guilty pleasures in life. Still, with gas prices and the general state of the economy where they were, he felt a pang of guilt every time he turned the ignition key on the damned thing. He was no tree hugger, that much was certain, but maybe it was time to think about scaling back. Damn, his annoyingly eco-aware little sister was rubbing off on him. He’d heard Cadillac was making a pretty decent Escalade Hybrid. Might be worth a trip to the dealership.
He had a rare dinner with Mom and Dad scheduled for tonight. Sally would be there, too, probably full of ideas from her medical school. She had to think about picking her specialty, and for that she’d be bending Mom’s ear. And Katie would be as charming as ever, doting as she did on her big brother, which could be a pain in the ass, but SANDBOX wasn’t all that bad for a little sister. Family night, steak and spinach salad, baked potato, and corn on the cob, because that was his father’s favorite supper. Maybe a glass of wine now that he was old enough.
The life of a presidential son had its drawbacks, Jack had long ago learned. His protective detail was gone, thankfully, though he was never entirely sure that he didn’t have covert coverage on him. He’d asked Andrea about it and been told that he no longer had troops assigned, but who was to say that she was entirely truthful about it?
He parked on the street in front of his apartment, and went inside to change into slacks and a flannel shirt, then out again. Before long he was on I-97 for the ride down to Annapolis and thence to Peregrine Cliff.
His parents had built a sizable house before entering government service. The bad news was that everyone knew where it was. Cars would drive by the narrow country road and stop to stare at it, not knowing that every tag was recorded and computer checked by the Secret Service via a gaggle of concealed TV cameras. They might guess that a concealed structure within seventy yards of the main house held a minimum of six armed agents in case someone tried to pass through the gate and motor up the driveway. He knew his father found it oppressive. It was a major production even to go to the local Giant to get a loaf of bread and a quart of milk.
The prisoner in the gilded cage, Jack thought.
“SHORTSTOP, coming in,” he told the gatepost, and a camera would make sure of his identity before the gate opened. The Secret Service disliked his choice of car. The bright yellow of his Hummer was conspicuous, that much was certain.
He parked, got out, and walked to the door, beside which he found Andrea.
“Didn’t get a chance to talk to you afterward,” she said to him. “It was a hell of a thing you did, Jack. If you hadn’t caught it ...”
“Then you just would’ve had a longer shot, that’s all.”
“Maybe. Still, thanks.”
“You bet. We know anything about the guy? Heard a rumor he might be URC.”
Andrea considered this for a moment. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said with a smile and a distinct emphasis on confirm.
So the Emir tried to take out Dad, Jack thought. Un-fucking-believable. He quashed the impulse to return to his computer at The Campus. The Emir was out there, and sooner or later he’d run out of running room; sadly, though, Jack wouldn’t be there when it happened.
“Motive?”
“Shock value, we’re thinking. Your dad might be a ‘former,’ but he’s still damned popular. Plus, the logistics are more manageable—easier to kill a retired President than a sitting one.”
“Maybe easier, but sure as hell not easy. You proved that.”
“We proved that,” Andrea said with a smile. “You want an application?”
Jack smiled at this. “I’ll let you know how the trading business goes. Thanks, Andrea.” He pushed through the door. “Hey, I’m home!” he called.
“Hi, Jack,” Jack Junior’s mom said, emerging from the kitchen with a hug and a kiss. “You look pretty good.”
“So do you, Professor-of-surgery lady. Where’s Dad?”
She pointed to his right. “Library. He’s got company. Arnie.”
Jack headed over there, up the short steps and turning left into Dad’s workplace. Dad was sitting in his swivel chair, with Arnie van Damm sprawled in a club chair nearby. “What are you guys conspiring on or for?” he asked on his way into the room.
“Conspiracies don’t work,” his father said tiredly. There’d been