Chapter 53
Clay Gillette, the sandy-haired lead agent for Lee McKeon’s Secret Service detail, used his knuckles to rap on the back window of the black Cadillac. He was noticeably twitchy, casting worried looks toward the woods on the long hill across the highway from the airport. As the official limousine of the Vice President, the Caddy was code-named “Trailbreaker.” It was fully armored with steel plating and equipped with exterior microphones, dual batteries, smoke machines, and windows that were nearly two inches thick.
The windows would not roll down, so McKeon pushed open the heavy door.
“You asked to be informed, Mr. Vice President,” Gillette said. “Air Force One is wheels-down in two minutes.”
“Well.” McKeon chuckled. “Half an hour of shaking hands and kissing babies with the reception committee and we should be in position to bring rush hour traffic to a standstill. That should ingratiate us to Seattle locals.”
“That’s what we’re here for, sir,” Gillette said, his face impassive. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.
McKeon thanked the agent and pulled the door shut. He looked across the leather seat at Ran, who stared out the window in the other direction. Never a particularly vocal person, she’d grown even more distant in the last two days. In anyone else McKeon would have chalked the behavior up to nerves, but he wasn’t sure Ran Kimura was ever nervous about anything.
Beyond the vice presidential motorcade was a second line of marked cars from Seattle PD and the Washington State Patrol. A dozen police motorcycles that were part ceremonial and part intersection-blockers queued up in the front. Three black Cadillac limousines, identical to McKeon’s, sat flanked by a half dozen Chevy Suburbans of the same color. The “straphanger” vehicles were used to transport presidential staff and other nonessentials who were not included in the Secret Service protective package. They’d been provided by the Seattle office. The “Beast,” as they called the POTUS Cadillac, along with Trailbreaker, and hardened decoys for both limousines had been flown in earlier that day on two Air Force C17s.
McKeon looked out the tinted window, past his contingent of twitchy Secret Service agents, as the blue-and-white 747 seemed to float in slowly from the south. The Air Force colonel at the controls touched down without a bounce. The big bird’s engines whined as they pushed her along the taxiway.
Staged vehicles began to move the moment the ramp attendant chocked the 747’s wheels. Motorcycles roared past, setting up in the front of the motorcade. A marked Washington State Patrol lead car pulled in behind the bikes with the Beast rolling up next. A suited agent stood with his hand in the air, directing the limo driver to align the rear door perfectly with the end of a red carpet rolled out below the portable air stairs. A Secret Service muscle Suburban bristling with agents with heavy weapons came up next, followed by the decoy limo and several straphanger sedans and other marked police units. McKeon quit bothering to count after he got to fifteen. A rambunctious press gaggle had formed behind a rope barrier on the other side of the limo, away from the plane. Local luminaries, including the governor of Washington, two congressmen, and a handful of generals from Joint Base Lewis-McChord, formed the greeting party. Two Air Force NCOs in Class A uniforms stood at attention at the base of the air stairs.
“Look at all those buffoons,” Ran said without bothering to turn around. “Standing around to touch the hand of the nation’s biggest idiot.”
“It’s a much smaller group than it should be.” McKeon sighed. “Half the delegation in Washington hates us and the other half are terrified of being implicated in an IDTF investigation. I had to have David Crosby threaten most of these into showing up. All the love and adulation keeps POTUS’s mind off of us.”
Drake appeared in the open doorway of the aircraft a moment later, dressed like a peacock in a dark suit and flamboyant yellow bow tie.
“Watch him pause as if he is a magazine model,” Ran said, her voice dripping with disgust. “And now he turns to flex his puffed chest so the press can have plenty of B-roll. It is pornographic…”
McKeon opened the door and stood by the limo while he waited for Drake to schmooze with the congressmen. The fact that there was not a single female staffer among the military contingent was not lost on McKeon. Word of the President’s ruttish behavior had evidently trickled down from the Joint Chiefs, who had to live with it every day. Waving again at the press corps, Drake turned and said something to the nearest Secret Service agent. A moment later, Agent Gillette spoke into the mic on his lapel, then stepped up to McKeon.
“He’d like you to join him in his limo for a moment,” Gillette said. “We can drive you up, sir.”
“That’s all right, Clay,” McKeon said. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” Ran came around from the other side of the limo and stood beside him.
Five agents formed up in a loose diamond around the pair as they walked the twenty meters between the two limos. Always vigilant, they were more agitated than usual, as if they sensed something bad was going to happen on this trip.
Drake’s face twisted into a dark scowl when McKeon sat down in the backseat of the Beast facing him. Ran ducked her head to follow him in and sat to his immediate right.
“Is everything all right, Mr. President?” McKeon said, smiling softly as a detail agent shut the door behind him, giving the three their privacy.
“No, it is not,” Drake said. “Hell, the last briefing I got on the plane has half the people in the world thinking I need to be impeached. Every network is carrying this garbage news poll as breaking news.” He shook his head, staring off into space the way he did when he was frozen by the stress of his job — which happened more and more every day. “And that doesn’t count the large portion of the population who think it would be a good idea if someone assassinated me.”
“Nonsense,” McKeon said.
“Is it?” Drake said, raising his eyebrow and giving McKeon a probing gaze. “Are you sure you’re not one of those people? This event smacks of shoving me out front to take a bullet.”
“We’ve covered this,” McKeon said. “The Secret Service has been here for a week locking everything down like a drum. Let’s get you through tomorrow, make the announcement supporting Japan’s primacy in the East China Sea, and pose for a few photos. You can give the order to move the Fifth Fleet into the Pacific once you’re back aboard Air Force One. My father trusted you for a reason. You are pivotal to this plan, my friend.”
“Whatever you say.” Drake came back on track easily — as he always did when made to feel important. “This has me stressed, that’s all. Last I heard, Jericho Quinn was still unaccounted for. That sneaky son of a bitch has already gotten to me once.”
“Not yet,” McKeon said. He did not mention the fact that Quinn had apparently killed every one of the Albanian hit men Rhanjani had hired in Croatia. “But it is only a matter of time. I have IDTF snipers embedded with the Secret Service Hercules teams. They are on alert for Quinn and any of Palmer’s other operatives. You don’t have to worry about them, Hartman, believe me. In just a few more hours, you and I will have created a very different world.”
“Easy for you to say,” Drake said. “You’re not joined at the hip with Nabe for three hours tonight watching a bunch of men dance around in tights.”
McKeon gave a wan smile, hiding his disgust. “There will be plenty of women in tights at the ballet,” he said. “In any case, I believe you will find tonight’s performance enjoyable. I took the liberty of arranging a local ballerina from the University of Washington to accompany you. Prime Minister Nabe will have his wife and daughter to accompany him. It is only right that you should have a docent to explain the intricacies of the dance to you.”