The car passed through the White House gate and rolled smoothly by the guard shack without stopping. The residence, he noticed through the smoked glass, was partially hidden behind scaffolding and a gigantic billowing sheet of bright red tarp.
"Christo's new project?" he joked.
The quip was met with flat silence.
"They're making a few cosmetic repairs to the building. Touch-ups." They were the first words the director had spoken since leaving his office.
Rossiter said nothing, kept his eyes open and his mouth shut. He'd been in D.C. now for well over a dozen years, through three administrations, and he had never seen anything like this. He had no idea what sort of lunatic impulse had made him joke about the appearance of the White House; he'd merely been fishing for information about this obviously extraordinary sight, and he'd stupidly thought a stab at camaraderie would yield results. He should have known better.
One step back.
So much for the career rehabilitation.
The car stopped on the side of the White House opposite the construction. The door was opened for them by a uniformed marine. They stepped out from the backseat and were immediately ushered into one of the building's side entrances. Rossiter had been to the White House only once before, as part of a formal ceremony, and had entered through the front along with everyone else. This private entrance was new to him, but he remained passive, stoic, acting as though this sort of thing happened to him all the time.
They were led through a narrow winding corridor that did not seem to intersect any rooms, hallways or public spaces, and emerged in the antechamber of the Oval Office, where the chief of staff and the head of the Secret Service were already waiting, having beaten them there. Two other men were standing in the room as well, but the national-security adviser was missing. Rossiter had no idea what this could be about, but it had to be big.
The door to the Oval Office opened, and the president emerged. He looked taller than he did on TV, more presidential, and although Rossiter hadn't voted for him, he could see now why a majority of the country had. At the moment, the president was striding purposefully toward them with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. It may have been an affectation, but it got across the point that the man was busy and here to work, and Rossiter found himself standing < more stiffly at attention.
"Gentlemen," he said by way of greeting. His eyes locked on Rossiter's. "You're Agent Rossiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Follow me. I have something to show you."
All seven of them, the president in the lead, strode down a tall wide hallway to a closed door guarded by military personnel. One of the uniformed men opened the door, and they stepped inside a large gallery that looked as though it hadn't been redecorated since Abraham Lincoln's day.
Only ...
Only the far end of the room was discreetly covered by a thick navy blue curtain that stretched from floor to ceiling and completely covered everything in back [ of it. The curtain was so jarringly out of place and so hastily put together that it was clear it did not belong and was not intended for use in some ceremony or celebration. Before Rossiter could even think about the possibilities implied by the drapery, the president | led them behind it.
And stopped.
Where a wall had once been, there was now a gaping hole surrounded by rubble. Beyond the missing section of room, Rossiter could see a series of other | galleries with shattered walls and that fluttering red | tarp outside at the far end. The entire east wing of the White House looked as though it had been|| crashed into by a gigantic wrecking ball or massive vehicle of some sort. A train, he thought, looking at the shape of the opening and the scarred floor. Throughout all of the affected rooms, military personnel were bustling about, although whether they were searching for the perpetrators or clues or were merely ^ trying to secure the area, Rossiter could not say.
The others had apparently seen the destruction already, but though presumably Horn had been told of it and knew what to expect, the FBI director still seemed shocked, and his normally unflappable demeanor was nowhere in evidence. "My God."
Rossiter remained unmoving and impassive, hoping the contrast would be self-evident.
The chief of staff cleared his throat. "The president believes that a train crashed into the White House and caused this damage."
"It was a train," the president insisted. "I didn't see it, but I heard it. And we all felt it." He looked around the room as though daring anyone to disagree. "It may have been invisible, but it was there, and it crashed through the east wing, whistle blowing, steam engine at full power... . Did I mention that it was a steam engine? Well, it was." For the first time, the president seemed distracted, unfocused. "I happened to be in the briefing room over there"-he pointed through the gaping wall-"along with most of the cabinet. We saw the impact. We saw the train crash through the walls, even though we couldn't see the train, and we saw the people scrambling out of the way, saw the desks and furniture smashed and shoved aside. Amazingly, only one man died. But that man was Jordan Mayhew. A Secret Service agent. My daughter's Secret Service agent." His eyes met Rossiter's. "I need to know what happened here. I'm told you're the man for the job, that you have some experience with this sort of occurrence."
"Well, yes, Mr. President, but-"
"No buts. Find out what this thing is, whether it's a ghost train or some sort of invisible weapon or stealth bomb or death ray. As silly as this sounds, I'm betting on ghost train. I'm a stubborn man, but I'm not a stupid man, and while my worldview has never encompassed the supernatural, I know what I heard; I know what I saw. We all do. Examine whatever's necessary in here. Interview anyone you need. I'm giving you unfettered access to my staff. But I want you on this ASAP."
"Yes, sir."
"You heard about what happened at Arlington, I assume?"
"Yes," Rossiter answered. "But I'm not on that case, and I don't really-"
"You're on it now." The president glared at the director. "I want Agent Rossiter in charge of anything that could be even tangentially connected to this, with the authority to coordinate any unexplained unsolved cases that he deems pertinent to his investigation. I don't care about your ordinary chain of command- I want it suspended until this is solved. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President."
It was all Rossiter could do not to smile. In one quick trip to the White House, his fortunes had completely reversed themselves and instead of languishing forgotten in the bowels of the FBI building, he was being given special assignments and unprecedented authority by the president of the United States. His career was not only back on track, it was further along than he had ever expected it to be.
Assuming he got results.
The pressure was on him now. He had been granted the opportunity of a lifetime, but it was up to him what he did with it. If he fucked this up, he'd be lucky to be scrubbing toilets.
The president focused his gaze on Rossiter. "That was a ghost train, too. At Arlington. No one's ever going to admit that publicly, and everyone's afraid to admit it even to me, but we know that's the case, and obviously these two are connected. What I want to know is, why is this happening, what's causing it, and can we expect more such attacks in the future?""
I'll find out," Rossiter said confidently.
"I want daily reports."
"We'll set up a morning briefing," the chief of staff said. "But right now, Mr. President-"
"I know, I know." He nodded at Rossiter. "Stay as long as you need, be as thorough as you can, do whatever you need to do, but solve this."