So it was with lions, it would seem. Even one so powerful could be outmaneuvered by lesser creatures if the time and the setting were right, and that was both the les-
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son and the task of the day. Finished with his prayers, Daryaei called for Badrayn. The younger man was a skilled tactician and gatherer of information. He needed the direction of one schooled in strategy, but with that guidance he would be very useful indeed.
IT HAD BEEN conclusively decided in an hour’s conversation with his country’s leading experts that the President could do absolutely nothing at all. The next move was simply to wait and watch and see. Any citizen could do it, but America’s leading experts could wait and watch and see a little faster than anyone else, or so they told themselves. That would all be done for the President, of course, and so Ryan walked out of the Situation Room, up the steps, and outside to see wet, cold rain falling on the South Lawn beyond the overhang of the walkway. The coming day promised to be blustery, with March arriving, typically, like a lion, then to be replaced by a lamb. Or so the aphorism went. At the moment it just looked gloomy, however nurturing the rain might be to ground recovering from a cold, bitter winter.
“This will finish off the last of the snow,” Andrea Price said, surprising herself by speaking unbidden to her principal.
Ryan turned and smiled. “You work harder than I do, Agent Price, and you’re a–”
“Girl?” she asked with a weary smile.
“My chauvinism must be showing. I beg your pardon, ma’am. Sorry, I was just wishing for a cigarette. Quit years ago–Cathy bullied me into it. More than once,” Jack admitted with good humor. “It can be tough, being married to a doctor.”
“It can be tough, being married.” Price was wedded to her job, with two failed relationships to prove it. Her problem, if one could call it that, was in possessing the same devotion to duty that only men were supposed to have. It was a simple enough fact, but one which first a lawyer and then an advertising executive had failed to grasp.
“Why do we do it, Andrea?” Ryan asked.
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Special Agent Price didn’t know, either. The President necessarily was a father figure to her. He was the man supposed to have the answers, but after years on the Detail, she knew better. Her father had always had such answers, or so it had seemed in her youth. Then she’d grown, finished her education, joined! the Service, worked her way rapidly up a steep and slippery ladder, and in the process lost her way in life somehow. Now she was at the pinnacle of her profession, alongside the nation’s “father,” only to learn that life didn’t allow people to know what they wanted and needed to know. Her job was hard enough. His was infinitely worse, and maybe it was better for the President to be something other than the decent and honorable gentleman John Patrick Ryan was. Maybe a son of a bitch could survive better here . . .
“No answer?” Ryan smiled at the rain. “I think you’re supposed to say that somebody has to do it. Jesus, I just tried to seduce thirty new senators. You know that? Seduce,” Jack repeated. “Like they were girls or something, and like I was that kind of guy–and I don’t have a fucking clue.” The voice stopped cold and the head shook in surprise at what he’d said. “Sorry, excuse me.”
“That’s okay, Mr. President. I’ve heard the word before, even from other presidents.”
“Who do you talk to?” Jack asked. “Once upon a time, I’d talk to my father, my priest, to James Greer when I worked for him, or Roger, until a few weeks ago. Now they all ask me. You know, they told me at Quantico, at the Basic Officers’ School, that command could be lonely. Boy, they weren’t kidding. They really weren’t kidding.”
“You have one hell of a good wife, sir,” Price pointed out, envying both of them for that.
“There’s always supposed to be somebody smarter than you. The person you go to when you’re just not sure. Now they come to me. I’m not smart enough for that.” Ryan paused, just then hearing what Price had told him. “You’re right, but she’s busy enough, and I’m not supposed to burden her with my problems.”
Price decided to laugh. “You are a chauvinist, Boss.”
That snapped his head around. “I beg your pardon,
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Ms. Price!” Ryan said in a voice that sounded cross until a presidential laugh followed it. “Please don’t tell the media I said that.”
“Sir, I don’t tell reporters where the bathroom is.”
The President yawned. “What’s tomorrow look like?”
“Well, you’re in the office all day. I imagine this Iraq business will wreck your morning. I’ll be out early, back in the afternoon. I’m going to do a walk-around tomorrow, to check security arrangements for all the kids. We have a meeting to see if there’s a way to get SURGEON to work and back without the helicopter–”
“That is funny, isn’t it?” Ryan observed.
“A FLOTUS with a real job is something the system never really allowed for.”
“Real job, hell! She makes more money than / do, has for ten years, except for when I was back in the market. The papers haven’t picked up on that, either. She’s a great doc.”
His words were meandering, Price saw. He was too tired to think straight. Well, that happened to Presidents, too. Which was why she was around.
“Her patients love her, that’s what Roy says. Anyway, I’m going to look over arrangements for all your children–routine, sir, I’m responsible for all of the arrangements for your family. Agent Raman will stand post with you for most of the day. We’re moving him up. He’s coming along very nicely,” Special Agent Price reported.
“The one who got the fire coat to disguise me back on the first night?” Jack asked.
“You knew?” Price asked in return. The President turned to enter the White House proper. The grin was one of exhaustion, but for all that the blue eyes twinkled at his principal agent.
“I’m not that dumb, Andrea.”
No, she decided, it wasn’t better to have a son of a bitch as POTUS.
21
RELATIONSHIPS
PATRICK O’DAY WAS A
widower whose life had changed in a particularly cruel and abrupt way after a late-life marriage. His wife, Deborah, had been a fellow agent in the Laboratory Division, an expert on forensic investigation, which had occasioned a great deal of travel out of headquarters, until one afternoon, flying into Colorado Springs, her aircraft had crashed into the ground for reasons still undetermined. It had been her first field assignment after maternity leave, and she’d left behind a daughter, Megan, aged fourteen weeks.
Megan was two and a half now, and Inspector O’Day was still wrestling with how he should introduce Megan to her mother. He had videotapes and photographs, but were he to point to dyed paper or a phosphor screen and tell his daughter, “That’s Mommy,” might it make her think that all life was artificial? What effect would it have on her development? It was one more question in the life of a man supposed to find answers. The single fatherhood enforced on him by fate had made him all the more devoted as a father, and this on top of a professional career in which he’d worked no less than six kidnappings all the way to conclusion. Six four, two hundred wiry pounds, he had sacrificed his Zapata mustache to the requirements of Headquarters Division, but tough guy among tough guys, his attention to his daughter would have made his colleagues chuckle. Her hair was blondish and long, and each morning he brushed it to silky smoothness after dressing her in colorful toddler clothes and helping her with her tiny sneaks. For Megan, Daddy was a great big protective bear who towered into the blue sky, and snatched her off the ground like a rocket so that she could wrap her arms around his neck.
“Oof!” Daddy said. “You hug too hard!”
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“Did I hurt?” Megan asked in mock alarm. It was part of the morning routine.
A smile. “No, not this time.” With that, he walked out of the house and opened the door to his muddy pickup, carefully strapped her into her car seat, and set her lunch box and blanky between them. It was six-thirty, and they were on their way to a new day-care center. O’Day could not start his truck without looking down at Megan, the image of her mother, a daily realization that always made him bite his lip and close his eyes and shake his head, wondering again why the 737 had rolled and plunged straight into the ground with his wife of sixteen months in seat 18-F.