Troubled by the accident in Atlanta, the special agent in charge of the Secret Service contingent was extremely unhappy about being overruled by the president. Agent Tim Oberlander, like many other special agents who served in the White House, had warm feelings for the man they were responsible for protecting twenty-four hours a day. The agents were bound by an oath to ensure the safety of the president, and it made their job more difficult when the chief executive did not cooperate with them.
Although the sun had set a few minutes earlier, a reddish orange hue hugged the horizon and provided ample light for some nutcase to train his sights on the president. Uncomfortable about the situation, Agent Oberlander took up his position and carefully viewed the area overlooking the portico.
Along with his fellow agents, he couldn’t wait to get his charge inside the mansion and tucked in for the night. Once POTUS — the president of the United States — was put away in the family quarters, the men and women of the detail could take off their shoes and relax, even share a few laughs over a beer and a pizza.
Prost glanced at the Marines guarding the White House, then noticed that Macklin’s jaw muscles were grinding back and forth. The president forced a smile as he took in the lights beginning to twinkle in the nation’s Capitol.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Fraiser Wyman,” Prost said mechanically. “His sudden wealth came from a trust fund his grandfather set up years ago. Apparently the old man knew his grandson fairly well. Fraiser couldn’t collect the money until his forty-fifth birthday, which was two months ago yesterday.”
“I’ll be damned,” the president said with obvious relief. “What’s the flip side — who’s in bed with the Iranians?”
“I don’t know,” Prost groused. “We’ll just have to keep digging. Sandra Hatcher and I will stay on it.”
Macklin quietly nodded.
“New subject?” Prost asked.
“Sure.”
“Sir, after this incident in Atlanta, it’s time to take some extraordinary measures to ensure the safety of you and the first lady.”
“Hartwell,” the president declared impatiently, “I have the Marine Corps guarding me, I ride around in an armored car, and we’ve closed part of Pennsylvania Avenue to public traffic. My home is a fortress with reinforced walls, electronic sensors along the fence, metal detectors that screen all visitors, bomb-sniffing dogs running around, over a million and a half dollars’ worth of armored glass, and round-the-clock security. Oh, I almost forgot — I have a bombproof subbasement, too.”
“Sir, I know you don’t like the idea of limiting the public’s access to the White House, and to yourself, but you know it’s absolutely necessary.”
Prost’s impassioned words evoked a strong response from Macklin.
“Christ,” the president snorted in protest. “We have snipers and antiaircraft batteries mounted on the roof. What’s next — gunships circling the White House?”
“That’s exactly what I recommend.”
Macklin gave Prost a questioning look. “You can’t be serious.”
“Until we have Farkas and the other nuts in custody,” Prost said slowly and clearly, “I strongly suggest that armed aircraft — or helicopter gunships — accompany you wherever you go.”
“Why not put me in Leavenworth?”
“That’s an option,” Prost said firmly, then cracked a smile. “Raven Rock would be my choice.”
The president was stubbornly persistent. “The people feel more and more estranged from their government. I’m trying to make government smaller — make myself more approachable. At a time like this — a national emergency — I can’t afford to distance myself from the public. It sends the wrong message.”
Prost lowered his voice so the agents could not hear him.
“Mr. President, I’m asking you to do this as a personal favor to me.”
Macklin cringed at the thought of hiding from cowards. “Hartwell, I’m the leader of the country. I can’t lead from the back lines.”
“Allow the military,” Prost said with a steely-calm voice, “to provide air cover until we have the terrorists behind bars, or in the morgue.”
The president leaned his head back and pointed skyward. “There are fighter planes orbiting overhead as we speak, twenty-four hours a day.”
The sensitive discussion came to an abrupt halt while the two men stared each other down.
“Okay, dammit,” the president said with open irritation. “But I don’t want fighter planes to be seen anywhere near Air Force One when we’re taking off or landing.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Let’s keep it low-key and quiet.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
42
Recovering from the shock of the tragic events in Atlanta, Scott and Jackie were having dinner at the Pier 66 Resort and Marina. Having exchanged their Key West “costumes” for more traditional garb, they were deeply enmeshed in the details of the crash landing when an attractive young lady approached their table.
“Are you the Dalton party?” the sultry brunette asked Scott.
“That’s us,” Jackie cheerfully chimed in. “What can we do for you?”
“You have a couple of urgent messages,” the woman said coldly as she handed Jackie two slips of paper.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the flirtatious woman said as she smiled at Scott and sashayed out of the restaurant.
“This one’s from the photographer,” Jackie said as she flipped her cell phone open and punched in the number.
“I hope he has something,” Scott commented as he looked at the other message. The Bell LongRanger had been delayed by unexpected maintenance, but it was due to arrive in Fort Lauderdale by seven P.M. Dalton slid the note to Jackie, then polished off the last bite of his dessert.
She quickly finished her conversation with the certified aerial photographer and snapped the phone closed.
“We were duped,” she admitted with a pained look. “We flew right over Bon Vivant, but the name had been painted out.”
“You have to be kidding,” Scott said in a quiet, hollow voice. “How could he tell it was the Bon Vivant?”
“He placed the negatives under a microscope and there was a telltale pattern of letters underneath what he figures was a light coat of paint. He said that another layer of paint would have completely concealed the name.”
Scott slowly shook his head. “Does he suspect anything?”
“I doubt it.” Jackie smiled serenely. “I told him it was a divorce issue, my husband was trying to hide assets from me.”
“What a gal.” Scott chuckled softly, then turned serious. “We have to get copies of the photos to Hartwell. They need to be distributed to the military and Coast Guard as quickly as possible.”
“Relax,” Jackie said soothingly. “In about an hour he’s going to bring me three prints of each picture of Bon Vivant.”
“Good,” Scott said with obvious pleasure. “Hartwell can make arrangements for a military plane to fly them to Washington tonight.”
Jackie sipped her iced tea. “After we get the photos headed in the direction of Washington, let’s go check out the helo.”
Scott leaned back in his chair and raised his napkin. “That sounds good to me.”
“We also need to reserve our survival gear,” she commented. “Then we’ll be ready to go at first light.”
“Yeah, we want at least a four-man life raft and two life vests.” Scott struggled to conceal the frustration he was feeling. “This deal about Farkas having an A-4 really bothers me.”
“It’s a nightmare.”
“What do you think he plans to do with it?”
Jackie paused a moment. “I don’t know, but you can hang a lot of ordnance on it — enough to flatten the White House.”