Her Secret Service (Jane Roe 1) Read online

  “Until the investigation pulls out of the station with something solid that allows us to go after this guy, our emphasis has to be on protecting the president. Are we doing anything there to address this?” Vale asked Jane.

  Since quickly moving up from managing the protective details of less notable individuals to taking care of the president, Jane had gotten used to her boss’s piercing stares and learned that his slight condescension was impersonal, but it fed into her sense that these were all challenges she would have to overcome, chances to prove herself one more time that she would relish. The only way to survive in this job was to thrive.

  “I’m glad you asked,” she said, leaning forward. “We’ll be increasing the protective perimeter around the president, taking extra precautions with screenings, and adding additional team members to the remote surveillance unit. But I think it’s worth pointing out that with no campaign-style public events going on these days and the rise of Zoom meetings and other virtual interactions, there’s never been a time when a president has been less exposed to the public. If someone’s trying to get to him, I think they’ve got their work cut out for them. And as for our team at his side and our ability to confront a threat, I have to say I’m confident about our readiness.”

  Vale’s taut face stretched in a way that had taken her a long time to learn was a smile.

  “Good. Very good. That’s what I like to hear.”

  Deputy Director Salidas scratched his forehead.

  “It’ll have to do for now, but I want more and fast. Find out who this is so we can get this off our plates. I’m looking at you, Carr. This is what we brought you up from Atlanta for.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the quick reply from the man across the table.

  The meeting over and the day with it, Jane tried to quash lingering doubts she’d buried deep inside. She ended up being the last one to leave the conference room, and once it was out of sight she was finally able to spare a thought for what she’d need to do to prepare for the next day.

  Her finger pressed the elevator button when she noticed someone to her left stepping into the adjacent hallway. It was Nathan Carr, casually drifting her way. She squinted momentarily, sure he wasn’t there by accident and beginning to gather that she wouldn’t be riding the elevator down alone after all.

  The way he looked at her was telling, at once attentive and disinterested.

  “Let’s head back to my place to get more acquainted.”

  If Jane hadn’t been so good at picking up on cues, she might’ve been surprised. But as it was, having someone not beat around the bush was refreshing, and she was sure it had worked for him on numerous occasions.

  “A little forward, don’t you think? But I can’t.”

  He sidled up next to her with his hands in his pockets, the two of them staring at the silver elevator doors as the car ascended to their floor. She glanced over at his large frame, short hair and trimmed beard, and extra six inches in height he had on her.

  “That’s the only way to be. Well, that and persistent. I’ll give you a ride back. You won’t regret it,” he said.

  Leaving aside whether she would or not, something else struck her.

  “How do you know I don’t have a boyfriend? You might get your teeth kicked in throwing around propositions like that,” she said.

  Eyebrows raised, he looked over at her with an affable grin.

  “I can’t imagine things are laxer here than they are down south. This is the Secret Service. Nobody has time for a family, let alone a relationship. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make a connection.”

  The elevator doors opened in front of them, and Jane briskly stepped inside. Something about his comment stung. Maybe it was because it was the truth and the cost of protecting people so closely was that it was hard to keep people close to themselves. But that didn’t make her any more inclined to go along with him.

  “Sorry,” she said, shrugging as he looked her up and down.

  “Next time,” Nathan said.

  The doors sealed, and once they were shut Jane closed her eyes as she calculated whether she’d need to be fending off advances from him all the time, whether that would be fun or annoying, and whether he’d catch her on a particularly exhausting or frustrating day when she might end up saying yes.

  Either way, she walked out of headquarters and went to her car, preparing to drive back to her neighborhood in Brentwood on the northeast side of the city, where the catcalls and the unsolicited offers for all kinds of things were definitely not in any way welcome. Her building on Adams Street was the kind of place most people didn’t stay in for long, but all she needed it for was four walls and a bed.

  As she stepped into the dreary gray building and approached her door on the third floor, stopping to stare, it again struck her how the place she called home could barely provide that. The door’s lock had some scuff marks on it that weren’t there before, and she twisted the knob without even needing to pull out her key.

  She stepped inside her dark hallway, listening carefully for signs that anyone was around. It was quiet, but she saw that a couple of her cabinets and drawers had been pulled open. Glancing in her other rooms informed her that no one was still around but that this time her silverware had been taken, because she’d learned from the previous two break-ins over the past year not to leave anything of value in her apartment.

  As she put in another call to the locksmith, who she had on speed dial at this point, and her MIA landlord that wouldn’t spend money on better doors if his life depended on it, she wondered how a cheap place to live kept ending up being so expensive.

  As discomforting and unsettling as the invasion had been, she secured the door as much as possible and pulled her laptop from her bag. Without any silverware, she started eating the bowl of Lucky Charms cereal she usually had dry as she burrowed under a blanket and watched old cartoons on the screen in front of her.

  Jane did her best to focus on the bright colors and avoid thinking about where any of the things that happened that day would lead, if only for a little while.

  3

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

  Washington, DC

  Killing the president was going to be easy. What came after would be hard.

  Oliver Ip sauntered into the White House on a beautiful day in late March that felt like spring was arriving in earnest. Smiling, he sailed through the security checkpoint at the interior of the building after passing through the metal detector, a cursory glance in his unzipped bag that could’ve contained almost anything at the bottom, and best of all a perfunctory scan of his ID badge and pre-approved security clearance.

  That was his golden ticket, providing him with nearly unlimited ability to move around in proximity to the phony Stooge running the United States.

  The incompetent Secret Service agent extended a hand for him to pass through into the entrance hall, and Oliver strolled forward as he had a thousand times with a deep breath and a feeling that this was where he belonged. In fact, everything around him from the flags beside the doorways to the presidential portraits should’ve been his. He knew he was on par with any of the men who’d had the top job, not to mention being head and shoulders above the one who had it currently.

  And yet Oliver was here to do a simple, mundane job far below what he rightfully deserved. Did he mention that he had the exact same birthdate as Alex Morrin? To the year and everything. They were born only two hours apart. And yet Morrin was the leader of the free world and Oliver reported about what important people did and what unimportant people thought about them.

  “Mr. Ip, welcome. You must be excited,” said the White House Communications Director, Tanner Young, a recent Ivy League grad and political phenom who must’ve himself had some lofty ambitions. Too bad his red hair meant he could never win a national election. Oliver smiled.

  “Very excited,” he said truthfully.

  Young showed Oliver into the Library Room, w
here a couple of chairs had been set out a few feet apart and a trio of cameras had already been setup. Oliver’s cameraman, Heath, was busily arranging everything, mics were in place, the final preparations being made for a tete-a-tete that would change American history and save the country. Oliver set his hand on the back of his ornate wooden chair with the red felt upholstery by the fireplace and tried to savor the moment. This was where they would say it started, the transfer of power.

  “He’ll be in momentarily,” Young said, stepping out and leaving Oliver alone with the cameraman, who gave a jerky nod. Heath was also oblivious to what was really happening, as was everyone. Breathing a word of his plans to another soul would be foolish in the extreme, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find a way to prime the pump.

  “Make sure I don’t have too much light. I hate it when the shine makes it seem like my hair is greasy,” Oliver said. Heath gave a noncommittal nod that burned him. Oliver yearned for the day when people couldn’t brush off his demands and ignore the deference and respect he was entitled to.

  After a moment in his chair looking over his notes, the tall, lanky man watched the door reopen and another Secret Service agent step into the room first. Oliver’s heart rate kicked up in anticipation for what was next, and he rose when President Morrin and his mop of brown hair hanging over blue eyes came in. The Navy blue suit begged for condescension, but Oliver faked a smile and extended his hand.

  “Mr. President, a pleasure,” he said, looking into the man’s eyes and trying to drive home that he was in control.

  “Olly, good to see you. Go easy on me, OK?” Morrin said, shrugging as if he didn’t really care about any of this. Inside, Oliver loathed that nickname and gritted his teeth. He would’ve given the president an ounce of credit for actually sitting down for an interview with a critic if he wasn’t such a smug little prick.

  Without any more ado, Morrin set himself down on the chair by the fireplace facing the door, leaving Oliver to steam as he was forced to take the inferior chair.

  “If we’re ready I’ll count it down,” Heath said, getting a thumbs up from the president. “Three, two…”

  The game was on, and Oliver was ready.

  “President Morrin, thank you so much for sitting down with me today,” Oliver said, hoping his confidence and very un-greasy black hair were being properly captured.

  “I’m delighted about the opportunity to make time for my friends in the press,” he said, predictably stepping into Oliver’s first trap right out of the gate. He narrowed his eyes at the president, who looked like he still belonged in a frat house rather than the White House.

  “Are you? Many consider you to have a complicated relationship with journalists. Some might even say hostile,” Oliver said, eliciting a good-natured chuckle from his counterpart.

  “Not at all. Sometimes it just surprises me that newspaper companies have camera crews now, or that someone like yourself chooses to ride along with the press corps when most of what you report on is internet chatter for the Washington Post,” he said.

  As insulting as the president’s statements were, Oliver relished it. All of the backhanded statements and little digs would be perfect for the real purpose of this interview, which had nothing to do with what would be posted online under the guise of “news.”

  “I go to where the stories are and keep the pulse of the people,” Oliver said with his best imitation of a presidential grin. “But you’ve said, and I’m quoting, that journalism these days is in a sorry state. Can you explain what you meant and how that’s not an attack on the press?”

  Morrin nodded, washing his hands between his legs and leaning forward. The president was trim and fit, but Oliver had him by an inch or two and in his mind that was all that mattered.

  “We’re in a time when we should be examining the role of all of our institutions, and that includes the press. I don’t think it would surprise anyone to say that the business of journalism is driven by a need for eyeballs and clicks, and that’s giving disproportionate emphasis to sensationalist topics that don’t give people what they need to know.

  “Here’s an example. My Family Benefits Plan would change the lives of millions of Americans, but it barely makes it onto page five in the papers. Why isn’t this front-page news? I’ll tell you why. It’s because many journalists treat politics as a soap opera that revolves around personal gossip.”

  The sound of Alex Morrin’s voice grated on Oliver, who after a while ended up just tuning it out. Once the man’s lips stopped moving, he knew it was his turn to speak again.

  “Let’s talk about the explosive news of your divorce…”

  The president’s eruption of laughter cut him off.

  “Don’t prove my point or anything,” he said with an eyebrow raised.

  Oliver pursed his lips, wondering if he’d actually been caught in something. He’d be able to edit out anything that made him look stupid, one of the key benefits of being in his position. If any mistake he made could be erased before it ever went live, he could never be wrong.

  “Are you saying it’s not relevant to the lives of the American people that the man bringing a family plan through Congress has no family?” he said, and when the president narrowed his eyes at him a blossom of satisfaction bloomed within his chest. Got ‘em.

  Morrin shook his head slightly, the first crack in his composure that would hopefully be completely shattered by the end of the interview.

  “My personal life should be irrelevant, especially when people comprehend the details and what it could mean for them. A daycare tax credit, expanded work-from-home deductions, flexible time-off rules. Look, if a turtle came up to me and said it knew how I could run a four-minute mile, I’d listen even though it couldn’t dream of doing something like that,” he said, settling back into a relaxed and comfortable posture.

  “I believe the advice is slow and steady,” Oliver said, quickly trying to process whether or not he should try to pin Morrin on taking to animals, but that seemed like a bridge too far.

  “Steady is one thing, but definitely not slow,” the president said, turning to his communications director to share a laugh as though Oliver wasn’t even in the room. If the cameras weren’t rolling, Ip would’ve glowered at him, but there was a better way to express his displeasure with the lack of respect.

  “According to sources, the First Lady is planning to submit her filing any day now, and although Ohio is a state with a no-fault divorce law, there’s wide speculation that your wife intends to place the blame on you under the grounds of gross neglect of duty. Obviously that could mean a number of things, including lack of financial support, emotional support, and the withholding of sexual relations. Which of those would you say has been responsible for the breakdown of your marriage?”

  Morrin blinked and openly rolled his eyes.

  “There’s speculation that Martians disguised as aliens are among us, but that doesn’t make any of it true either. I understand people are going to follow this closely, and many can’t believe that two married people could naturally drift apart, but people looking for bombshell gossipy details between Bethany and I are either going to be disappointed or resort to inventing their own. That’s all I’ll be saying about the matter,” Morrin said, his hands on the ends of the chair’s arms like he was ready to get up and leave if Oliver asked one more question about the divorce.

  He had about ten more planned, but Morrin did have a penchant for walking out in the middle of interviews if he didn’t like the direction they were going, and that left Oliver with no choice but to move on.

  “Of course. Thank you for sharing all that,” Oliver said. “I can only imagine how difficult it is to focus on any of that with the recent threats against your life weighing on you. How did you react when you heard that someone responded to your Facebook post by saying he was planning to assassinate you?”

  Morrin scratched his temple, looking thoughtful for a moment as though perhaps he wasn’t as invincible a
s he tried to let on. Oliver relished the pause and wondered if it could be extended in editing to make the president appear to be foolishly unable to answer, paralyzed by the fear of his own life’s abrupt end.

  “My staff did let me know about the threat, and I saw your article. It reminds me of something John F. Kennedy said. If a person is totally determined to kill the president, there’s no foolproof way to stop him. His death in office is one of the great tragedies of our history, and while to a degree that may still be true we have made so many advances in security. I have the utmost confidence in the Secret Service, who do a legendary job protecting us every single day.”

  “So no special precautions or changes that you’ve personally made because of the threat?”

  Morrin breathed deeply and exhaled.

  “I think the world has done a lot of that for me. We’re more connected than ever before with the Internet, and for many people these days it’s easier to just stay home than do whatever they did out and about before. To once again try to focus on how this is applicable to all Americans and not just me, we should all be thinking about our safety and taking care of ourselves. Because, no, I’m not too concerned about what some wacko thinks he’s going to try to do.”

  Oliver smiled, wondering if the president could ever conceive that the person he was calling a wacko was sitting right in front of him. He’d learn soon enough that the intent was sound and the methods were clever.

  “Are you saying you can’t imagine why resorting to something like this might seem like a rational option for someone? We’re living in a time of unprecedented crisis. Poverty is rising, standards of living are falling, society is undergoing a collapse that we never thought we’d see in our lifetimes. Have you really not examined your own role in all of this?”

  Oliver grinned. In his mind these were the moments people would be looking to after the deed was done that would make them realize action was justified and someone had to take the fate of the nation into his own hands. Morrin looked clueless and uncomfortable doing anything but sitting behind a desk or standing behind a podium.