“What about the timing?” Cathy had never used the pill.
“What about the timing?” she replied. And she’d always been as regular as a metronome.
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“You don’t want another–”
“Maybe I don’t especially care.”
“You’re forty,” POTUS objected.
“Well, thank you! That’s well short of the record. What are you worried about?”
Jack thought about that for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. Never did get that vasectomy, did I?”
“Nope, you never even talked to Pat about it like you said you would–and if you do it now,” FLOTUS went on with a positively wicked grin, “it’ll be in all the papers. Maybe even on live TV. Arnie might tell you that it’ll set a good example for the Zero Population Growth people, and you’ll cave on that. Except for the national security implications …”
” What?”
“President of the United States has his nuts cut, and they won’t respect America anymore, will they?”
Jack almost started laughing, but stopped himself. The Detail people in the corridor might hear and–
“What got into you?”
“Maybe I’m finally getting comfortable with all this– or maybe I just want to get laid,” she added.
That’s when the phone next to the bed rang. Cathy’s face made a noiseless snarl as she reached for it. “Hello? Yes, Dr. Sabo. Mrs. Emory? Okay . . . no, I don’t think so … No, definitely not, I don’t care if she’s agitated or not, not till tomorrow. Get her something to help her sleep .. . whatever it takes. The bandages stay on till I say otherwise, and make sure that’s on her chart, she’s too good at whining. Yes. Night, Doctor.” She replaced the phone and grumbled. “The lens replacement I did the other day. She doesn’t like being blindfolded, but if we take the coverings off too soon–”
“Wait a minute, he called–”
“They have our number at Wilmer.”
“The direct residence?” That one even bypassed Signals, though it, like all White House lines, was bugged. Or probably was. Ryan hadn’t asked, and probably didn’t want to know.
“They had it for home, didn’t they?” Cathy asked. “Me surgeon, me treat patients, me professor, always on call
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when me have patients–especially the pain-in-the-ass ones.”
“Interruptions.” Jack lay down next to his wife. “You don’t really want another baby, do you?”
“What I want is to make love to my husband. I can’t be picky about timing anymore, can I?”
“Has it been that bad?” He kissed her gently.
“Yes, but I’m not mad about it. You’re trying very hard. You remind me of my new residents–older, though.” She touched his face and smiled. “If something happens, it happens. I like being a woman.”
“I rather like it myself.”
27
RESULTS
SOME OF THEM HAD DE-
grees in psychology. It was a common and favored degree for law-enforcement officers. Some even had advanced degrees, and one member of the Detail had a doctorate, having done his dissertation on the sub-specialty of profiling criminals. All were at the least gifted amateurs in the science of reading minds; Andrea Price was one of these. SURGEON had a spring in her step as she walked out to her helicopter. SWORDSMAN walked her out to the ground-floor door and kissed her good-bye–the kiss was routine, the walk-out and the hand-holding were not, or hadn’t been lately. Price shared a glance with two of her agents, and they read one another’s minds, as cops can do, and they judged it to be good, except for Raman, who was as smart as the rest of them, but rather more straitlaced. He devoted more passion to sports than anything else, and Price imagined him in front of his TV every night. He probably knew even how to program his VCR. Well, there were many personality types in the Service.
“What’s today look like?” POTUS asked, turning away when the Black Hawk lifted off.
“SURGEON is airborne,” Andrea heard in her earpiece. “Everything’s clear,” the overwatch people reported from their perches on the government buildings around the White House. They’d been scanning the perimeter for the last hour, as they did every day. There were the usual people out there, the “regulars,” known by sight to the Detail members. These were people who seemed to turn up a lot. Some were just fascinated by the First Family, whichever family it might be. For them, the White House was America’s real soap opera, Dallas writ large, and the trappings, the mechanics, really, of life in this most famous of dwellings drew them for some reason that Service psychologists struggled to understand, because for the armed agents on the Detail, “regulars” were dangerous by their
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very existence. And so the snipers on the Old Executive Office Building–OEOB–and Treasury knew them all by sight through their powerful spotting glasses, and knew them all by name, too, because Detail members were out there, too, disguised as street rats or passersby. At one time or another, the “regulars” had all been trailed to whatever homes they might have, and identified, and investigated, quietly. Those with irregularities were profiled for personality type–they all had a few kinks– and then they’d be carefully scanned by the Detail members who worked outside for weapons–up to and including being bumped into by a “jogger” and expertly groped while being helped to their feet during the embarrassed apology. But that danger was past, for now.
“Didn’t you check your schedule last night?” Price asked, distracted from her duties into asking a dumb question.
“No, decided to catch some TV,” SWORDSMAN lied, not knowing that they spotted the lie. He didn’t even blush, Price saw. For her part, she didn’t allow her face to change. Even POTUS was allowed to have a secret or two, or at least the illusion of it.
“Okay, here’s my copy.” She handed it over. Ryan scanned the first page, which took him to lunch. “SecTreas is on the way in for breakfast right after CARDSHARP.”
“What do you guys call George?” Jack asked, entering the West Wing.
“TRADER. He likes that,” Andrea reported.
“Just so you pronounce it right.” Which wasn’t a bad line for 7:50 A.M., POTUS thought. But it was hard to tell. The Detail liked nearly all of his jokes. Maybe they were just being polite?
“Good morning, Mr. President.” Goodley stood, as usual, when Jack entered the Oval Office.
“Hi, Ben.” Ryan dropped the schedule down on his desk, made a quick scan for important documents, and took his seat. “Go.”
“You stole my thunder talking with the crew last night. We have gornischt on Mr. Zhang. I could give you the long version, but I imagine you’ve already heard it.” The President nodded for him to go on.
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“Okay, developments in the Taiwan Strait. The PRC has fifteen surface ships at sea, two formations, one of six, one of nine. I have compositions if you want, but they’re all destroyers and frigates. Deployed in regular squadron groupings, the Pentagon tells us. We have an EC-135 listening in. We have a submarine, Pasadena, camped between the two groups, with two more boats en route from central Pacific, timed to arrive in-area in thirty-six and fifty hours, respectively. CmCPAC, Admiral Seaton, is up to speed and tasking out a full surveillance package. His parameters are on Secretary Bretano’s desk now. I’ve discussed it over the phone. Sounds like Seaton knows his business.
“Political side, the ROC government is taking no official notice of the exercise. They put out a press release to that effect, but their military is in contact with ours– through CiNCPAc. We’ll have people in their listening posts”–Goodley checked his watch–“may be there already. State doesn’t think this is a very big deal, but they’re watching.”
“Overall picture?” Ryan asked.
“Could just be routine, but we wish their timing was a little better. They’re not overtly pushing anything.”
“And until they do, we don’t push back. Okay, we take no official notice of this exercise. Let’s keep our deployments quiet. No press releases, no briefings to the media. If we get any questions, it’s no big deal.”
Goodley nodded. “That’s the plan, Mr. President.
“Next, Iraq, again, we have little in the way of direct information. Local TV is on a religious kick. It’s all Shi’a. The Iranian clergymen we’ve been seeing are getting a lot of air time. The TV news coverage is almost entirely religion-based. The anchors are getting rhapsodic. The executions are done. We don’t have a full body count, but it’s over one hundred. That appears to be over. The Ba’ath leadership is gone for good. The littler fish are in the can. There was some stuff about how merciful the provisional government was to the ‘lesser criminals’–that’s a quote. The ‘mercy’ is religiously justified, and it seems that some of the ‘lesser criminals’ have come back to Jesus–excuse me, back to Allah–in one big hurry. There’s TV pictures
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of them sitting with an imam and discussing their misdeeds.