The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,6
the President’s voice doesn’t change. “But all it takes is one slip, one misjudgment, one mistake. Then the wire starts to wobble. One foot and then the other slips. And off you go. All that progress … gone … as you fall to the ground.”
Jesus Christ, Parker thinks, let’s get our man back on track. “True, sir, but you forgot one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Another reassuring touch. “There’s a safety net at the bottom. To rescue the high-wire guy. So he can bounce back up and go right back to the high wire.”
The President says not a word.
Parker says, “Mr. President … I’m your safety net. And I’m going to save you. That I promise.”
The President’s eyes are moist; he nods and then pretends to take interest in the forested landscape passing below them.
Parker checks his watch again. After they land, he’ll start making the necessary phone calls, to cast a very wide net—safety or otherwise—to keep things under control.
Air Force One is a magnificent flying machine, with enough communications equipment to enable the President to command a war while forty-five thousand feet in the air, but in these troubled times, Parker doesn’t trust the integrity of these communications systems.
Plans are starting to come to mind, plans he will keep away from his friend and boss, and especially WikiLeaks and the Russian intelligence agencies.
He will do what has to be done no matter what, no matter the risks.
To protect the President.
And to hell with the First Lady and anyone else who gets in his way.
CHAPTER 6
GRACE FULLER TUCKER emerges from her office and stops, stunned, as her entire staff stands before her and starts applauding. Her face flushes with joy and embarrassment—joy at the support and love her children are showing her, and embarrassment because they had no doubt listened to her loud voice going through these old and thin walls as she yelled at the President.
She holds up a hand, blinking back tears, and just murmurs, “Thank you, thank you.”
They eventually stop applauding, and some of them brush tears away from their eyes. Grace takes a long, deep breath, wonders what she could say that would make any difference at all to her staff. Despite herself, she glances up at the three television screens, still all reporting what’s being called the Ambush in Atlanta.
To hell with that.
Grace turns back to her staff, folds her hands. “I … it’s going to be a rough time for all of us in the hours and days ahead. All the good work you’ve done with me—in helping children in need, children hurt and abandoned by their families or society—unfortunately, all of that good work is now going to be overshadowed. For those of us in the East Wing, there is going to be only one story for the foreseeable future. For that … I am so very sorry.”
Grace needs to go on, and she quickly looks at the carpeted floor to regain her composure. “But … as hard as it might be … ignore that story. Focus on the good that you’ve done with me … focus on the children whose lives have been improved or saved by you … and at some point … someday … this … nonsense, this scandal, will be forgotten.”
Another burst of applause, and she smiles and joins their applause, then catches the attention of her chief of staff, Donna Allen, and gestures her back into Donna’s office. Grace doesn’t bother closing the door behind her because she only needs her chief of staff for a minute.
Grace asks, “My schedule for the rest of the day. Remind me, please.”
Donna is a slim, pretty woman with glasses and short black hair who seems able to operate efficiently on only four hours of sleep. She goes to her desk, picks up a sheet of paper. “Ma’am … let’s see. You have a luncheon with the Senate wives from the Party, a group interview with prominent political bloggers at two p.m., an early evening reception at five p.m. with the ambassador’s wife from Japan. Then … er, dinner with … um, the President and an eight p.m. attendance at the Kennedy Center, for that—”
Grace nods. “Cancel it all.”
Donna looks up, shocked. “Ma’am?”
“You heard me, Donna,” she says, turning around and going out into the East Wing office area. “Cancel it all. I’m leaving.”
Donna follows her out. “But … but … where are you going?”
She sees her lead Secret Service agent, Pamela Smithson, a tiny blonde who looks like she weighs ninety pounds soaking