At last the firing stopped, and Jo was back, flinging open the door and all but throwing him inside the car. The seats fit snugly around his body, the suddenly operational satnav screen a blinding light. Sam rammed in the key and peeled away from the curb.
Jo laid low in the back, already on the phone, shouting orders at some unfortunate operator. It took a code word and five minutes of cursing, but Jo got his message across in the end.
“Firearms officers and ARVs are on the way to your parents’ place in Leeds. ETA five minutes.”
“ARVs?” Ben fought to focus.
“Armed Response Vehicles. Each one is equipped with a safe that’s armed to the teeth. Those guys don’t fuck about, mate. Your folks will be secured in a jiffy.”
“Take me there,” Ben said, and Sam nodded.
“We’re already on the way, mate.”
CHAPTER THREE
President Coburn rose to take the podium amidst thunderous applause. Taking a moment to compose and fine-tune the words in his head, he gazed across the faces of the audience. Many of the people out there were friends, acquaintances and staunch supporters he could rely on. A goodly amount were critics, and a select few currently straddled the fence. The Correspondents’ Dinner was always an astute affair, it had to be. His speech was riddled with incisive wit and insider jokes that would be the envy of any stand-up comedian, mostly based around current issues and some even poking a bit of gentle fun at the President himself.
Coburn glanced to his right where the First Lady was seated several positions down. Tonight, she positively glowed. Her hair had been styled by the owner of a local popular salon that sported the kind of name Coburn could never get his head around. Her silky sparkling midnight-black gown was the product of another odd name, a loaner for the night. No way in this, or any, economy could they justify spending thousands of dollars on a scrap of material she would only wear once. It wasn’t as though they were movie stars.
Coburn put these thoughts away for the night, allowing himself one brief incredulous moment when he thought about how far he had come. From a boy on the streets to an army officer. To hard, harsh battle, then to military rank and beyond — the inner circle. Was it luck, providence, or plan? He still didn’t know. Then to the rosewood-clad rooms and the nights and days of the campaign trail. To the Oval Office…
Where would it end? Certainly not here at the Hotel Dillion, at the Correspondents’ Dinner in the heart of DC.
At last, the applause began to subside. Coburn smiled and gave the audience a once over. “I want to start tonight by thanking everyone here for the outstanding work they do on behalf of our country. And Bob,” he looked to the man on his right, “my staff, and the extraordinary First Lady.” He continued as more applause broke out, “And in particular the men and women who wear uniform and protect our way of life day after day, wherever they may be.”
The ovation swelled, every person in the room adding voice to the acknowledgement.
Coburn studied faces again, letting each man and woman see that he noticed them. “So, time passes. We all get a little grayer, a little larger—” He glanced at Bob slyly to a few guffaws. “My military days… they ain’t coming back. I may have lost a step and, despite appearances,” he lowered his voice, “have even been known to make the odd mistake.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”
Fresh laughter rang out, fuelled by the free champagne. “This job can indeed take its toll.” He raised his voice. “Just ask the men and women of the White House Press Corps.”
Someone choked with laughter in the front row. A few others made unhappy noises. That was the purpose of Coburn’s speech tonight. To take a little and give a little back. The TV stations not so much, he thought. MSNBC and Fox News were in the firing line tonight. Maybe next year it would be CNN.
“The media highway changes so rapidly these days, don’t you think? Former advisors taking the wrong turn—” He referred to a recent scandal. “Every day a new government conspiracy. Ah,” he laughed, “They just don’t know us at all.”
“But we have all seen the darkness.” He launched immediately into a fresh tack, buoyed by his own beliefs. “We have touched it. It has blighted all our lives. But in darkness, good can be allowed to shine. And yes, we have all seen it shine. First responders leaping through flames to save those who can’t save themselves, civilians rushing into danger to help each other.” He paused. “We have all seen the good sparkle in the dark.”
A tumultuous applause broke out. Coburn swept the crowd with his eyes. Even the people on the fringes were clapping, the wandering staff stilled, rapt with concentration. Even the presidential aides, usually vying for attention, for recognition, barely moved a muscle.
But there was one select group of men who remained far above the captivations of a presidential speech. These men would never be beguiled. They were the best of the best. The Secret Service knew every inch of this hotel like the backs of their hands. They had memorized every square foot of the twelve floors, the three hundred and thirty nine rooms, the forty one suites all the way down to the kitchens, the basement and the sub-basement underneath with its tunnels, which also existed as a blueprint in every one of the forty shrewd minds that formed the President’s protective detail. They had swept for bugs close to the stage and behind it, using a Digital Spectrum Analyser; every one of them was acquainted with the EER — the primary Emergency Escape Route drawn up around the hotel.
Now one of them spoke into his wrist mic, then stepped forward unexpectedly, leaning toward the President’s ear. “We need to leave, sir.”
Coburn didn’t argue. He knew these men and their utter professionalism. With a quick glance at Marie, the First Lady, he ducked his head and fell into line. Under his breath he whispered, “What’s going on?”
“Trouble across the street, sir. We aren’t taking any chances.”
Coburn paused. “With Jonathan? The Secretary of Defense?”
In answer, an agent encircled his waist with an iron-like arm, making him realize he’d slowed down. Several others crowded around him, herding him away from the stage and through a network of passages. Other black-suited men manned entry points and fell in as they passed, calling all-clears and prepared for every single outcome.
Coburn heard the chatter alongside him. “Eagle One is on the way. Prepare for evac.” And more, “Report on exterior needed now. Is the route clear?”
“Don’t worry, sir,” He recognized the voice of Marnich close to his left ear. “We’re only two blocks from the White House.”
Coburn said nothing. He hadn’t even thought about his own safety. His only thoughts were for Jonathan Gates and Marie, his wife. She would be undergoing a similar evac, through another route. Thank God the kids weren’t here.
“Maybe you should give me a gun,” he finally said. It was a one-liner that regularly passed between Marnich and himself, born of yearnings for his simpler fighting days that would never return. Marnich was one of the agents who truly understood the urge.
“Only when we get you back to the White House, sir.”
In other circumstances, Coburn would have laughed. Tonight, he didn’t think he would ever laugh again. He slowed as they entered the parking structure. “I want two of you to go over there with the Secretary,” he said firmly. “And I want reports. Regularly.”
“Sir, that can’t—”
“It will happen.” Coburn read the lead agent’s mind. “And now. Send two of your best men, Jeff. Send them now.”