The Threat

Then they were aloft, to the muffled howl of twin turboshafts and five rotor blades. Marine One banked deliberately, so as not to cause its passengers to lose their breakfasts. The gentle hills of Maryland emerged from the roseate haze of a hundred thousand cars stalled on the Beltway.

* * *

The radios had snapped out “POTUS departing” at eight that morning. When Barney McKoy — head of the protective detail, the round-faced black agent Dan had noticed before, always next to the president — had nodded, he and Jazak had taken off jogging across a lightly snowed-over South Lawn, clutching their hats. And of course the satchel, which Jazak had security-wristleted to Dan’s wrist “to get you used to it.”

HMX-1 flew the Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King helicopter out of Naval Air Station Anacostia. Up close Marine One had loomed huge and loud and sparkling, auxiliary power unit whining, the glossy green-and-white finish waxed bright. Even the tires, which squatted so nearly flat on the blocks that Dan deduced internal armor, looked new. A marine in full dress stood at attention. The metal stairs were polished rhodium-bright. In contrast to naval tradition, where the highest-ranking boarded last, the aides boarded after the VIPs, along with the Secret Service. Other agents kept a cordon around it till the door thunked closed.

He’d noticed one other thing. As De Bari and today’s guest, the president of Chad, had boarded, a dark-skinned man in an ill-cut summer suit had come rushing up. The Secret Service had closed in; then, seeing all he wanted was to make sure his boss got a leather portfolio, accepted it from him. McKoy had opened it. Leafed through the contents. Then assured the African it would be handed to his president.

Dan and Jazak were next up. A Secret Service agent reached for the emergency satchel. But McKoy stopped him with a shake of his head. Dan followed Jazak up the steps as the rotors began turning. “Remember, nobody else touches it,” the major yelled, squinting into the cold wind, thick with the smoky lamp-oil smell of jet exhaust. “Or even looks inside. You and the president. That’s it.”

“Got it,” Dan yelled back.

He looked around as they settled in, clicking seat belts embossed with the presidential seal. He’d flown in “Sea Pigs” before, but this was different. No sonobuoy racks. No antisubmarine warfare consoles or search-and-rescue winches. Instead it had reading lights and map tables, and was separated halfway down with comm consoles, one of which Jazak was plugging into. The protective detail guys were in windbreakers instead of blazers. Also on the bench seats were the president’s personal assistant, “Haz” Nosler, a self-effacing young man who had something to do with the first lady’s family; and the senior White House physician, a Navy captain, Dr. Shigeru “Shiggy” Yoshida.

These were people you didn’t see much in the West Wing. He had a sudden sense of the presidency as a faceted jewel, with rays that shot off this way and that, into realms unknown to one another. But he no longer thought of it in terms of overawing power.

The hearty man who sat gesturing with an unlit cigar had the trappings of it. The helicopters. The staff. But did De Bari truly captain the ship of state? Dan was beginning to wonder if he did, if he wanted to, or even if he could. Because Washington didn’t seem to work that way. There was no plan. No leadership. Only different circles that schemed and leaked and betrayed, who fought desperately to be in the loop

. There was no concern for the country. Only interests, and what favor or appropriation or regulatory exemption they could buy.

Democracy? Maybe. But it seemed squalid and wasteful, compared to the service. Or had Sebold been right with practically the first words he’d said when he arrived. That he shouldn’t assume things didn’t make sense just because they didn’t to him. That there was a big picture.

He hoped so. But the longer he played this game, the less he believed in it.

The president was talking to the Distinguished Guest. The Chadian president’s bald scalp was covered with dark-complected bumps, like a plucked turkey. He gripped the arms of his chair, squinting out a picture window at the city below. De Bari sprawled in a gray suit and light blue tie. He’d yanked his collar open as the door slid closed. Dan stared, not caring if his contempt showed. The U.S. president rolled his cigar in the remaining fingers of his right hand. His gaze kept flicking to a locker. Dan guessed it held liquor, which of course he couldn’t help himself to in front of his Muslim guest. The translator bent between them as De Bari held forth. The secretary and the undersecretary huddled in too, expressions intent. De Bari gestured again with the cigar, delivering a punch line Dan couldn’t hear.