In the space of twenty-four hours, the length of Pennsylvania Avenue from Fourth Street to the White House would be transformed from one of the busiest thoroughfares in Washington, D.C., to a “sanitized,” or “threat-free,” parade route with seating for fifty thousand spectators and standing room for several hundred thousand more. The rain would dampen the crowds, but not by much.
Staring east toward the Capitol, Fiske felt a shiver rustle his spine. It was not from the cold. Fiske had dressed for the occasion and wore his best thermal underwear and heated shoes. It was a warning. Be on your guard.
Senator Megan McCoy was the first woman to be elected to the office of President of the United States. Though she’d won in a landslide, there were all too many people not yet ready to have a woman govern them. They were the same kind of people who didn’t want a black man on the Supreme Court, or Ellington J. Fiske as the third-ranked official in the Secret Service. In the run-up to the event, Fiske and his deputies had questioned and detained three times the usual number of nutcases boasting about their plans to kill the President.
There was more to it than that. Fiske had a feeling something was up. He’d run over the plans a hundred times. A thousand. Still, he was certain he was missing something. Maybe he always felt that way before a big event. It would go a long way toward explaining how the son of a North Carolina garbageman had risen to so high a position by the age of forty-four.
A column of trucks drove past, dousing Fiske with a curtain of water. He swore audibly, but restrained himself from raising a fist. The trucks were loaded with scores of waist-high iron barricades to be placed exactly three feet from the sidewalk. Other barricades would be placed one block to the rear of either side of the parade route, thus creating an access-controlled perimeter. Nine “choke points” would regulate entry into the parade area. At each, spectators would pass through a magnetometer and have their belongings searched. An additional six choke points would regulate entrance for those holding tickets to the White House reviewing stands.
Fiske walked over to a cluster of police officers huddled inside a covered forecourt of the Reagan Building. One by one he checked their credentials. “If you control the credentials, you control the event.” That was Fiske’s working motto. To that end, every law-enforcement agent assigned to the inaugural had been checked and double-checked prior to receiving a color-coded pass that not only indicated his branch of service but also governed access to the varied function areas.
Though officially the Secret Service acted as agency-in-charge, it was hardly alone in its efforts. The FBI, the Metropolitan Police Department, the U.S. Capitol Police, the United States Park Police, the army, and the Presidential Inaugural Committee all held jurisdiction over some or all parts of the inaugural route, or the Capitol building, where the President was to be sworn in at noon, Thursday.
It was not, however, the professionals he was worried about.
An event of this magnitude required bringing in hundreds of temporary employees. Of these, some were retired cops, some event personnel, some volunteers, and some private security companies. If he had less control over this group, he made sure they stayed farthest away from government officials he was paid to protect.
Just then, a navy blue Suburban, doors emblazoned with the seal of the Secret Service, drove up. Fiske climbed inside.
“How are things coming, chief?” asked Larry Kennedy, his number two, a beefy redhead from Boston.
“Colder than a witch’s tit out there,” said Fiske, shaking the rain off him like a wet cat. “What’s this I hear about an electrical malfunction?”
“A mike on the podium shorted out. We’ve got some techies coming in to take a look at it.”
“The presidential podium?”
Kennedy nodded, seeing a storm far worse than the one pounding them at that moment brewing in Fiske’s eyes.
“Who are they?”
“Not to worry, chief. They’re all squared away. They’re with Triton.”
Fiske did not like that answer. “Triton Aerospace? I thought they made missiles. What the hell they doin’ messing with my podium?”
“Missiles, antiaircraft systems. Hell, sir, they make everything. They made the commo system we got in this car. A Triton Five-Fifty. Guess they make P.A. systems, too.”
“I don’t like it,” said Fiske, scowling. “Get me over there.”
“Your party, boss.”
“Say that again.” He looked at Kennedy. “Tell me you brought me some coffee!”
20
It was nine o’clock, and the senior executives of Jefferson Partners had gathered in James Jacklin’s spacious office for the morning meeting.
“Morning, Guy,” said Jacklin, Jefferson’s founder and chief executive, as he crossed the office. “Morning, Mike. Everyone here? Good. Let’s get started.”
“Bob’s in New York,” said Guy de Valmont. “This is it, then.”
“So he is. Well, I’d say we have a quorum nonetheless.” Jacklin descended a step to the seating area. “Today’s the day,” he said. “Dinner starts at eight. I want all of you there a little early. We don’t want our guests wandering around like lost sheep. And black tie across the board. I don’t want to see any white dinner jackets. We’re not showboats. Spread the word.”
Jacklin sat down in his lacquered Princeton chair, the only one in the office that didn’t torture his back. “So, then… tell me, people, everyone’s clients coming?”
“Coming? We’re overbooked,” said de Valmont, the firm’s co-founder, a tall, elegant man of fifty. “We’ll be sending half of President McCoy’s cabinet to the inauguration with a hangover. It’s the hottest ticket in town.”
“Should be,” said Jacklin. “We’re serving enough caviar to gut the Caspian Sea for a decade.”
Fifty pounds of beluga caviar, to be exact, grumbled Jacklin, followed by mixed summer greens, capellini with shaved white truffles (another mind-numbingly expensive delicacy), dry-aged prime New York steak, and chocolate mousse. When his back had forced him to give up golf, he’d taken up cooking instead. He’d planned the menu himself.
The dinner was to take place at his estate in McClean, Virginia. Officially, it was a fund-raising affair. For the first time in the private equity industry, a company had raised ten billion dollars in a single fund. (Or at least said they had. The fact was that they were more than a billion short. Jacklin had to do everything in his power to close the gap by the time supper was put on the table.) The press had gotten wind of the proceedings and dubbed it the Ten Billion Dollar Dinner.
Jacklin smiled inwardly. You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity.
A short, brown-skinned man in a blue jacket, gold braided epaulets at his shoulders, approached. “Yes, Mr. Jacklin, may I take your order for breakfast?”
“Thank you, Juan. I’ll have an egg-white omelet, with some smoked salmon, and a rasher of that applewood bacon. Crispy. Very crispy.”
“Mrs. Jacklin tells me your doctor said ‘no bacon.’ Your blood pressure, sir. Too much salt.”
Jacklin took his Filipino steward’s arm and patted it gently. “To hell with him, Juan. A man’s got to live a little. Oh, and don’t forget my Bloody. You know how I like it. It’s going to be a busy day.”
“Yes, Mr. Jacklin. Coffee? Chef has a new blend from Sumatra. Very good.”