One last thing,” Dan said. “Maybe I should have asked it before. It might be a dumb question—”

“No such thing,” the colonel said. “Shoot.”

“What if there’s an attack, and he freezes? The president can’t make up his mind?”

“And the missiles are coming in?” Gunning and Jazak looked at each other. The colonel glanced at the sealed door of the vault.

“We’ve discussed that,” the marine said, voice so soft that even if some electronic device had been listening, it wouldn’t have picked it up. “Considering the pussy-ass we’ve got in the driver’s seat right now.”

“And?”

Gunning murmured, “In that case, Commander, you’re going to have to do what Blow-dry Bob isn’t man enough to. You grab that card out of his hand, before we’re all vaporized, and you send that fucking go message all by your fucking self.”

17

MARINE ONE

The satchel crouched at his feet like a black mastiff to which he was unwillingly leashed. Jazak was crammed in beside him. The sofa bench, upholstered in light blue cloth, ran along the starboard side of the compartment. Facing them, in comfortable-looking armchairs, were the president and the Distinguished Guest, and opposite Dan and Jazak, on another sofa bench, the secretary of state and the undersecretary for African affairs.

Dan couldn’t keep his eyes from going back to De Bari. Was she still seeing him? He couldn’t help imagining the president and Blair together. And when he did, it was hard to stay in his seat and pretend he didn’t know, or didn’t care.

What sort of man could do that to someone who worked for him?