She didn’t have a husband. She didn’t have kids, probably never would. Andrea Price wasn’t one of those who
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sought to escape her womanhood in pursuit of a career. She wanted it all, but she hadn’t quite managed that. Her career was important–she could think of nothing more vital to her country than what she did–and the good news was that it was so all-encompassing that she rarely had the time to dwell on what was missing… a good man to share her bed, and a small voice to call her Mommy. But on drives alone, she did think about it, like now, heading up New York Avenue.
“Not all that liberated at all, are we?” she asked the windshield. But the Service didn’t pay her to be liberated. It paid her to look after the First Family. Her personal life was supposed to run on her personal time, though the Service didn’t issue her any of that, either.
INSPECTOR O’DAY WAS already on Route 50. Friday was best of all. He’d done his duty for the week. His tie and suit jacket were on the seat next to him, and he was back in his leather bomber jacket and his lucky John Deere ballcap, without which he’d never consider playing golf or going out to hunt. This weekend he had a ton of things to do around the house. Megan would help with many of them. Somehow she knew. Pat didn’t fully understand it. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe she just responded to her father’s devotion. However it came about, the two were inseparable. At home, she left his side only to sleep, and only then after a major hug and kiss, her little arms tight around his neck. O’Day chuckled to himself. “Tough guy.”
RUSSELL SUPPOSED IT was the grandfather in him. All these little munchkins. They were playing outside now, every one in his or her parka, about half with the hoods up, because little kids liked that for some reason. Serious playtime here. SANDBOX was in the sandbox, along with the O’Day kid who so closely resembled her, and a little boy–the Walker kid, the rather nice young son of that pain in the ass with the Volvo wagon. Agent Hilton was out, too, supervising. Strangely, they could relax more
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out here. The playground was on the north side of the Giant Steps building, under the direct view of the support team just across the street. The third member of the team was inside on the phone. She ordinarily worked the back room, where the TV monitors were. The kids knew her as Miss Anne.
Too thin, Russell told himself, even as he watched the toddlers having the purest sort of fun. In the extreme case, somebody could drive by on Ritchie Highway and hose the place. Trying to talk the Ryans out of sending Katie here was a wasted effort, and, sure, they wanted their youngest to be a normal kid. But. . .
But it was all insane, wasn’t it? Russell’s entire professional life had revolved around the knowledge that there were people who hated the President and everyone around him. Some were truly crazy. Some were something else. He’d studied the psychology of it. He had to, since learning about them helped to predict what to look for, but that wasn’t the same as understanding it. These were kids. Even the fucking Mafia, he knew, didn’t mess with children. He sometimes envied the FBI for its statutory authority to track down kidnappers. To rescue a child and apprehend the criminal in that sort of case must be a sweet moment indeed, though part of him wondered how hard it was to bring in alive that kind of subject instead of just sending him off to have his Miranda rights read to him by God Himself. That random thought evoked a smile. Or maybe what really happened was better yet. Kidnappers had a very bad time in prison. Even hardened robbers couldn’t stomach the abusers of children, and so that variety of hood learned a whole new form of recreation in the federal corrections system: survival.
“Russell, Command Post,” his earpiece said.
“Russell.”
“Price is heading out here like you requested,” Special Agent Norm Jeffers said from the house across the street. “Forty minutes, she says.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“I see the Walker lad is continuing his engineering studies,” the voice continued.
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“Yeah, maybe he’ll do bridges next,” Don agreed. The youngster had the second level building on his sand castle, to the rapt admiration of Katie Ryan and Megan O’Day.
“MR, PRESIDENT,” THE team captain said, “I hope you’ll like this.”
Ryan had a good laugh and donned the team jersey for the cameras. The team bunched around him for the shot.
“My CIA Director is a big hockey fan,” Jack said.
“Really?” Bob Albertsen asked. He was a very physical defenseman, the terror of his conference for his board checking, but as docile as a kitten in this setting.
“Yeah, he has a kid who’s pretty good, played in the kids’ leagues in Russia.”
“Then maybe he learned something. Where’s he go to school?”
“I’m not sure what colleges they’re thinking about. I think they said Eddie wants to study engineering.” It was so damned pleasant, Jack thought, to talk about normal things like a normal person to other normal people once in a while.
“Tell them to send the kid to Rensselaer. It’s a good tech school up by Albany.”
“Why there?”
“Those damned nerds win the college championship every other year. I went to Minnesota, and they cleaned our clock twice in a row. Send me his name and I’ll see he gets some stuff. His dad, too, if that’s okay, Mr. President.”
“I’ll do that,” the President promised. Six feet away, Agent Raman heard the exchange and nodded.
O’DAY ARRIVED JUST as the kids were trooping back in the side door for bathroom call. This, he knew, was a major undertaking. He pulled his diesel pickup in just after four. He watched the Secret Service agents switch positions.
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Russell appeared at the front door, his regular post for when the children were inside.
“We got us a match for tomorrow?”
Russell shook his head. “Too quick. Two weeks from tomorrow, two in the afternoon. It’ll give you a chance to practice.”
“And you won’t?” O’Day asked, passing inside. He watched Megan enter the girls’ bathroom without seeing her daddy in the room. Well, then. He squatted down outside the door to surprise her when she came out.
MOVIE STAR, TOO, was at his surveillance position in the school parking lot to the northeast. The trees were starting to fill in, lie realized. He could see, but his view was somewhat obstructed. Things appeared normal even so, and from this point on, it was in Allah’s hands, he told himself, surprised that he used the term for a decidedly ungodly act. As he watched, Car 1 turned right just north of the day-care center. It would proceed down the street, reverse directions, and head back.
Car 2 was a white Lincoln Town Car, the twin of one belonging to a family with a child here. That family comprised two physicians, though none of the terrorists knew that. Immediately behind it was a red Chrysler whose twin belonged to the again-pregnant wife of an accountant. As Movie Star watched, both pulled into parking spaces opposite each other, as close to the highway as the parking lot allowed.
PRICE WOULD BE here soon. Russell took note of the cars’ arrival, thinking over his arguments for the Detail chief. The afternoon sun reflected off the windshields, preventing him from seeing anything more inside than the outline of the drivers. Both cars were early, but it was a Friday …
. . . the tag numbers . .. ?
… his eyes narrowed slightly as he shook his head, asking himself why he hadn’t–
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SOMEONE ELSE HAD. Jefferslifted his binoculars, scanning the arriving cars as part of his surveillance duties. He didn’t even know he had a photographic memory. Remembering things was as natural to him as breathing. He thought everyone could do it.
“Wait, wait, something’s wrong here. They’re not–” He lifted the radio mike. “Russell, those are not our cars!” It was almost in time.
IN ONE SMOOTH motion, two drivers opened their car doors and swung their legs out, lifting their weapons off the front seats as they did so. In the back of both cars, two pairs of men came up, also armed.
RUSSELL’S RIGHT HAND moved back and down, reaching for his automatic while his left lifted the collar-mounted radio microphone: “Gun!”
Inside the building, Inspector O’Day heard something but wasn’t sure what, and he was facing the wrong way to see how Agent Marcella Hilton turned away from a child who was asking her a question and shoved her hand into her gun purse.
It was the simplest of code words. An instant later, he heard the same word repeated over his earpiece as Norm Jeffers shouted it from the command post. The black agent’s hand pushed another button, activating a radio link to Washington. “SANDSTORM SANDSTORM SANDSTORM!”