“Is that true?” the President asks.
“True enough,” I say.
“How did you detect the waiter?”
I give a slight shrug. “This particular restaurant is so exclusive it doesn’t even have a website. But I saw the waiter’s fingernails had dirt under them. He didn’t fit.”
CANAL grins. “I bet the Iranian ambassador was one happy man.”
“Truth be told, sir,” I reply, “he did his best to push me off as quick as possible once the gunfire stopped. He didn’t want to be touched by a strange woman.”
Hoyt says, “You see, Mr. President, Agent Grissom is not only brave and resourceful, but also knows how to keep a secret. Which is why you’re here, Agent Grissom. We need your skills, and your ability to keep a secret.”
“What secret, sir?” I say to the President.
He grimaces and says, “The First Lady … appears to be missing.”
I look at them, wondering if this is some sort of elaborate hoax or joke, maybe something to mark my birthday or hiring anniversary, but there’s no humor on their faces.
I manage to speak. “Sir … she’s at a horse farm, in Campton, Virginia. With her detail.”
Parker speaks up. “We know that’s where she’s been.” He glances to the President and says, “But for the past hour, we … the President has been unable to contact her. She won’t pick up her cell phone, and her security detail … they say they can’t locate her.”
A chunk of ice seems to be working its way right up my throat. “That’s impossible. They … I should have been contacted if something like that had occurred.” I start to get up and say, “Mr. President, Mr. Hoyt, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Sally, please,” the President says, voice all dark and somber. “Sit down. Just for a moment.”
I’m still standing up. I don’t belong here. I need to run back downstairs to W-17, start contacting CANARY’s detail, find out—
Parker says, “We need to keep this quiet. For now.”
“What?”
He goes on. “This is a … delicate time. And the First Lady … she’s not well.”
I start moving away from the couch, and the President says, in a sharp tone I’ve never heard before, “Agent Grissom, sit down! Give us another minute. Please.”
I slowly sit on the couch, my back stiff, not allowing myself to lean back against the cushions. “Mr. President, with all due respect, this can’t be right. If something has happened to Mrs. Tucker, I’d be the first to know. Her detail would have put out the call … we would have instantly responded.”
Parker leans forward, his hands clasped together. “An hour ago the President tried to contact the First Lady, prior to Air Force One’s landing. He was unable to do so. The communications officer aboard Air Force One was able to reach her detail with the assistance of Agent Jackson Thiel. That’s when we learned about her … situation.”
Another flash of memory, of grammar school, wondering why the boys out on the soccer field won’t let me play, why I am being shut out, ignored. “I … the office here should have been instantly informed.”
The President says, “I told them not to.”
The ice that’s clogging my throat has spread to my stomach, and my hands and feet are cold as well.
Scenarios back at the sixteen-week Secret Service training?
Oh, yeah, this one has never come up.
“Mr. President … this can’t be true. You can’t … I mean …”
Parker leans forward even more. “Again, this is a delicate situation. We’re a month away from the election. The American people need to go to the voting booth with one thing in their mind, and one thing only: which elected official will do right by this country. Not the distraction of an ill First Lady, a missing woman. It wouldn’t be fair to her or the nation to make this public.”
I say, “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Hoyt?”
Mr. Hoyt doesn’t reply, but our mutual boss does.
The President stares right at me. “We want you to find the First Lady.”
CHAPTER 11
I SAY STRAIGHTAWAY and without hesitation, “Impossible. If she’s missing, you need to contact the FBI, Homeland Security, DC Metro Police, the Virginia State Police, and I’d even bring in—”
The President holds up a hand. “That’s exactly what we don’t want. The news coverage, the various agencies jockeying for position and headlines, a massive search and hunt … that won’t be helpful. That’s why we want you, and a few agents you can trust, to find her.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” I say, taking in all of the history that has occurred here in this Oval Office, wondering what twist of fate has put me right in the center of probably the biggest story to come out of here in fifty years, “I can’t do that. We’re a protective agency. Not investigative.”
Parker says, “Bullshit. You are an investigative agency. You have access to intelligence information from Homeland Security. You go out in the field and investigate threats made against the President. You work with law enforcement agencies from cops in one-streetlight towns all the way up to New York City.”
I feel like slapping that smug face, hard. “As part of our protective duties, Mr. Hoyt. Not to find a missing person.”
He says, “A person isn’t missing. The First Lady of the United States is missing.”
“But—”
The President says, “Agent Grissom, I’m ordering you to locate the First Lady, and do it quietly, confidentially, and quickly. Otherwise, in all of the news stories that come out if we do anything else, and eventually locate the First Lady, there will be other stories as well. Those tales will also focus on how you and your highly skilled and highly trained agents … lost my wife. Do you want to go up to Capitol Hill and try to explain to a special congressional committee how that happened? On your watch? Do you?”
I say, “I’d rather do that than … what you’re asking me.”
Parker settles back on the couch. “How’s Amelia?”
I’m stunned again, for the second time in less than ten minutes. “My daughter? She’s … fine. Why are you asking?”
He grins, showing very firm and sharp teeth. “Divorce is always hard on kids. No matter how much work a single mom does, no matter the therapy sessions and counseling, there will always be scars, will always be permanent damage. The best a mom like you can do is to mitigate the damage.”
It’s like there are only two people in this famed room, him and me. “I don’t see what you’re driving at … Mr. Hoyt.”
His smile gets a bit wider. “Your husband … Ben, isn’t it? Works for the Interior Department, has a little problem with the bottle, and with college interns … I can see why you’re in the midst of divorcing him. His lawyer is Albert Greer, am I right?”
I now know where this is going, and I feel trapped, like I’m in the back of a Diamond cab in a sleet storm, the driver having lost control, and we’re spinning out as we slide into oncoming traffic in Dupont Circle.