The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,42
the usual congressional knuckleheads are going to demand a special prosecutor to find out what laws were broken while CANAL was stepping out on his wife. Then the Secret Service and Homeland Security are going to decide whether to defend you rogue agents, or toss you all under the nearest Metro bus. When that happens, you’re going to be on your own, Agent Thiel. In other words, if some agents who’d take a bullet for CANAL have their lives and careers destroyed, so be it.”
Jackson makes to speak, and I roll right over him, no patience at all. “Your work in sidestepping proper procedures and enabling the President to bed his mistress was completely rogue and unauthorized. You work for me, and the moment I found out was yesterday morning. Do you think I’m going to let that slide? Or that the director will?”
“But I—”
My rolling over him continues, and maybe I’m not being fair, but I don’t care. “You know your history. You know what happened to the agents caught up in the Clinton-Lewinsky mess? They had to hire private lawyers. They lost their homes, their savings, their college funds. And their careers crumbled like dust. You know a good lawyer, then?”
I gather my notepad and bag, stand up, and Jackson’s face softens. “Eight months ago.”
I sit down. “Where and how?”
“It was a post-fund-raising get-together in Denver,” Jackson says, voice quiet. “Miss Doyle was part of the group. There were about two dozen there, a meet-and-greet, photo taken with CANAL, that sort of thing.”
“Go on.”
“Then CANAL asked if we could delay getting back to the hotel for a while,” Jackson says. “He and Miss Doyle went into a private room off the banquet hall for about a half hour.”
“Was this the first time they ever met?”
“To my knowledge, yes.”
“Did she entice him in any way?”
“Entice?”
I lose my patience again. “Crap, Jack, you know what I mean. Did she have a low-cut dress on and drop some cottage cheese down her cleavage in front of the President? Did she laugh a lot and touch his shoulder, touch his hair? Did she turn and flip up the back of her dress to show him she was wearing a thong? Anything like that?”
Jackson shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Miss Doyle … she’s a class act.”
That’s a comment too far. “Excuse me for being rude, but she’s banging a married man, and not just any married man.”
Jackson is stubborn. “She … makes him happy. That’s all I know. And a happy President … well, it’s a good thing.”
“Was she a stalker? Hanging around the Man’s campaign events? Trying to sneak into Camp David? Send him books of love poetry?”
“Not at all. Like I said, she’s a class act. A fine woman.”
I bite my tongue and say, “How often did they get together?”
“Two, three times a month.”
I can’t believe it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jackson shakes his head. “Nope.”
“How in the hell did … how did you think you were going to get away with it? How did you think he was going to get away with it?”
He says, “You know how it is. CANAL goes to a campaign event, or some political meeting, and at some point the press secretary, he says, the lid’s on, no more news for the night, the President’s gone to bed. And the hotels he stays at … secure, staff discreet, we rent the floor the President’s on and the floor above and the floor below. After-hours … easy enough to go out a back entrance, or a service area, or any other place for a … meeting.”
“So you helped arrange these … meetings.”
“We did.”
“Not really in your job description, is it?”
He shrugs. “Just following orders.”
I say, “This Tammy Doyle … you think she has violence in her heart? Wants to hurt the President? Or the First Lady?”
“Absolutely not.”
I wait for a moment. “Anything else?”
He waits for a moment as well. “I’m hearing … rumors. About the First Lady. That she might be … well, someplace where she can’t be reached.”
I get up. “That’s all, Jack.”
“You asked about Tammy Doyle and the First Lady. There’s something going on, isn’t there?”
“Jack, your career has already been bombed into destruction. What, you have an appetite to make the rubble bounce?”
He stares up at me. “But if you’re doing something about the First Lady being … unavailable … it’s not our job. It’s the FBI, DC police, whole lots of other agencies.”
I say, “You know the drill. Just