“Randy,” I say.
“Sally,” he says. “All right, let’s get to it.”
I take a very deep and troubled breath. “I need … a search mission. Up and down this river for a white female, midforties.”
His gray-blue eyes bore right into me. “A search or a recovery?”
“A training mission, remember? That’s what this is. An unannounced training mission.”
His gaze doesn’t flinch. “I might need a higher authority than you, Sally. I’m sure you understand.”
I say, “How does Parker Hoyt sound?”
Two more helicopters approach and land on the other side of the river. Randy lifts his voice. “Sounds pretty heavy.”
“Yeah, like lead.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and he says, “I’ll leave Mr. Hoyt alone for the moment.”
“That’s wise.”
A nod. “All right, just remember, back in Santiago … you warned me off that woman at the bar, at the Ritz-Carlton. You were pretty damn insistent, and I put up a fight, but later … the bitch turned out to be working for Cuban intelligence. Ruined the lives and careers of three other agents. But we’re now even.”
“Agreed,” I say. “We’re even.”
He takes the handheld radio, turns and mutters some orders I can’t make out. Then he turns back to me, replaces the radio, and says, “But I need to know. It’s always bothered me. How did you know she was working for the DGI?”
“Ask you a question first?”
“Sure,” he says. “Make it snappy.”
“How do you like working for the dark side, the clumsy side, Homeland Security?”
He doesn’t seem insulted and even smiles a bit. “Secret Service is part of Homeland Security,” he says. “We’re all part of the same team. The hours are better and so is the pay. You should think about coming over, you being a single mom.”
I say, “Not today. Not ever.”
“All right, you made that clear,” he says. “Santiago. Answer me now.”
I take three steps forward, gently touch his hard chin. “I didn’t know. Honest.”
“What?”
I say, “I had no idea she was with Cuban intelligence, or Chilean intelligence, or Bulgarian intelligence for that matter. She was hot-looking and I was jealous, and I wanted you for myself … which happened later in Bogotá, if I recall. But I needed to separate you from her at the bar. You were practically glued to that curvy torso of hers.”
His eyes widen just a bit, either in humor or horror, I can’t tell, and his hand reaches out and skips my face, touches the scarf. “You … how’s your Amelia?”
“Right now my Amelia is an eleven-year-old girl who’s home alone for the first time, that’s how she’s doing. If I’m lucky when I get home tonight, at least my bedroom and the bathroom will be in survivable shape.”
“You okay with her alone?”
“I’ll manage,” I say. “She knows to keep everything buttoned up, not to answer the door, and to call nine-one-one and me at the same time if something scares her.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Sorry about your divorce from Ben.”
“Don’t be,” I say, and then, “Come on, Homeland Security, get to work. You know what they say about the Secret Service: you can either play ball with us, or we’ll shove a baseball bat up your ass.”
A crisp nod follows; he steps back and grabs his waist radio one more time, and says, “You and me. No one else knows, or ever will know. This is officially an unannounced Homeland Security training drill. But, Sally … who are you really looking for?”
“A bird,” I say.
“A bird?”
“Yeah,” I say. “A goddamn canary.”
He opens his mouth and starts asking more questions, but luckily for me, four black Humvees from Homeland Security growl their way in, their combined noise drowning out whatever my old friend is trying to say.
And it’s about the only luck I get that day, or the next.
CHAPTER 25
THE AFTERNOON MEET-AND-GREET with his top campaign staff is due to be over in five minutes, but Harrison Tucker is done. He stands up and says to his half-dozen top officials, “Very good, that’ll do for now. Thanks for coming in and … my deepest apologies again for putting all of you in this very awkward position.”
The head of the delegation, a heavyset man in a brown suit who’s the senior senator from Ohio, takes the lead and says, “We won’t let you down, Mr. President. The margin might be tighter, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna let that nutcase from California get in here next January.”
The delegation smiles and murmurs as Harrison, assisted by one of his aides, ushers them out of the Oval Office, but the oldest person in the group, the former majority leader from the Ohio Statehouse, lingers behind.
“Mr. President,” Miriam Tanner says. “Please … just a word.”
He hesitates, but he owes a lot to Miriam, and with a hand he gestures his aide to leave, so it’s just the two of them, standing by the open door. Miriam is eighty-one years old, face worn and wrinkled, wearing a simple floral dress—probably from Walmart or Target, he thinks—but she’s been in the business for more than six decades, and her instinct for politics is one of the best he’s ever known.
Miriam says in a low but strong voice, “What the hell do you think you were doing, stepping out like that?”
The tone of her voice nearly knocks him back. “Miriam, I—”
“Shit, Harry, if you wanted to get laid, there are plenty of high-priced, security-cleared young ladies in this town who’ll take care of you, quietly and discreetly,” she says sharply. “What were you thinking? Damn it, son, you’ve had a grand first term, with promises of an even better second term, and you threw it all away for a bit of tail?”
“Miriam … it wasn’t … isn’t like that.”
“Then there’s Grace,” Miriam says, pursing her lips in displeasure. “She may be an ice queen, a stubborn bitch, and come from a family that thinks they crap pearls, here and back home, but by God, she has her heart in the right place. She’s helped thousands of poor kids as this country’s First Lady, and what’s her reward? Being nationally humiliated. What the hell did you see in that chubby lobbyist?”
Desperate to get her out of the Oval Office, Harrison says, “Miriam, please … I’m in love with her.”
His old political ally shakes her head. “Harry, you should know this by now. Presidents can’t be human. They can’t get drunk, or cry, and they certainly can’t fall in love.”
With one more disgusted shake of her head, she’s gone.
The on-duty Secret Service agent tugs the door shut, and the President of the United States walks back into the empty Oval Office, having succeeded in at least gaining a few minutes to himself. That is a treasure, to have those precious seconds, for his day is always planned down to the exact minute.
But … still no news from Parker.
He goes to his desk phone, picks it up to connect with the lead operator at the White House switchboard, and simply says, “Please get me Tammy Doyle.”