Snuffing out one cigarette and lighting up another, Oleg tried to assess how the attacks might affect Luganov’s already-chilly relationship with the American president. Oleg, for all his jet-setting in recent years, had never been to Washington. He had never even set foot in the United States. Since he’d come to work for Luganov, others had handled the American portfolio. That had been fine with Oleg. He had far too much on his plate already, and relations with the Americans had always been considered something of a “holy grail” among Luganov’s team—alluring and intriguing, yet forbidding. The stakes were too high, and the margin for error was too thin.
What intrigued Oleg most as he watched the East Room ceremony was the figure of Special Agent Marcus Ryker. His injuries notwithstanding, he was strikingly good-looking, and at first Oleg wondered if he had Russian roots. He had intense, alert blue eyes, a firm jaw, and short blond hair. He wore a trim navy-blue suit, a white oxford shirt, and a solid burgundy tie. There was something rare in Ryker’s face, in his eyes—something honest, something earnest and trustworthy that appealed to Oleg.
The American president read a prepared statement explaining not only each agent’s bravery under fire but his background. Oleg was struck by the fact that he and Ryker had roughly similar stories. They had gotten married within a month of each other. They each had a son. They had each dedicated themselves to government service when they could have been successful in the private sector. They both worked quietly, in the background, out of the glare of the cameras, serving their national leaders with distinction and honor.
Then the phone rang. It was Luganov, and he needed Oleg immediately.
37
WASHINGTON, D.C.—20 OCTOBER 2013
“Agent Ryker, the president would like you to join him in the Oval Office.”
The young aide was so earnest and so pleasant, that Marcus—usually a stickler for protocol—asked if Elena and Lars could join him.
“Of course,” the aide said.
“Could our family and friends come too?”
At this, there was a brief hesitation, followed quickly by a warm smile and a nod. “The president wants to personally express his gratitude to you, away from the TV lights. I’m sure he would enjoy meeting the people closest to you as well.”
Soon they were all in the Oval, including Pastor Emerson and Maya, chatting and laughing with the president of the United States and getting their pictures taken with him. That’s when the president decided to make an announcement. As commander in chief, he was taking the liberty of the office to give Marcus a promotion. No longer would Marcus be assigned to the VP. Starting the following morning, he would be assigned to the PPD itself—the Presidential Protective Detail.
The small group burst out in cheers and applause. Marcus beamed. Lars was beside himself with excitement. Marcus’s Marine buddies were elated. They slapped him on the back and offered him hearty congratulations, and they personally thanked the president. Marcus’s mother hugged him. The Garcias seemed less excited. Elena was crestfallen, though she did her best not to show it. Later she would learn that Marcus had known about the promotion for several days but hadn’t said anything. He’d wanted it to be a surprise.
It certainly had been, but not a good one.
Elena had wanted her husband to use this moment to step down from the Secret Service. It was enough, already. Between this and his service in Afghanistan and Iraq, Marcus had cheated death one too many times. As a family, they desperately needed a break—not just a vacation but the opportunity to leave Washington altogether, the chance to move back west and restart their lives together. Elena wanted Marcus to talk to a headhunter, take a six-figure salary doing executive security for a big company, ideally in Colorado. She’d broached the idea a few times, but Marcus either hadn’t understood how important this was to her or didn’t care. This was what made his unwillingness—or outright refusal—to tell her about the promotion in advance such a bitter pill to swallow. Had he really been too busy to share such a huge development? Or was he just trying to avoid the blowback that was sure to follow if the conversation had happened in the bedroom of their apartment rather than the Oval Office?
That night Marcus took the whole group out to dinner at the Willard InterContinental.
It was a four-diamond hotel just around the corner from the White House, and it was a pricey evening. Mr. Garcia pulled Marcus aside at one point and insisted that he pick up the tab. Separately, Bill McDermott did the same. Marcus wouldn’t hear of it. They weren’t together often, he told them. He’d socked away a little money for a rainy day, and this was it. He wanted to treat them. And he had an announcement of his own.
As the dishes were being cleared ahead of dessert, Marcus stood, refilled his glass of champagne, and cleared his throat to get the group’s attention. It wasn’t easy to do. Everyone was chattering about the extraordinary day they’d had. Bill had been regaling them with stories from Marcus’s past that kept them all laughing. Pastor Emerson, a Vietnam vet, had shared about the first time he’d met a president, when Lyndon Johnson visited troops in Cam Ranh Bay. Lars, meanwhile, had been cracking everybody up doing impressions of the president that were frighteningly dead-on. Eventually everyone settled down.
“I’m not the public speaker of this group,” Marcus began to knowing smiles all around, “but I just want to say how grateful I am to each of you. Over the years, you’ve supported me—and heckled and embarrassed me, but mostly supported me. Some of you, especially my mom and Elena and the Emersons here, have prayed for me. For Lars, too. And each of you has been a tremendous encouragement to us over the years. God has been very kind to our little tribe. But for his grace, things could have turned out differently, many times. Yet for reasons only he knows, our Savior has brought me safely here tonight, here with each of you, and this dinner is my way of saying thank you.”
The group applauded warmly, but Marcus was not finished.
“I know words like ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m so grateful’ don’t really suffice,” he continued. “Nor does a fancy meal, even in a hotel as nice as this. Nor will what I’m about to propose, but I’m going to do it anyway. Because you all deserve it, and goodness knows we all need it.”
Everyone looked at each other, wondering if the others knew what in the world he was talking about. Only one of them did.
“I think it’s time for an extended reunion,” he said when the suspense had built to a crescendo. “This group of ours has been through a lot over the years. We’ve been running hard, and I say it’s high time we take a break and savor the many blessings the Lord has given us.”
The group was buzzing now. They all liked the sound of that. Marcus even noticed that Elena, who had not seemed herself all day, had suddenly brightened, at least with curiosity.
“What are you saying, Mr. Hero?” McDermott asked.
“Yeah,” Vinetti chimed in. “What exactly are you getting at?”
“Okay, here’s the thing—I’d like to take you all on a cruise,” Marcus said at last. “I’m talking about an all-expenses-paid bon voyage to the Caribbean or Alaska or the Mediterranean. I honestly don’t care where. You vote and pick a week that suits everyone best, and we’ll take care of the rest.”