“Sign out a sterile Suburban. You and I are going for a ride.”
He picks up a phone. “You got it. Where are we going?”
I grab my work bag, black wool overcoat, and bright-red scarf, and say, “Disaster … or in this case, a horse farm in Virginia. Come along.”
A fully loaded and fully undercover black Chevy Suburban from Secret Service headquarters on H Street is delivered to the White House, and I let Scotty take the driver’s seat as we slowly move around the long, curving driveway of the south side of the White House. He punches in the address of the Virginia horse farm to the Suburban’s GPS, and after I buckle up, he says, “What’s up? Unannounced inspection tour of the First Lady’s detail?”
I settle in, my bag on the floor between my feet. “You could say that.”
We’re waved out of the security gatehouse and are on 15th Street, Northwest, heading south to Constitution Avenue, past the Treasury Library and other faux-Roman-looking government structures along the four-lane road. It’s a crisp autumn day but the sidewalks are packed with people, either tourists looking agape at all the historical buildings or locals—the lobbyists, bureaucrats, and a few elected officials—talking on their cell phones, moving rapidly through the meandering crowds, all believing that they, and only they, are the vital ones in government.
And scattered among that smaller group is an even smaller handful, my fellow agents, dressed to blend in, acting like tourists or bureaucrats, save for one thing: their ever-moving eyes, the eyes of a hunter, looking for those who would harm the Man.
“Boss?”
“Yeah, Scotty,” I say, breaking my eyes away from the crowded sidewalks. We are now past the buildings, and to my right is the greenery of the Ellipse (I brought Amelia here last December for the lighting of the National Christmas Tree, dressed for the cold, me holding her shoulders, mine wrapped in my early Christmas gift from her), and before us, the Washington Monument is now coming into view.
“What’s really going on?” he says. “This isn’t an inspection tour, is it? I can tell. You’re too tensed up.”
The government types out there like to talk about turf battles, but Scotty’s been in the real-deal turf battles, fought with M4s and AK-47s, car bombs and air strikes. He’s lived this long with all of his body parts intact because of his strength, smarts, and especially because of his ability to sniff out things that don’t make sense.
“No, it isn’t,” I say.
“What’s up, then?”
Traffic slows down and I grab hold of my seat belt, tighten my grip, and say, “The First Lady can’t be located.”
Scotty, bless him, is a pro. “Status board says she’s at that horse farm, in Campton. And her detail hasn’t reported anything wrong.”
“That’s because they’ve been ordered to keep their mouths shut.”
“By who?”
“The First Lady’s husband, that’s who,” I say. “And he and his chief of staff have ordered me to go find her … and do it quietly, and quickly, without waves or headlines.”
“But …”
“There’s a scandal on the TV right now, Scotty, a month before the election. News breaking about a missing First Lady … it’d sink the Man in a heartbeat. There’s too much at stake here. This White House isn’t going to let that happen … and let that California nutjob become the next President. You hear what that governor said about the Chinese buildup in the Pacific? That we shouldn’t worry about their bases because climate change will eventually sink all of their islands, and we should be able to cut the DoD budget by half because of that.”
We slow down in the thick traffic as we get closer to Constitution Avenue.
“Well, shit,” Scotty says.
“That’s right.”
I think for a moment, and say with a bit of reflection, “You know why I joined the Secret Service?”
“Not for the pay or benefits.”
I manage a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that I grew up here … and then I was in law enforcement, protecting a chunk of turf. But I wanted to guard something bigger. The dreams and hopes that first built these pretty buildings here. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But I got to go to work every day knowing I was protecting something bigger than myself.”
I wait, trying to figure out why this is all coming out now. “And today, I was just reminded that for some, I’m still nothing more than just a cop, cleaning crap up.”
Traffic gets heavier and time is dragging on, and I cross my