The aesthetically designed exterior of the facility instantly impressed when the convoy of Secret Service vehicles arrived at the resort known as The Sanctuary. Its unique combination of Charleston brick, cream-colored stucco, wood, ironwork, and copper were complemented by the dark slate roofing. Sean had never grown tired of staying in a nice hotel. From the looks of this one, that truth seemed unlikely to change anytime in the next twenty-four hours.
He turned his head from side to side, letting his appreciation of the resort’s design take over. The men from the Secret Service unloaded several pieces of luggage, and then let the driver cruise away in search of a parking space.
Yarbrough took a few steps in Sean’s direction and motioned toward the entrance. “This way,” he said blankly.
“Lead the way.” Sean didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
Even though the men who had peacefully abducted him were pleasant, it was still difficult for Sean to actually acknowledge the fact that he was about to speak with the president of the United States. Apparently, Sean was the only one in the group who would find any appreciation of that fact. It must have become trivial to the men who surrounded the powerful leader twenty-four hours a day.
The group strode swiftly through the entrance, a set of glass doors underneath an enormous, pyramid-shaped awning made of poplar. Inside the lobby, the building opened up to high ceilings and wide thoroughfares. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, showing off thousands of crystals. Directly ahead, several large windows and glass doors opened to display unobstructed views of perfectly groomed Bermuda grass that stretched all the way to the oceanfront. The facility’s two guest wings wrapped around the centrally located lawn like the lower end of a tuning fork.
A seating area designed to look like a big living room sat between two bars. The bar to the right was decorated daintily with nineteenth- and early twentieth-century art that featured feminine overtones. Glass cases were filled with fine china, lacey tablecloths, and fine dresses. On the wall behind the bar, a portrait of a nineteenth-century woman in a fashionable dress hung as a symbol of the lady of the manor. Directly across from it, beyond the sitting room, was a second bar. It was adorned with masculine trinkets like old sports memorabilia, antique guns, hunting portraits, and cigar cases. Mirroring the women’s bar, a portrait hung over the bar on the men’s side. It featured the man of the house, a burly, handsome character with a thick mustache and a commanding glare.
Sean remembered reading about how, in the old days, a man had his side of the house and a woman had hers. The two bars and the sitting area were a new tribute to a time nearly long forgotten.
He glanced down at the floor made from old, reclaimed wood from several old mansions and factories in Charleston. He admired the thick, dark beams and wondered what stories the gashes and grooves might tell if they could.
Yarbrough and the other two men turned left and headed toward the eastern wing of the hotel. A grand staircase wound up to a second floor sitting area. A sign at the base of the stairs indicated that the famed Ocean Room restaurant was located above. Sean had heard of the place. He hoped he’d get a chance to eat there at some point, but he had the sneaking suspicion that his stay at The Sanctuary would be a short one.
They continued down the corridor and turned right into a narrower hallway. They passed an elevator on the left and walked almost halfway down the passage before stopping at a closed door on the right.
Sean frowned. “The president is staying in a normal guest room?” he asked, finding the notion somewhat odd.
Yarbrough nodded. “The president stays where he wants. This was the room he wanted.”
“Interesting.”
The agent rapped on the door twice. A second later, it cracked open revealing another black-clad agent just inside. A young, white male with his head nearly shaven clean and dark stubble on his face smiled through the opening. “He’s waiting for you.”
The door opened wide, allowing Sean and Agent Yarbrough to pass through. The man inside closed the door as the other agents in the hallway continued to scan their surroundings for any potential security threat. The interior of the room was as nice as anything Sean had seen before, at least for a hotel’s standard guest room. It was no surprise that the resort had been awarded the prestigious Five Diamond Award for excellence.
At the moment though, the room wasn’t what was on Sean’s mind. It was the man at the table in the corner. The closest he’d ever come to meeting a president was when he was a child in the 1980s. Ronald Reagan had flown to his hometown for a brief visit, but Sean had only caught a glimpse of the man from a distance. Now he was standing fifteen feet away.
John Dawkins had experienced an odd rise to the oval office. He was born in Spartanburg, South Carolina, to parents who both worked in the education system. His father had been a physical education teacher, his mother a high school science teacher.
Dawkins had attended small public schools throughout his life, always blending in with the crowd, never really standing out in sports, or academics. That all changed when he arrived at college.
He’d attended the University of South Carolina on a meager academic scholarship, but eventually had earned a full ride due to merit. By the time Dawkins graduated with a degree in political science, his grade point average was a perfect 4.0, and he had served as an intern for a local congressman over the course of two summers.
His experience gave him a thirst for politics, but more than that, a desire to change the way things were in Washington. Dawkins had been severely disappointed to see how the political system actually worked. People all around him had taken money from special interest groups in exchange for their votes on certain issues. Often, the things they voted on directly opposed what their constituents would have wanted.
Dawkins took a stand against the corruption. At one point a senior statesmen warned him about what he was doing, basically threatening Dawkins that if he didn’t get in line, things could get ugly for him. One friend implored him to follow the lead and just do as he was told. After all, Dawkins could do more good in other areas as long as he played the game, but if he rocked the boat too much, he would be out come the next election.
His wife had always told him that he never listened, and this time was no different. He insisted that the politics of the United States government change for the better. During his first term, he accomplished little in the way of getting anything passed, but he won a second term and decided to take things into his own hands.
Congressman Dawkins built a website and posted questions to his constituents about the things he was to vote on. He asked them which way they wanted him to vote on every issue, giving the power of decision back to the people. He spent hours deciphering the language of complicated legislation so that the common people in his district could understand it and make an informed decision for themselves. Dawkins stood true to his new plan, voting the way the people wanted every single time.
The story about Dawkins spread like wildfire. The congressman who had returned the power to the people became a national phenomenon almost overnight. Millions of people began to ask why their representatives weren’t doing what John Dawkins was doing. As a result, many were not re-elected to serve another term, and were replaced by those willing to be innovative and unselfish.
The presidency was something Dawkins had never really believed possible, especially considering the fact that he was an independent, unaffiliated with any political party. When the election came, he ran against two men who had both been enemies on Capitol Hill. Typically, Dawkins was a mild-mannered man with a quiet disposition and a nose that was constantly at the grindstone. Something changed when he entered his first presidential debate. He fiercely attacked the other two candidates, ripping apart their scripted retorts and firing back almost insulting comments that exposed the men for what they really were: puppets.