O’Shea readjusted his U.S. Open cap. If he’d pulled the red passport, he wouldn’t be waiting here.
“Have a great one,” the clerk said, stamping O’Shea’s passport and handing it back. “And welcome home.”
“Thanks,” O’Shea replied, tucking the passport back into his breast pocket. Right next to his FBI badge and ID.
Within a minute, O’Shea cut past the baggage carousels and headed for the signs marked Nothing to Declare/Exit. As his foot hit the sensor mat, two frosted-glass doors slid open, revealing a mob of family and friends pressed against short metal barriers, waiting for their loved ones despite the early hour. Two little girls jumped, then sagged, when they realized O’Shea wasn’t their dad. He didn’t notice. He was too busy dialing a number on his cell phone. It rang three times before his partner answered.
“Welcome, welcome,” Micah said, finally picking up. From the soft humming in the background, it sounded like he was in a car.
“Tell me you’re in Palm Beach,” O’Shea replied.
“Got here last night. It’s nice down here. Fancy. Y’know they got tiny water fountains on the sidewalks just for spoiled little dogs?”
“What about Wes?”
“Three cars in front of me,” Micah said as the humming continued. “Him and his roommate just crossed the bridge a minute ago.”
“I assume he hasn’t seen you yet?”
“You said to wait.”
“Exactly,” O’Shea replied, stepping outside the airport and spotting his name on a handwritten sign. The private driver nodded hello and tried to grab O’Shea’s small black piece of luggage. O’Shea waved him off and headed for the car, never taking the phone from his ear.
“He’s dropping the roommate off right now,” Micah added. “Looks like Wes is headed into work.”
“Just stay with him,” O’Shea replied. “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
9
The phone shrieked through the small office, but he didn’t pick it up. Same on the second ring. He knew who it was — on this line, there was only one person it could be — but he still didn’t move. Not until he knew for sure. Leaning both elbows on his desk, Roland Egen studied his phone’s digital screen, waiting for caller ID to kick in. Black electronic letters popped into place: Offices of Leland Manning.
“You’re early,” The Roman said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. He had pale, rosy skin, bright blue eyes, and a shock of black hair. Black Irish, his fishing buddies called it. But never to his face.
“You said to make sure no one was here.”
The Roman nodded to himself. Finally, someone who followed directions. “So the President’s not in yet?”
“On his way. He sleeps late after overnight trips.”
“And the First Lady?”
“I’m telling you, it’s just me. Now can we hurry up? People’ll be here any second.”
Sitting at his desk and squinting out the window, The Roman watched as the light snow tumbled from the early morning sky. It may’ve been eighty degrees in Florida, but in D.C., winter was just unpacking its first punch. He didn’t mind. When he was little, his grandmother had taught him to enjoy the quiet that came with the cold. Just as his grandfather had taught him to appreciate the calm that came to the waters of the Potomac. As any fisherman knew, winter chased away the jet skiers and pleasure boaters. And that was always the best time to put your line in the water. Especially when you had the right bait.
“What about Wes?” The Roman asked. “You get everything I sent?”
“Yeah… right here…”
He could hear the hesitation in his associate’s voice. No one liked being the bad guy — especially in politics. “And you found something to put it in?” The Roman asked.
“We have a— That’s why I came in early. We have this lapel pin—”
“You can get him to wear it…”
“I–I think so.”
“It wasn’t a question. Get him to wear it,” The Roman shot back.
“You sure Wes’ll even come in?” his associate asked. “Agents here said he was sick as a hound the entire flight back. Puked his lungs all over his pants.”
Outside, a crack of blue light slit through the tired, gray sky. “I’m not surprised,” The Roman said as the snow continued to fall. “If I were him right now, I’d be wrecking my pants too. Now about that pin…”
“Don’t worry,” his associate said. “Wes won’t even look twice at it… especially when it’s served by a friendly face.”
10
Hold it!” I yell, darting around the corner of the lobby and heading for the elevator’s closing doors. Inside the elevator, a blond woman looks away, pretending she didn’t hear me. That’s why I hate Palm Beach. As the doors are about to pucker in a tight kiss, I leap forward and squeeze through. Now stuck with me, the blonde turns to the floor selection panel and pretends she’s searching for Door Open. I should call her on it and tell her off.
“Thanks,” I say, bent over as I catch my breath.
“What floor?”
“Four.”
“Oh, you’re with—”
“Yeah,” I say, finally looking up to see her.
She stares at my face, then quickly glances up at the electronic floor indicator. If she could run and scream “Monster!” she would. But like the best Palm Beach hostesses, she’ll overlook anything if it means a good social climb. “Must be wild to work for him,” she adds, my new best friend, even though she refuses to make eye contact. I’m used to it by now. I haven’t had a date in two years. But every pretty girl wants to talk to the President.
“Wilder than you know,” I say as the doors open on the fourth floor. Heading left toward a set of closed double doors, I sprint out as fast as I can. Not because of the blonde, but because I’m already—
“Late!” a scratchy voice scolds behind me. I spin back toward the open double doors of the Secret Service’s suite, where a man with a neck as thick as my thigh sits behind a glass partition that looks like a bank teller’s window.
“How late?” I call out, turning back toward the closed doors on the opposite side of the beige-carpeted hallway. Along with the Service’s, they’re the only doors on the whole floor — and unlike the law firm or the mortgage company just below, these doors aren’t oak and stately. They’re black and steel-lined. Bulletproof. Just like our windows.
“Late enough,” he says as I pull my ID badge from my pocket. But just as I’m about to swipe it through the card reader, I hear a quiet thunk, and the closed doors unlock.
“Thanks, A.J.!” I call out, pulling the door open.
Inside, I check the left-hand wall for the Secret Service agent who usually stands guard. He’s not there, which means the President’s not in yet. Good. I check the reception desk. The receptionist is gone too. Bad.
Crap. That means they already…
Sprinting across the enormous presidential seal that’s woven into the bright blue carpet, I cut to my left, where the hallway is lined with bad paintings and poor sculptures of the President. They’ve arrived every single day since we left office — all from strangers, fans, supporters. They draw, paint, pencil, sketch, bronze, and sculpt him in every possible permutation. The newest ones are a set of Florida toothpicks with his profile carved into each one, and a bright yellow ceramic sculpture of the sun, with his face in the middle. And that’s not even including what the corporations send: every CD, every book, every DVD that’s released, they all want the former President to have it, though all we do is ship it to his Presidential Library. Knocking over a beechwood walking cane with his childhood photos glued to it, I trip down the hall and head for the second-to-last office that’s—