The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,71

to be delivering that in just about thirteen hours.”

Parker says, “Mr. President, there isn’t going to be any speech.”

His eyebrows lift up. “The kidnappers … they’ve adjusted their demands?”

“No, sir,” Parker says, “we’re not going to meet their demand.”

“The hell we’re not.”

“Sir, I—”

“I better have a draft of that speech by midmorning, or I will personally—personally!—call the heads of all three networks and the cable news channels, requesting airtime for six p.m. later today. And then I’ll make the remarks by myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, sir.”

“Parker—”

“Sir, please hear me out.”

The fingers clenching the pen seem as tight as a lock, and Parker is sure the President is fantasizing about shoving that pen down Parker’s throat.

“Sir,” he goes on, “if you were to make that speech, what does it gain the country?”

“What does it … hell, Parker, it gets the First Lady free!”

“Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn’t,” Parker says. “But hear what I said. ‘What does it gain the country?’ For you, personally, it means your wife is freed. For the First Lady, she’s free, and her friends, family, and followers will be thrilled. And with all the news coverage, and investigative reports, and everything else, in four weeks, you will be smiling on national television, congratulating the governor of California on his success. And less than three months later, that bumbling boob will be sworn in.”

The President keeps quiet. Parker says, “But let’s say we pay the ransom. That gains us another twelve hours. Perhaps she’s found. Perhaps she’s freed. The news will be of her successful return … without the added burden of you apologizing to more than three hundred million of your fellow citizens that you couldn’t keep your presidential dick in your pants.”

“You …” and the President can’t say anything more.

Parker says, “If we’re fortunate, she might be dumped on a street corner somewhere, and we can keep the news quiet until after the election.”

“The press will crucify us if we try that.”

“They might,” Parker says. “And we’ll just say … after you’ve been successfully reelected … that we didn’t want to toss anything into the last few weeks of election coverage that might impact the election. The people will eventually respect that. So what if the press doesn’t?”

Harrison says bleakly, “Suppose they follow through with their threat. And harm comes to her …. What then?”

“Then the nation will rally around a President suffering the grievous loss of his wife. Your affair will be overlooked. Your margin of victory will even be larger.”

Harrison shakes his head. “That … the cynicism … I mean …”

“Mr. President, excuse me for being blunt. When it comes to kidnappings, chances are that the First Lady is already dead. Once they get their money, the kidnappers will want to rid themselves of her. They know the entire federal government will be chasing after them … and they will want to leave no witnesses behind. With the added thrill of humiliating the leader of the free world in the process.”

There’s a pause. Parker says, “Remember what I said. How does your speech, how will it serve the country? It won’t. It will ensure the election of a granola-crunching fool who will roll back all of the progress you’ve made—both domestic and foreign—and your legacy will be a bungled affair and a kidnapped First Lady.”

Another pause. Parker thinks, We’re close. Let’s go in for the kill. “Or … you make the necessary sacrifice on behalf of the nation. You get reelected, with an enormous mandate, and you have four more years to build on the previous four years. For the benefit of the American people and for a safer world.”

He waits.

Waits.

The President of the United States looks at his hand, the one grasping the pen, like he’s wondering how it got there.

With a savage motion, he scrawls his signature on the presidential directive, and shoves both the paper and pen back at his chief of staff.

“Get out of my sight,” he snaps.

Parker stands up. “Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER 59

I PUSH PAST Scotty, using my flashlight, and besides the frightened woman in front of me, there are other people as well, men and women, boys and girls. They blink and hold up their hands against the flashlight beams, and they all appear to be Hispanic.

I quickly count off eight, and there’s no First Lady back there, just cots, a few buckets with dishes and soiled clothes, a hot plate and laundry hanging from a clothesline in the rear. There are two men,