3 SCRUTINY
THE ROOSEVELT ROOM IS named for Teddy, and on the east wall was his Nobel Peace Prize for his «successful» mediation of the Russo-Japanese War. Historians could now say that the effort had only encouraged Japan's imperial ambitions, and so wounded the Russian soul that Stalin—hardly a friend of the Romanov dynasty! — had felt the need to avenge his country's humiliation, but that particular bequest of Alfred Nobel had always been more political than real. The room was used for medium-sized lunches and meetings, and was conveniently close to the Oval Office. Getting there proved to be harder than Jack had expected. The corridors of the White House are narrow for such an important building, and the Secret Service was out in force, though here their firearms were not in evidence. That was a welcome relief. Ryan walked past ten new agents over and above those who had formed his mobile guard force, which evoked a sigh of exasperation from SWORDSMAN. Everything was new and different now, and the protective Detail that in former times had seemed businesslike, sometimes even amusing, was just one more reminder that his life had been traumatically changed.
"Now what?" Jack asked.
"This way." An agent opened a door, and Ryan found the presidential makeup artist. It was an informal arrangement, and the artist, a woman in her fifties, had everything in a large fake-leather case. As often as he'd done TV— rather a lot in his former capacity as National Security Advisor—it was something Jack had never come to love, and it required all of his self-control not to fidget as the liquid base was applied with a foam sponge, followed by powder and hair spray and fussing, all of which was done without a word by a woman who looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment.
"I liked him, too," Jack told her. Her hands stopped, and their eyes met.
"'He was always so nice. He hated this, just like you do, but he never complained, and he usually had a joke to tell. Sometimes I'd do the children just for fun. They liked it, even the boy. They'd play in front of the TV, and the crews would give them tapes and…"
"It's okay." Ryan took her hand. Finally he'd met someone on the staff who wasn't all business, and who didn't make him feel like an animal in the zoo. "What's your name?"
"Mary Abbot." Her eyes were running, and she wanted to apologize.
"How long have you been here?"
"Since right before Mr. Carter left." Mrs. Abbot wiped her eyes and steadied down.
"Well, maybe I should ask you for advice," he said gently.
"Oh, no, I don't know anything about that." She managed an embarrassed smile.
"Neither do I. I guess I'll just have to find out." Ryan looked in the mirror. "Finished?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Thank you, Mrs. Abbot."
They sat him in an armed wooden chair. The lights were already set up, which brought the room temperature into the low eighties, or so it felt. A technician clipped a two-headed microphone to his tie with movements as delicate as Mrs. Abbot's, all because there was a Secret Service agent hovering over every member of the crew, with Andrea Price hovering over them all from the doorway. Her eyes were narrow and suspicious, despite the fact that every single piece of gear in the room had been inspected, every visitor scanned continuously by eyes as casually intense and thorough as a surgeon's. One really could make a pistol out of non-metallic composites—the movie was right about that—but pistols were still bulky. The palpable tension of the Detail carried over to the TV crew, who kept their hands in the open, and only moved them slowl. The sctutiny of the Secret Service could rattle almost anyone.
"Two minutes," the producer said, cued by his earpiece. "Just went into commercial."
"Get any sleep last night?" CNN's chief White House correspondent asked. Like everyone else, he wanted a quick and clear read on the new President.
"Not enough," Jack replied, suddenly tense. There were two cameras. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap in order to avoid nervous movements. How, exactly, was he supposed to appear? Grave? Grief-stricken? Quietly confident? Overwhelmed? It was a little late for that now. Why hadn't he asked Arnie before?
"Thirty seconds," the producer said.
Jack tried to compose himself. His physical posture would keep his body still. Just answer the questions. You've been doing that long enough.
"Eight minutes after the hour," the correspondent said directly into the camera behind Jack. "We're here in the White House with President John Ryan.
"Mr. President, it's been a long night, hasn't it?"
"I'm afraid it has," Ryan agreed.
"What can you tell us?"
"Recovery operations are under way, as you know. President Durling's body has not yet been found. The investigation is going on under the coordination of the FBI."
"Have they discovered anything?"
"We'll probably have a few things to say later today, but it's too early right now." Despite the fact that the correspondent had been fully briefed on that issue, Ryan saw the disappointment in his eyes.
"Why the FBI? Isn't the Secret Service empowered to—"
"This is no time for a turf fight. An investigation like this has to go on at once. Therefore, I decided that the FBI would be the lead agency—under the Department of Justice, and with the assistance of other federal agencies. We want answers, we want them fast, and this seems the best way to make that happen."
"It's been reported that you've appointed a new FBI Director."
Jack nodded. "Yes, Barry, I have. For the moment I've asked Daniel E. Murray to step in as acting Director. Dan is a career FBI agent whose last job was special assistant to Director Shaw. We've known each other for many years, Mr. Murray is one of the best cops in government service."
"MURRAY?"
"A policeman, supposed to be an expert on terrorism and espionage," the intelligence officer replied.
"Hmm." He went back to sipping his bittersweet coffee.
"WHAT CAN YOU tell us about preparation for—I mean, for the next several days?" the correspondent asked next.
"Barry, those plans are still being made. First and foremost, we have to let the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies do their job. There will be more information coming out later today, but it's been a long and difficult night for a lot of people." The correspondent nodded at that, and decided it was time for a human-interest question.
"Where did you and your family sleep? I know it wasn't here."
"The Marine Barracks, at Eighth and I," Ryan answered.
"Oh, shit, Boss," Andrea Price muttered, just outside the room. Some media people had found out, but the Service hadn't confirmed it to anyone, and most news organizations had reported that the Ryan family was at "an undisclosed location." Well, they'd be sleeping somewhere else tonight. And the location would not be disclosed this time. Damn.
"Why there?"
"Well, it had to be somewhere, and that seemed convenient. I was a Marine myself once, Barry," Jack said quietly.
"REMEMBER WHEN WE blew them up?"
"A fine night." The intelligence officer remembered watching through binoculars from the top of the Beirut Holiday Inn. He'd helped set that mission up. The only hard part, really, had been selecting the driver. There was an odd cachet about the American Marines, something seemingly mystical about them that this Ryan's nation clung to. But they died just like any other infidel. He wondered with amusement if there might be a large truck in Washington that one of his people might buy or lease…. He set the amusing thought aside. There was work to be done. It wasn't practical, anyway. He'd been to Washington more than once, and the Marine Barracks was one of the places he'd examined. It was too easily defended. Too bad, really. The political significance of the target made it highly attractive.
"NOT SMART," DING observed over his morning coffee.
"Expect him to hide?" Clark asked.