“That’s so wrong,” Quinn sighed. He let the MP7 fall against the sling at his chest and lifted the curtain to peer out the window at the vacant dirt street in front of the Perry house. “We better get going,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Alaska will kill these guys.”
Chapter 10
The new president was a single man and, as such, had no one to push for the redecoration of the White House. Apart from a new leather desk chair and a couple of paintings staffers had spirited away from the National Gallery, the Oval Office was exactly as it had been under President Clark. Greens and whites ruled the day, as did paintings of Teddy Roosevelt and expansive Western scenes by the likes of George Catlin and John Mix Stanley. The former first lady had left everything behind, including the oppressive ghost of her dead husband that seemed to whisper in the halls to West Wing staffers that something was not quite right in the house.
Now, sprawling over the Oval Office furniture like the stain that he was, President Hartman Drake didn’t help matters at all.
McKeon stood adjacent to the President against the wall, next to the Remington Rough Rider bronze. He used long, slender fingers to rub exhausted eyes as he tried to clear the image of this idiot out of his mind.
Drake sat with his feet propped up on the Resolute Desk, leaning back in a plush button-leather chair. He cradled his head in his hands as if he owned the world — which, in fact, he did. His trademark bowtie, this one a conservative red-and-black stripe, hung open. His collar was still buttoned, as if everyone at the meeting had surprised him in the middle of changing clothes.
Across the room, Kurt Bodington, the director of the FBI, sat on one of the green sofas. He leaned forward with his elbows on both knees as if he was on the toilet rather than sitting in the Oval Office. Virginia Ross, the director of the CIA, sat beside him. Her ankles were crossed, her hands rested in her lap, like she was posing for a photo. More pear than hourglass, she’d recently lost a considerable amount of weight and wore clothes that were a size too large. The lacy cuffs of a white blouse hung from the sleeves of a voluminous blue suit that had once strained to keep her contained.
It had been obvious from the time McKeon and Drake took office that neither of these directors was particularly effective in their respective positions. And that was the only reason they were still in place.
A Japanese woman stood on the other side of the door from McKeon, hands folded at her lap. Her name was Ran. Japanese for orchid, it was pronounced to rhyme with the American name Ron but with a hard r, making it sound more like Lon or Don. In her early twenties, she had flawlessly smooth skin and a quiet presence that reached out into the room, touching anyone who dared look in her direction. She wore a cream-colored long sleeve blouse, unbuttoned enough to reveal the edge of a dark tattoo at her breast. McKeon knew firsthand that there were many more tattoos where that one came from. Director Bodington had unwisely attempted to shake her hand when he’d come in, but Ross had veered away from her as if she were poison — which was not far off. She worked as an aide — among other things — for McKeon and, to his wife’s chagrin, rarely left his side.
“Chris Clark left me a real mess,” Drake said, staring absentmindedly at his reflection in the windows that overlooked the Rose Garden. The man couldn’t walk past a silver tea set without stopping to admire his physique. “I need to know what Winfield Palmer had going with him.”
Bodington gave a concerned nod, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. He liked to paint himself as a big-picture man, but McKeon saw him as more of a paint-by-the-numbers stooge. The director of the most advanced law enforcement agency in the world was happy to do just what he was told and never dared to go outside the lines.
Virginia Ross spoke first.
“The national security advisor’s communications to the president would be privileged,” she said. “But I’m sure he left files. With the tragedy, it would be expected he’d turn them over to you for a seamless transition.”
Nearly half a year after the assassination of both President Chris Clark and Vice President Bob Hughes during the last State of the Union address, people simply called it “the tragedy.”
Unwilling to give his counterpart from the CIA too much floor time, Bodington spoke up before Ross could say more. “I have to be honest, Mr. President,” he said. “I never did understand the absolute power President Clark gave to Winfield Palmer. Sure, they were friends from their days at West Point, but the man seemed to have carte blanche in the intelligence community. He could override anyone and everyone with his special projects. The President took virtually every matter of state to the man as if he were some oracle or something.”
“They were friends, Kurt,” Director Ross said. “Surely even you can understand what that would mean.”
Bodington gave her a withering stare, then half turned in his seat, distancing himself.
“I know he had a pretty large network of agents working for him,” he said. “Half the time, they did little but get in the way of my people.”
“Right,” Drake said. “And we know at least one member of that network tried to kill me in Las Vegas.” He steepled his fingers under his chin, something McKeon had never seen him do until he’d become president. It looked asinine when someone like Drake did it, like he was trying to shoot himself under the chin — which, McKeon couldn’t help but think, was not an entirely bad idea.
“We believe that to be correct,” Bodington said, smugly like one child telling on another to his teacher. “Facial recognition from the Vegas security videos shows it was Jericho Quinn, an agent with Air Force OSI. He’s also wanted for the brutal murder of a Fairfax County police officer. He ran with a big Marine named Thibeau or something.”
“Thibodaux,” McKeon interjected. “Your report says Jacques Thibodaux.”
“Right.” Bodington turned to Virginia Ross. “And some Mexican girl from your shop.”
“She’s from Cuba.” Ross nodded. “I can’t speak for Quinn or the Marine, but Veronica Garcia is a good one. I wasn’t certain at first, but her heroism saved a lot of lives last year during the shooting at Langley.”
Bodington steered the conversation back to Palmer.
“He had quite a few working for him that we wouldn’t know about, but it seemed to me he was grabbing people from other agencies and repurposing them for his missions. No doubt without any oversight from Congress. I’ve seen him with agents from the Secret Service, a couple besides Quinn from Air Force OSI, and several CIA types.”
“But no one from the FBI?”
“Thankfully, no, Mr. President.” Bodington nodded. “My agents have more sense than that.”
Virginia Ross cleared her throat. “I have to say, Mr. President.” She shook her head as if to try to hold back some comment that she couldn’t quite contain. “I’ve already stated my opinion regarding Garcia. Though I have observed Winfield Palmer to be a steamroller with his programs — and often arrogant to the extreme — I have never known him to be anything less than a patriot. To think that he might be behind these attacks is, in my opinion, unthinkable.” She scooted forward to the edge of her seat and leaned in toward the Resolute Desk. “Mr. President, I would suggest a small task force, perhaps some of my agents, and some from Kurt’s shop. I am not privy to all the details regarding the shooting of the poor Fairfax County officer, but I am aware that it’s not a forgone conclusion Agent Quinn is the shooter. There seem to be numerous mitigating—”