Meaning beyond the door to their private quarters, which was typically taboo for the security detail to cross, unless asked.
Cox seemed to consider this for a moment before saying, “Uh, no that won’t be necessary, Larry.” As he walked out, he added over his shoulder, “But stay close. Um, just in case Jane needs anything.”
“Absolutely, Mr. President. We can be in there in seconds.”
Cox headed upstairs to confront his wife. The Secret Service team followed and stood a few feet beyond the portal to their private quarters, listening for anything that would indicate the president was in jeopardy in any way. No doubt each of them was wondering the same thing. They were duty-bound to protect the president from all danger. They had been trained to sacrifice their own lives so that single life could continue.
Yet what they had not been exactly prepared for was a situation that might be materializing a few feet away right now. What if the danger the president was in was coming from his wife?
Could they use deadly force if necessary? Could they even kill her to save him? That was not really spelled out in the Secret Service manual, but each agent was thinking the answer to that was probably “yes.”
This had happened once before if presidential lore was to be believed. Warren G. Harding had been president and he and his mistress had been found out by Mrs. Harding. They had taken refuge in a closet in the White House and the angry First Lady had attempted to chop down the door, allegedly with a fireman’s ax. The Secret Service had to delicately relieve her of the weapon and Harding had survived. However, he had succumbed later in a San Francisco hotel room under mysterious circumstances while still president. Some thought the missus had finally gotten her revenge through a poisoned dish served to her husband. That had never been proved because Mrs. Harding had not allowed an autopsy, and had ordered her husband’s body quickly embalmed. It was a fine example of a cheated-on wife’s sheer will topping the desires of an entire nation.
Fire axes were no longer kept in the White House. And while there was a small kitchen in the private quarters, the First Lady never really did any of the cooking anymore. Or if she did, it was far from certain that any president who knew how Harding had died would actually eat it.
Larry Foster racked his brain, trying to remember if there were any letter openers in the personal quarters that could be used as a weapon. A heavy lamp that could crack a presidential skull? A poker from the fireplace that could end that supreme life on his watch? Foster thought he could feel the
ulcer actually forming in his belly as he stood in the hall contemplating the end of his career. Though it was far from warm inside the White House, sweat stains appeared under Foster’s armpits and trickles of the stuff rose on his forehead. He and his team inched closer as their collective heart rates spiked.
Each of the agents could envision the next day’s headlines in six-inch-high letters:
SECRET SERVICE KILLS FIRST LADY TO SAVE PRESIDENT.
There were half a dozen heavily armed agents poised in the hallway to take action if necessary. And all six of their asses clenched with nearly this very same thought at nearly the very same time.
Twenty anxious minutes later Larry Foster’s phone rang. It was the man.
“Yes sir?” he said quickly.
He listened intently, his features finally dissolving into confusion. But he was the president so Foster only had one thing to say.
“Right away, sir.”
He clicked off and looked at his second in command. “Bruce, call Andrews and get a bird ready.”
“You mean AF-One?”
“Any plane the president rides on is Air Force One.”
“But I mean—”
“I know what you meant,” snapped Foster. “No, we’re not taking the 747. See if one of the support planes is available. The 757 maybe, no insignias.”
“Wolfman is taking an unmarked 757 to New York?” Bruce said, looking astonished.
Foster said grimly, “We’re heading somewhere, but I don’t think it’s New York.”
“But we haven’t sent an advance team anywhere else.”
“We’re going stealth, like we do to Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“But we still advance-team it. It takes a week of logistics minimum for the man to make a trip.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Bruce. Thing is, we don’t have a week. We’ve got a few hours and I don’t even know where the hell we’re going. So call Andrews and get me a ride. And I’m going to get on the horn to the director and see how the hell I’m supposed to handle this. Because let me tell you, I’ve seen a lot over the years, but this is new territory for me.”
CHAPTER 74
QUARRY CHECKED the machinery and oxygen levels that were keeping Tippi alive. It was all working fine off the fully charged generator. It was still dark outside; the sun would not be up for hours yet.