Mom worked at the Department of Education, while Dad worked for the Capitol Police, and they’re both now in Florida, enjoying sunshine, practicing Tai Chi, and fighting with each other. I have two sisters, one who works for the Government Accountability Office (GAO), and the other for the NSA, and let me tell you, family functions are lots of laughs, with one sister going on and on about budgets and spreadsheets and the other not able to say anything about what she does.
On my crowded desk are two framed photographs: one of Amelia, with her sweet smile and long blond hair—unlike the frizzy brown mop I wrestle with each morning—and another of the both of us, grinning with red, sweaty faces as we finished last year’s Marine Corps 10K, both of us wearing Secret Service T-shirts: “You elect ’em, we’ll guard ’em.”
There’s also an empty space that once held a photo of my soon-to-be—God willing—ex-husband, Ben, one of the faceless, nameless bureaucrats in the Department of the Interior who helps keep our national parks and other treasures running.
That photo’s been gone for almost a year, and since he and his rat bastard—excuse me, overzealous—attorney have come to their senses, our divorce should be final in less than two weeks.
My desk is small, crowded, and located just where I like it. I have another office across the street in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where I host the occasional dignitary and, more rarely, fire an agent who’s screwed up, but I don’t like being in the big office with all the nice furniture and bookcases and couches and coffee tables. I like it here, right up close with the Man and my people, who spend every waking second of their lives preparing to die to protect him and his poor, put-upon wife.
Then again, I’ll probably use that big office later to debrief Jackson Thiel after his shift ends today and find out how long this affair has been going on—and why he hadn’t told me. Definitely not good, but something for later. I grab a file folder from a thick pile and again wish I spent half the time wasted on paperwork out in a gym or on the range keeping my weapon qualifications current. The phone rings.
“Agent Grissom,” I answer, which surprises some of my coworkers. According to protocol, I should answer the phone, “Special Agent in Charge Grissom, Presidential Protective Division,” which is too much of a mouthful. Suppose someone is in the East Room tossing off a smuggled hand grenade in the time it takes me to announce myself?
But there are surprises, and then there’s this one: on the line is Mrs. Laura Young, the President’s secretary. I can’t recall the last time she phoned me.
“Agent Grissom,” she says, “the President would like to see you, right away.”
“Ah …”
Then one of my agents makes a handwritten notation on the backup status board, reflecting the electronic board. One of the changes I had implemented months ago, in case the power went out. “CANAL is in the Oval Office.”
I say, “I’ll be there,” and I hang up the phone.
I don’t like it.
Scotty sees me and says, “Everything all right, boss?”
I stand up and start walking.
Unless there’s a major emergency or crisis, the President never calls the head of the Presidential Protective Division like this.
Never.
“Boss?” Scotty asks again.
I keep on walking to the office door.
Fast.
CHAPTER 10
ABOUT THE ONLY entertainment source that has gotten the White House right in my opinion is The West Wing. Oh, not because of the crackling dialogue or the staff members arguing while walking backward or a President depicted as one who relaxes in the afternoon by strolling alongside the Reflecting Pool, but because The West Wing showed just how crowded and busy the place is.
There’s always lots of people scurrying around, everyone save a special few wearing an access pass around their neck, color-coded to keep the serfs (excuse me, the workers and volunteers) isolated from the West Wing. I nod to those staff members I know fairly well, and one of my agents, Carla Luiz, opens the door to the Oval Office.
Little-known secret: the doors to the Oval Office have special doorknobs, meaning that if some crazed tourist from Idaho breaks free from a tour and manages to race his way here, he’ll waste precious seconds trying to figure out how to open the door before he gets Tasered to his knees.
The office door closes behind me and there’s the President, standing up from one of the two couches. Sitting next to him is his chief of staff, Parker Hoyt. They’re both well dressed and groomed, of course, but they look like cousins who’ve just learned their family farm is under six feet of floodwater, with a swarm of locusts due in once the waters recede.
“Mr. President,” I say, and then, “Mr. Hoyt.”
“Sally,” the President says, gesturing to the couch opposite him, past a low-slung coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”
I glance around and see we’re alone.
I instantly don’t like it. Usually there’s an aide or three hovering in the background, to fulfill any request from getting a cup of coffee to getting the president of France on the phone, but no, we’re alone. The famed desk of the President is to my left as I sit down, flanked by the American flag and his own standard. Thick bulletproof windows look out on the Rose Garden, and I see the back of another agent out there, keeping watch.
I flash back to my sixteen weeks of training at the Secret Service’s James J. Rowley Training Center over in Laurel, Maryland, where my class and I were put through hours of different scenarios involving gunshots and explosions and violent assaults, but I don’t think any of these scenarios are going to prepare me for what’s going to happen next.
The President says, “Agent Grissom … er, Sally, we have a situation.”
“Sir,” I reply, content to let him tell me what’s going on without lots of questions.
The President looks to Parker, as if for reassurance, then takes a deep breath and says, “We need your assistance.”
“Of course,” I say, and I wait, wondering what the hell is going on.
Hoyt gives me a self-satisfied look of knowing something he shouldn’t know and says, “Impressive record you have there, Agent Grissom.”
I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t. I just nod.
He says, “Especially the incident four years ago involving the Iranian ambassador. Why don’t you tell the President about that event?”
Hoo-boy, I think. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m restricted in responding to your request due to its classified nature.”
Hoyt says, “I’m sure the President has the ability to waive any restrictions you might be under.”
CANAL says, “By all means, Agent Grissom. Do tell me.”
I could make a stand, but what would it gain me? “Sir, at the time I was tasked to provide diplomatic security for a very unofficial summit meeting in Maryland with the Iranian ambassador to the United Nations, the Israeli ambassador to the United States, and the secretary of state. An attempt was made on the Iranian ambassador’s life. It was successfully thwarted.”
The President says, “How come I’ve never heard about this?”
“It happened during your predecessor’s term in office,” Hoyt explains. “But Agent Grissom is downplaying her role in the event. The summit was held in the private room of an exclusive restaurant in Chevy Chase. A man pretending to be a waiter had gained access. Agent Grissom detected his presence, attempted to disarm him, a gun battle broke out, and Agent Grissom not only killed the would-be assassin but also covered the Iranian ambassador’s body with her own.”