"I prefer the term 'realist' when it comes to politicians," he said, pulling her closer as they walked.
Ahead of them the newly constructed C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics stood separated from the main campus by the four lanes of Route 460. Nestled into the side of Liberty Mountain, underneath the university's gigantic hillside logo, the building was an impressive sight. The Barton Center, as it would likely be nicknamed by the students and faculty, was as ambitious an architectural project as the university had attempted to date. Not known for shying away from a challenge, the university had designed the building to look like a larger scale version of a retreat once owned by Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States.
Octagonal in shape, the Barton Center was three stories high, with two floor-to-ceiling windows on each level of the eight sides. Like Jefferson's former plantation, Poplar Forest, the building was capped at both the front and rear entrances by a white gabled portico supported by four marble columns. A one story rectangular hall jutted off the east side in the same position as the servant's quarters at the original property. At the base of a set of steps extending from the front portico, a circular hedge surrounded a mock carriage court paved with cobblestones. Wrought iron benches were positioned every ten feet in a wide circle. In the center of the court stood an imposing bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson, holding a feather pen and a copy of the Declaration of Independence. He looked down on everyone who approached the building, his soft but knowledgeable gaze conveying the seriousness of the task he had undertaken two hundred and thirty six years earlier.
Walking through the carriage court to the base of the steps, Declan and Constance entered a tent that had been set up as a covered valet. Several limousines were unloading their tuxedo-clad occupants, who strode into the entrance as if they were late for an important meeting.
"See what I mean?" Declan asked wryly as they approached the security team at the front door and one such tuxedo-clad man strode past the security without a second look.
"Name, please?" a guard seated at a gray card table announced.
"Declan and Constance Mc—"
"I said name, not names. Unless she's mute, she can speak for herself in a moment."
"I see the manners haven't improved much over the years," Declan grumbled, before repeating his name loud and clear. "Declan McIver."
The guard made a tick mark with his pen and motioned towards two other guards standing at the base of the steps. "Remove your coat and stand with your arms and legs open wide, sir," one of the guards said as Declan approached.
Declan took off his coat, as instructed, and handed it to a guard who patted it down and searched through the pockets. Meanwhile, as he stood spread-eagled, the second guard ran a metal detector over his body. As he endured the security screening, he took note of his surroundings. Inside the tent, in addition to the guard checking the list of names and the two currently dealing with Declan, there were several young men in black raincoats guiding cars into and out of the tent, and holding doors for the occupants as they exited their vehicles and entered the building. A white Ford Crown Victoria sedan sat parked at an angle behind the card table with a full set of clear LED emergency lights on its roof and bright red lettering down the side of the vehicle reading security.
"Good to go, sir," the guard with the metal detector said as he moved onto Constance, who had successfully stated her name and was next in line. Declan stood waiting for his coat, but the guard handed it to a woman in a black raincoat instead. She wrote a number on a ticket and tore it in half, placing the first half on a hanger along with the coat.
"Don't lose my coat," Declan said to her, as she handed him the stub. "I like that coat."
The woman flashed him a quick smile then took Constance's coat from the guard as Declan was joined by his wife. "C'mon," she said. "Quit giving them a hard time."
"What?" he asked, as she took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. "I like my coat."
Ahead of them at the building's front entrance, two more guards stood on either side of a set of open oak doors. A short man in a tweed three piece suit stood next to them and he smiled and extended his hand as the McIvers approached.
"It's good to see you, Declan," he said, in a Semitic accent. "Sorry about all of that."
Gripping the man's hand, Declan said, "I guess I should've taken Abe up on that car," as he watched an older gentleman step out of the back of a Lincoln Town Car and stride past the security. "It's good to see you too, Levi. This is my wife, Constance."
"Hi," Constance said, smiling as Levi took her hand and kissed it.
"I'd say something in French," Levi said, "but my memory fails me at the moment."
Constance laughed shyly.
"Constance, this is Levi Levitt, Dr. Abaddon Kafni's chief of security."
"And personal assistant and errand boy and everything else these days," Levitt said with a laugh. "I sometimes think I'm getting too old for this stuff."
"I bet the traveling schedule is horrendous," said Constance.
"Oy, you have no idea. If it weren't for e-mail, I wouldn't even remember my mailing address. Now, if you both want to follow me, I'll walk you through the room to Dr. Kafni. He's quite excited that you've decided to attend."
Levitt turned and walked through the double doors past the guards. He was a small man in height but made up for it in a sturdiness that communicated the idea that he was not a man to fool with. Declan knew that somewhere beneath the professor-like tweed suit, bushy gray beard and thick rimmed glasses lay the instincts and training of a former Mossad agent, much like his employer, Dr. Kafni.
Declan's road to friendship with him had been rocky. Levitt had been injured during an attempt on Kafni's life by a group of vengeful gunmen and it had been Declan who intervened to save the lives of both Kafni and his family.
Aware of Declan's past in the IRA, Levitt had regarded him with more than a little suspicion. despite Kafni's assurances to the contrary and insistence that Declan was the perfect candidate for their fledgling security team. It had taken three years and another assassination attempt before Levitt had let down his guard and began to trust him. Seeing Levitt again tonight, Declan still heard a flicker of the old mistrust present in the man's voice. Taking Constance's hand, he moved slowly after Levitt into the crowded room beyond.
The first floor of the Barton Center had been completely emptied of whatever fixtures would be present when it went into use as part of the university's new graduate programs. Blue velvet security rope ran around the entire room and was held up at six foot intervals by bronze-colored stanchions. Behind the rope, on the eight surrounding walls, hung artwork featuring scenes from Thomas Jefferson's tenure as Minster of France and Secretary of State. At intervals across the dark mahogany floor were approximately twenty-five round dinner tables, each draped in dark blue cloth and with enough room to seat twelve guests.
The murmur in the room was deafening. Like a crescendo of mating grasshoppers, four and five person groups of politicians, aides, journalists, and those hoping to become such, clamored for attention. Right away, Declan recognized several of the guests from interviews on various news programs and mailers that had flooded his postal box during the last election. With the agonizing speed of a snail caught in molasses they moved between the tables towards a stage decorated with the flags of various nations. In the center was a stately podium bearing the university's seal, ready for the evening's speakers to begin.
"Osman and Nazari are making the rounds through the building. They'll be joining us later," Levitt said, referring to the other two bodyguards whom Declan had worked closely with during his time with Kafni.