Gavin walked with purpose, not looking back, and evidently not noticing how often I was required to scurry to catch up to his long-legged strides. He rushed me through the obstacle course of press corps offices, where eager reporters glanced up as we passed-each one startling into a hopeful, then disappointed expression when they realized it was only the chef coming through.
The air was different here. Too many bodies to avoid, too many wires to step over, too much electronic equipment to dodge, and the atmosphere of constant urgency gave the area a cramped, stuffy feel. I could hear the whir of a motor and I guessed air-conditioning ran in this section year-round. How else to cool off all the power equipment and panic?
“Where are we going?” I asked again.
Gavin didn’t answer, but he stepped to the side to open the next door for me. And there we were: the Brady Press Briefing Room. I’d been in this room only a couple of times; it had been renovated a few years before I began working here.
Gavin took a few more strides to the center of the room, then stopped.
“What is here?” he asked. “What do you observe?”
I was sick and tired of Gavin’s bizarre questioning methods. “I don’t see a training class, if that’s what you mean.”
He graced my smart-aleck answer with a lips-only smile. “Due to your absence at last night’s class, I have the dubious honor of bringing you up to speed by myself.”
“It’s not like I played hooky,” I said. “Can’t I just take one of the other classes?”
“When?” he asked. “All you’ve been talking about is how shorthanded you are. You have your staff scheduled tomorrow and Sunday. I highly doubt you’ll find time to attend and shortchange your kitchen further.”
He had me there.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m a quick learner, and I don’t want to waste your time. Can’t you just give me some handouts and I’ll catch up?”
“The next round of classes builds upon knowledge you glean from the first round. You can’t expect to get anything out of further instruction without learning the basics first.”
As he said this, he made his way up to the president’s large, bullet-resistant lectern, also known as the “blue goose.” When he positioned himself behind it and placed both hands on the lectern’s sides, he seemed to forget I was there. His palpable craving for power washed over me like a wave. This was one intense guy.
Blinking himself back to awareness, he noticed me still near the door where we’d entered. “What do you observe?” he asked again.
The sooner I played along, the faster I’d get back to work. I took a deep breath. “Okay, give me a minute.”
A picture of elegant efficiency, the bright room with the presidential motif boasted blue leather seats, state-of-the-art electronics, and a small raised dais at the far end of the room, where a door connected it to the heart and brains of the West Wing.
I didn’t have a clue of what to look for. A quick glance at Gavin warned me not to ask.
Okay, fine. I was on my own here. Something out of place. Something that didn’t belong.
Palladian windows adorned the north wall. I checked each one to ensure it was secure. I checked the doors, even the ones across the room that led south out onto the west colonnade. Everything clear.
But that would be too obvious. Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin was not the type to let me off easy. Whatever he’d set up in here would be designed to be difficult to find. I tried to think like old Gav. More precisely, I tried to think like an assassin.
Gav probably didn’t realize I had a bit of experience in that arena. And I’d learned a few things.
What would an assassin do? He’d have to be better than clever. He’d have to be brilliant. Anything out of place would be noticed by our eagle-eyed Secret Service personnel. So if, say, a terrorist wanted to plant a bomb in the room, he’d have to ensure that it looked like something that belonged here. Up-front and obvious. Something so plain-as-day that every eye in the place would glaze over it without a second glance.
I stood in the fourth row of seats and I made a slow circle-a complete 360-degree turn-taking everything in at a pace that would make slugs weep.
“We’re not here for the tourist show,” he said. “You’re supposed to be finding a security breach, not studying the symmetry.”
I ignored him. Closed my eyes. Silently reasoned with myself.
Let’s assume Gav planted one of those IEDs in here. He’d warned us that shapes and configurations of the deadly devices changed almost daily. So the one thing I knew I wasn’t looking for was an opaque, bottlelike item.
Where would it do the most damage?
I opened my eyes. Right here, in the middle of the room, during a crowded press conference, a bomb would guarantee the greatest loss of life. But would that be an assassin’s goal? Take out the innocent media folks, just like terrorists took out civilians on 9/11? Maybe, but if a fanatic killer was able to get this far-past White House security-then he’d be aiming for a bigger target.
I scooched out of the row and made my way up to the dais. “Excuse me,” I said to Gavin.
With reluctance, he stepped away from the lectern, and I took a moment to stand behind it myself. The “blue goose” was tall, as speaking stands go, but I could still see over it with ease.
Running my hands along the sides, I felt the power, too. Twisting around, I cast a glance at the large medallion hanging on a curtained wall behind me. This wide blue oval, with an image of the White House at its center, was seen behind the president whenever he addressed the press from this room.
Gavin was watching me, his face expressionless.
I turned back toward the empty seats. Gav was setting me up to fail, I was sure of that. Maybe I should just give up and let him have his fun.
No. My personal pride rebelled. Not without a fight. Or at least, in this case, my best effort. But after the past few days, I didn’t know how much effort I really had in me for Gavin’s games.
I blew out a breath.
He sidled up. “Are you expecting the answer via ESP?” he asked. “When we held this exercise in the cafeteria yesterday, your colleagues at least searched the room before they gave up.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m giving you another minute. Then I’ll explain what you should have been doing.”
I could practically hear the clock tick as I gripped the lectern with both hands. Closing my eyes again, I thought about how I would wreak havoc on the White House if I had to do it in this room.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, wasting another two ticks to answer him.
This room was new. Why was that popping to the forefront of my thoughts just now? What was significant about its relative newness? Everything here had been changed. The place was practically sterile-and the housekeeping staff worked to keep it that way.
New. Changed.
A thought tickled my brain, just a breath out of reach.
“Fifteen seconds.”
I opened my eyes. Turned to face the wall behind me. Stared at it.
“Ten.”
The curtains were… wrong. This wasn’t the right backdrop.
As I argued with myself-realizing that nothing prevented the president from switching backdrops from time to time-my hands searched the royal blue curtains. Last time I’d seen President Campbell speak, the background had been flat-as though made of drywall-and the medallion’s suspension wires were visible.
This time, the medallion’s method of suspension was invisible-a means of support I couldn’t detect.
“What are you doing, Ms. Paras?”
I didn’t bother answering. My fingers groped the medallion’s edge-looking for what, I didn’t know.