Back to Connie I say, “Care to change your mind?”
She folds her arms, says not a word. Pamela and Tanya appear, breathing hard, running from wherever they’ve been. Scotty doesn’t say anything, just illuminates the open plastic bag with the used bandages.
Pamela turns and says, “Who’s this?”
“The farm’s owner.”
Pamela’s on her, both strong hands on her robe, and she yells, “Is she in there? Is she in there, you old bat?”
Tanya pulls her off and the woman nearly falls, but she’s still there, not backing away, eyes filled with hate, staring at us. Scotty says, “I might be hearing things, boss, but I thought I heard a voice from inside.”
I step up to Mrs. Westbrook. “The key. Get the key to that door right now.”
She says, “Go to hell,” in a grandmotherly tone of voice, if one’s grandmother had once been a prison matron.
I turn. “Scotty. Get that door open. I don’t care what you do … get the damn thing open. And where the hell is Brian Zahn?”
Tanya says, “No idea.”
“Hold on, boss,” Scotty says, and he races to a near barn, smaller than the one I was exploring, and comes back in under a minute. There’s the sound of honking horns out by the parking area, with a few whoop-whoops of sirens, and the hum of power generators— I wish I had one right now, turning this predawn slice of Virginia farmland into noon—but there’s no time, and Scotty is back, carrying a sledgehammer at port arms, as if it were a Colt M4.
He goes right up to the door with no hesitation, and with one hard blow, the solid doorknob flies off. Scotty drops the sledgehammer, takes out his service weapon—as do the rest of us— and with pistols and flashlights in hand, we move forward.
Scotty elbows the door open, yells, “Freeze! Secret Service!”
And I’m right behind him, and the first thing I see is the anguished and scared face of a woman.
CHAPTER 58
IN THE LIVING quarters of the White House, on the second floor, Parker Hoyt nods to a male Secret Service agent standing guard outside the plain door. He knocks on the door twice, enters, and from years of practice, flips a switch on the inside wall that turns on just a few subdued lights in the master bedroom.
The room is lit up, and the President of the United States is curled on his left side, sleeping, wearing light-blue cotton pajamas. Parker feels a flash of jealousy that Harrison could be sleeping with all that’s been going on. Parker’s been limited to catching naps on an old Army-style cot in a storage closet adjacent to his large office.
“Mr. President? Sir?”
The President snaps wide awake, looks to Parker, and says, “Any news?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid she’s still missing.”
The room is well-furnished, with old oil paintings and some landscapes of Lake Erie, but Parker and scores of other people in the White House know it’s been a very long time since the First Lady shared this bed with this man.
Parker has an envelope in one hand, and with a free hand he pulls over a chair, sitting next to the President.
He rubs at his eyes, says, “Good God, Parker, it’s not even five in the morning.”
“I know, sir, and I hate to disturb you, but we need to make a decision.”
Harrison runs a hand over his head. “What decision is that?”
“This one,” he says, removing a single sheet of paper from the envelope. “It’s a presidential directive from you, ordering the Treasury Department to transfer one hundred million dollars from its Judgment Fund to that bank account in Caracas.”
Parker glances at his watch. “I’ve spent all night preparing for this transfer, and we have just over an hour to make it happen.”
Harrison takes the single sheet of paper, and then a pen that Parker offers. “What the hell is the Treasury Department’s Judgment Fund?”
He says, “It’s the fund the Treasury Department maintains to pay out lawsuits or settlements. Also, truth be told … it’s your emergency slush fund. That’s how, when the Iranian deal got settled a few years back, we were able to deliver pallets full of hundred-dollar bills to the mullahs the next day.”
The President reads the sheet, nods, and then looks to his chief of staff.
“When can I see the draft of the speech?”
Here we go, Parker thinks. Aloud, he says, “What speech is that, sir?”
Harrison says frostily, “It’s too early in the morning to jerk me around, Parker. You know what speech. The one where I go on live television and apologize for the way I’ve mistreated Grace.” He twists in his bed and looks at the nearby clock. “It looks like I need to be delivering that in just about thirteen hours.”
Parker says, “Mr. President, there isn’t going to be any speech.”
His eyebrows lift up. “The kidnappers … they’ve adjusted their demands?”
“No, sir,” Parker says, “we’re not going to meet their demand.”
“The hell we’re not.”
“Sir, I—”
“I better have a draft of that speech by midmorning, or I will personally—personally!—call the heads of all three networks and the cable news channels, requesting airtime for six p.m. later today. And then I’ll make the remarks by myself.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, sir.”
“Parker—”
“Sir, please hear me out.”
The fingers clenching the pen seem as tight as a lock, and Parker is sure the President is fantasizing about shoving that pen down Parker’s throat.
“Sir,” he goes on, “if you were to make that speech, what does it gain the country?”
“What does it … hell, Parker, it gets the First Lady free!”
“Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn’t,” Parker says. “But hear what I said. ‘What does it gain the country?’ For you, personally, it means your wife is freed. For the First Lady, she’s free, and her friends, family, and followers will be thrilled. And with all the news coverage, and investigative reports, and everything else, in four weeks, you will be smiling on national television, congratulating the governor of California on his success. And less than three months later, that bumbling boob will be sworn in.”
The President keeps quiet. Parker says, “But let’s say we pay the ransom. That gains us another twelve hours. Perhaps she’s found. Perhaps she’s freed. The news will be of her successful return … without the added burden of you apologizing to more than three hundred million of your fellow citizens that you couldn’t keep your presidential dick in your pants.”
“You …” and the President can’t say anything more.
Parker says, “If we’re fortunate, she might be dumped on a street corner somewhere, and we can keep the news quiet until after the election.”
“The press will crucify us if we try that.”
“They might,” Parker says. “And we’ll just say … after you’ve been successfully reelected … that we didn’t want to toss anything into the last few weeks of election coverage that might impact the election. The people will eventually respect that. So what if the press doesn’t?”