Jimmie said, “So you, what, trace the call and have Trump send in the Navy SEALs to rescue her? How does this work?”
“The president would never authorize the use of the military to rescue a kidnapped reporter, and you know it,” Emma said. “Even against the SJWs. And it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to appeal to President Trump’s romantic side. He’d just tell you to get another girlfriend-one who doesn’t go around getting herself kidnapped. Officially, the US government won’t be intervening. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Unofficially… I would like to see this situation resolved as quickly as possible. There’s been enough bloodshed at the White House in recent weeks, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jimmie nodded but didn’t say anything. He had a mouthful of fried apples.
“Just because the US government isn’t going to do a bloody thing about your friend doesn’t mean you’re out of luck,” Emma said. “They’re not the only government in the world, you know.”
“The Russians,” he said.
“The Brits,” she said.
“But we’re on the verge of war with the UK. Why would they lift a finger?”
“Because I’m not just the apprentice,” Emma said. “I’m with MI6-the Secret Intelligence Service.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ninety Percent of the Time
So Trump had been right about there being a leak in the White House after all. He probably had never imagined how high ranking the leak was, however. The apprentice was as close to the Oval Office as you could get-both figuratively and literally. And Trump never would know, because Jimmie wasn’t anybody’s informant. Not even the president’s.
He had to tip his cap to the United Kingdom. The British intelligence community must have predicted Trump’s rise to power and placed an operative close to him in the eventuality he ascended to the US presidency.
The British had always been much smarter than the United States. Part of that was the accent, of course. Part of it, however, was that they’d just been playing this game much longer than their American counterparts had. They literally had hundreds of years more institutional knowledge baked into their psyche than the relatively young upstarts on this side of the Atlantic did. Funny, then, that they’d already dropped two wars to the United States, but hey-any given Sunday.
“Call in your British SEALs or whatever,” Jimmie said begrudgingly, tossing his napkin on the table. “Forget the story-we need to save her. I’m ready when you are.”
“Hold on,” Emma said. “We don’t have ‘British SEALs.’ MI6’s elite special-ops force is the Royal OTTERs. Unfortunately, they’re all busy preparing to guard the home front in case this war between our countries actually breaks out. Our best option here is to cooperate with the kidnappers.”
A waiter arrived with a fresh glass of sweet tea for Emma. Despite her avowed distaste for the beverage, she was now on her fourth refill.
When the waiter was gone, Jimmie said, “You trust these Socialist Justice Warriors?”
“Real-life kidnappers aren’t like the ones in Hollywood movies. If they say they’re going to trade you for someone, they’re probably going to keep their word-as long as you follow through with your end of the bargain. Ninety percent of the time, nobody gets hurt. Except for maybe a cut-off finger or toe, which they mail to you to show you they’re serious. In this case, there’s not enough time for them to mail you any appendages. Even if they overnighted her ring finger, say, there’s no guarantee you’d get it. Holiday weekends cause massive postal delays.”
Ninety percent of the time, nobody gets hurt. What about the other ten percent?
He said, “I’m surprised you want to hand the recorder over.”
“I’ve worked with Trump long enough to know he doesn’t say anything in private that he wouldn’t say in public,” she said. “You were right: Lester Dorset was a bloody fool.”
“Finally, somebody agrees with me.”
“You’re also a bloody fool, but for different reasons,” Emma said.
Was she teasing him? He’d have time to tease her back later.
“You’re sure I need to drop this whole Lester story, though?” he asked.
“If there really was a story here capable of bringing the administration to its knees, I would have exposed it long ago,” Emma said. “I’m doing everything I can to keep Trump in check and avoid this idiotic ‘three-peat’ he keeps going on about. You’ve been to the Security Council meetings. If it was up to Trump and the rest of those wankers, the UK would be a pile of rubble right now. I might just be the only person standing in his way. If you try to pin the murder on Lewandowski, and he doesn’t confess, who do you think people are going to point fingers at next? The Brit in the White House.”
“I guess you’re right,” Jimmie said.
“Are you pouting?”
“No,” he lied. “So we need to figure out how to get the recorder out of the White House, then.”
“You’d never get it past security on your own,” she said. “With my help, however, it will be a breeze. Only a handful of people in the administration can walk in and out of the building without being frisked… including the apprentice.”
Jimmie shoveled another biscuit into his mouth, even though he’d felt full fifteen minutes ago. He was simply stress-eating at this point. Jimmie could see his story about Lester’s body-and whatever scandal was beneath it-blowing Emma’s cover in some way. She was just trying to throw water on the flames. From Jimmie’s perspective, though, the fire was out of control.
Emma said, “I’ll pick up the tab, and we can head back to the White House. Where’s the recorder?”
“A safe place. I might need your help getting to it, though.”
“You have the same clearance level as the president, remember?”
He nodded. “But there are some places that might raise some eyebrows, were I to walk in without an appointment. Especially after business hours on a Friday night.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“So I can just walk into the Lincoln Bedroom, you’re saying?”
She frowned. “That… might be a problem.”
“I know that the president and first lady were taking off for Florida tonight-”
“I watched the helicopter take off for the airport. Still, it would be suspicious for you to just go creeping around in the family quarters while they’re away.”
“Have you ever thought about all the presidents who’ve had sex in that bedroom?”
“It’s the guest bedroom,” she said.
“So?”
Emma continued, “We’ll have to come up with a good reason for you to… for you to…”
Emma winced and grabbed her stomach. It looked like she had felt a sharp pain, as if she’d just been kicked in the gut by an invisible foot. She hadn’t touched her food, though-must have been too much sweet tea. Caffeine could irritate an ulcer something wicked.
Emma started rocking back and forth in her chair while staring blankly into the distance. This was no ulcer.
Jimmie looked around for a waiter-she needed medical attention.
Emma thrust a hand out to steady herself, grabbing a bunch of tablecloth. She clutched it tight just as she tipped backward, taking her chair and the tablecloth to the ground. Their plates and silverware crashed to the floor.
Her glass, however, was still standing.
While time had seemed to slow down, it now sped back up. Jimmie shot out of his chair and knelt beside her. She wasn’t trembling anymore.
In fact, she wasn’t even breathing anymore.