Thus the beard. Snake had told him two months ago to stop dyeing his hair and start letting his face grow. It looked pretty shaggy now, but the guy with the scissors would trim it up nice and neat. And tonight, after the package was safely tucked away, Paulie would shave it off. Anybody looking for a guy with a beard wouldn’t give him a second look.
Next step after the haircut was to get him into normal looking clothes. Paulie and that girl of his both had this thing for black. Look at Paulie now: black T-shirt, black leather pants, black fingerless gloves, black boots, long black coat—Paulie even dyed his hair jet black most of the time. And Poppy… she had these straight, severe bangs and shoulder-length pink-burgundy hair that looked like it had been cut with a laser; she dressed in slinky, low-cut black dresses with spider-web lace down the arms and fishnet stockings. Even had black lipstick and fingernails. Looked like a vampire hooker. A couple of tattoos high up on her arms that Snake had never got a close look at and loads of earrings. Christ, she must have had ten in her left ear alone last time he saw her.
And if that wasn’t enough, she had a nostril ring and an eyebrow ring. Who knew where else she had a ring. Between the two of them the only thing that wasn’t black was their skin and Poppy’s hair—which probably was genuinely black when it wasn’t dyed that weird color.
Snake didn’t get it. He wouldn’t be caught dead in Paulie’s get-up. Like carrying a flashing neon sign that said Look at me! Hell with that.
“I’m footing the bill, Paulie. Just watching over my investment.”
“Yeah, but I feel like a little kid. I mean, what next? A booster seat?” Snake permitted himself a smile. Paulie was never completely happy unless he had something to whine about.
“I’m just making sure that—What’s your name again?” Snake said to the barber—oops, sorry: hair stylist.
“Raynoldo,” said the stylist. He had a delicate build and a delicate mustache and dark hair slicked back tight against his scalp.
“Yeah. Raynoldo. I just want to make sure Raynoldo here does it right. And that means off with the ponytail.”
“Aw, Christ!” Paulie said. “Do we really have to do that? I mean, isn’t that like goin‘ kinda far?” Snake ignored the question. The ponytail wasn’t up for discussion.
“And I want to make sure the beard looks good too,” he said. “Neat is the word. Hear that, Raynoldo? Neat.”
“Yes sir,” Raynoldo said. He gave Snake a quick, delicate smile. “Neat it will be.” Probably thinks me and Paulie’ve got a thing going, Snake thought.
“The beard I don’t care about,” Paulie said, still whining. “I mean, I only grew it for the gig. But the tail, man. Plenty of chauffeurs got ponytails. I can—” Sudden fury overcame Snake.
The goddamn jerk! He said chauffeur!
He catapulted out of his seat and pulled the scissors from Raynoldo’s fingers. He grabbed Paulie’s ponytail, yanked it taut, and snipped it off about two inches from his head.
“You talk too much, Paulie,” he said through his teeth, handing the scissors back to Raynoldo and tossing Paulie’s hair into his lap. “End of discussion.” Paulie glared at him but said nothing.
Good, Snake thought. Just so long as we know who’s boss here.
He felt the rage cool as quickly as it had flared, the way it always did. One second he was ready to kill; another second and it was as if nothing had happened.
He didn’t like the outbursts, but sometimes they served multiple purposes. Like now: He wouldn’t have to listen to any complaints from Paulie about the change of clothes waiting for him. He was going to be dressed right for the pickup this morning. Chauffeur’s livery all the way.
He glanced at his watch. Time was a-wasting.
“All right,” he said to Raynoldo. “Let’s get going. Make him nice and respectable looking, and make it quick. We’re on a schedule here.”
6
“… so let’s remove the outlaw glamour from drugs. Let’s make drugs dull, and let’s portray people who use them as dumb. One of the definitions of stupidity is the inability to learn from experience. Nothing we’ve tried has worked. It’s long past time for a change of tactics…” John twisted the knob and cut off Tom’s voice as he hit another major snag near Pennsylvania Avenue. Cars were backed up on 17th Street. When he reached Lafayette Square he saw why.
Hundreds of people were gathered on the grass, setting up tables and tents wherever they found an open patch, one even holding an impromptu prayer meeting on a nearby corner. Across the park, on the far side of the section of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House that had been blocked off and turned into a pedestrian mall in 1995, he could see chanting, sign-carrying protesters marching in front of the wrought-iron fence.
The circus had arrived.
John edged his car toward the cadre of armed, grimlooking members of the Secret Service uniformed division manning the visitors gate. Twice the number he usually encountered. One started to wave him off, but then let him approach when John held his ID and pass out the window.
John knew most of the gate guards by now. This guy must have been one of the reinforcements.
As his ID and pass were being scrutinized, John said, “They didn’t waste any time, did they. Must all be early risers.” The guard grunted, “The first group showed up around ten o’clock last night.” He checked the appointment book in the gatehouse, then hurried back to the car and handed John his ID.
“Really sorry for the delay. Dr. Vanduyne,” he said. “You should have told me right off who you were.” Yeah, being the President’s personal physician did have a certain cachet.
“No problem,” John said. “I understand perfectly.” The huge gate closed behind his car, and an iron beam rose out of the pavement as a further bar to entry. John had heard it could stop a two-ton truck doing forty miles an hour.
He parked in the visitor’s area, removed his black bag from his trunk, clipped his ID badge to the breast pocket of his sport coat, and walked around to his left.
The White House—or “Crown” as the Secret Service called it.
He couldn’t see them, but he was sure the White House SWAT team was positioned on the roof. He was more aware than ever of the infrared sensors, electric eyes, audio monitors, pressure sensors, and video cameras monitoring his every step, feeding everything to W-16, the Secret Service command post under the Oval Office.
He tried to forget all that, tried to appreciate the setting.
The South Lawn was greening up, the trees were starting to bud, and the Washington Monument loomed over the scene like a monolithic guardian. The cherry trees were in bloom along the Potomac—he made a mental note to take Katie and Nana for a ride along the basin this weekend. Washington was a wonderful place to be in the spring. Although this spring might be different…
John quickened his pace. Good thing he’d had this appointment set up in advance. He was concerned about Tom’s blood pressure. Hairy enough to be the first line of medical defense for the leader of the free world, but when he was also your oldest friend…
At the ground-level doorway between the two stairways that framed the South Portico, another uniformed agent checked his ID. This was unusual. Most times he simply breezed in.
He entered the State Floor and bore left through the diplomatic reception area into the warren of executive offices in the west wing. In the hall he spotted a familiar and unhappy face.
“Hey, Bob,” John said. “I’m looking for the boss.” Robert Decker, Supervisory Special Agent, Secret Service, was a veteran of that exclusive club, the presidential detail. Today he looked harried and hassled. His gray suit was uncharacteristically rumpled, as if he’d been wearing it all night. John noted his tired eyes. Maybe he had.