Executive orders - Tom Clancy [212]
No, sir. More follow-up interviews on the JAL case are coming in, but nothing startling.
What about Kealty?
O'Day shrugged. He was not allowed to interfere with the OPR investigation, but he did get daily summaries. A case of this magnitude had to be reported to somebody, and though supervision of the case was entirely under the purview of OPR, the information developed also went to the Director's office, filtered through his lead roving inspector. Dan, enough people went in and out of Secretary Hanson's office that anybody could have walked off with the letter, assuming there was one, which, our people think, there probably was. At least Hanson talked to enough people about it-or so those people tell us.
I think that one will just blow over, Murray observed.
GOOD MORNING, Mr. President.
Another day in the routine. The kids were off. Cathy was off. Ryan emerged from his quarters suited and tied-his jacket was buttoned, which was unusual for him, or had been until moving in here-and his shoes shined by one of the valet staff. Except that Jack still couldn't think of this place as a home. More like a hotel, or the VIP quarters he'd had while traveling on Agency business, albeit far more ornate and with much better service.
You're Raman? the President asked.
Yes, sir, Special Agent Aref Raman replied. He was six feet and solidly built, more a weight lifter than a runner, Jack thought, though that might come from the body armor that many of the Detail members wore. Ryan judged his age at middle thirties. Good-looking in a Mediterranean sort of way, with a shy smile and eyes as blue as SURGEON's. SWORDSMAN is moving, he said into his microphone. To the office.
Raman, where's that from? Jack asked, on the way to the elevator.
Mother Lebanese, father Iranian, came over in '79, when the Shah had his problems. Dad was close to the regime.
So what do you think of the Iraq situation? the President asked.
Sir, I hardly even speak the language anymore. The agent smiled. Now, if you want to ask me about who's lookin' good in the NCAA finals, I'm your man.
Kentucky, Ryan said decisively. The White House elevator was old, pre-Art Deco in the interior finishings, with worn black buttons, which the President wasn't allowed to push. Raman did that for him.
Oregon's going all the way. I'm never wrong, sir. Ask the guys. I won the last three pools. Nobody'll bet against me anymore. The finals will be Oregon and Duke-my school-and Oregon will win by six or eight. Well, maybe less if Maceo Rawlings has a good night, Raman added.
What did you study at Duke?
Pre-law, but I decided I didn't want to be a lawyer. Actually I decided that criminals shouldn't have any rights, and so I figured I'd rather be a cop, and I joined the Service.
Married? Ryan wanted to know the people around him. At one level, it was mere good manners. At another, these people were sworn to defend his life, and he couldn't treat them like employees.
Never found the right girl-at least not yet.
Muslim?
My parents were, but after I saw all the trouble religion caused them, well-he grinned-if you ask around, they'll tell you my religion is ACC basketball. I never miss a Duke game on the TV. Damned shame Oregon's so tough this year. But that's one thing you can't change.
The President chuckled at the truth of that statement. Aref, you said, your first name?
Actually, they call me Jeff. Easier to pronounce, Raman explained as the door opened. The agent positioned himself in the center of the doors, blocking a direct line of sight to POTUS. A member of the Uniform Division was standing there, along with two more of the Detail, all of them known by sight to Raman. With a nod, he walked out, with Ryan in tow, and the group turned west, past the side corridor that led to the bowling alley and the carpenter shops.
Okay, Jeff, an easy day planned, Ryan told him unnecessarily. The Secret Service knew his daily schedule before he did.
Easy for us, maybe.
They were waiting for him in the Oval Office. The Foleys, Bert Vasco, Scott Adler, and one other person