First Daughter - Eric van Lustbader [2]
They were almost at the Capitol, rolling slowly, as if in thick, churning surf. She became aware of the press of people—dignitaries, politicians, security guards, military men from all the armed services, newscasters, celebrities, paparazzi—their heaving mass impressing itself on the smoked glass.
She was aware of the tenseness of her body. "Where's Jack?"
"My old buddy's on assignment," Sam said. But something in his voice alerted her.
"His assignment is here, with me," she said. "My father made me a promise."
"That may be," Nina said.
"You know how these things go, Alli." Sam leaned forward, grasping the inner door handle as they rolled to a stop.
"No, I don't," she said. "Not about this." She felt a sudden inexplicable fear invade her, and she felt the brush of the funeral veil. "I want to talk to my father."
"Your father is busy, Alli," Nina said. "You know that."
From out of her fear came a surge of outrage. Nina was right, of course, and this made her feel helpless. "Then tell me where Jack is," she demanded. Her green eyes were luminous in the sidelights. "And don't tell me you don't know."
Nina sighed, looked at Sam, who nodded.
"The fact is," Nina said, "we don't know where Jack is."
"He didn't check in this morning," Sam added.
Alli felt a small pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. "Why haven't you found him?"
"We've made inquiries, of course," Sam said.
"The truth is, Alli . . ." Nina paused. "He's vanished off the radar screen."
Alli felt a tiny scream gathering in her throat. She rolled the gold-and-platinum ring around her finger nervously. "Find him," she said tersely. "I want him with me." But even as she spoke, she understood the futility of her words. Jack was gone. If the Secret Service couldn't find him, no one could.
Sam smiled reassuringly. "Jack handpicked us to protect you. There's nothing to be concerned about."
"Alli, it's time to go," Nina said gently.
Sam opened the door, stepped out into the wan January sunshine. Alli could hear him whispering into his mike, listening intently to security updates.
Nina, half out of her seat, held Alli by the elbow. Alli smoothed down the skirt of the suit her mother had bought for her and insisted she wear. It was a mid-blue tweed with a hint of green in it that matched the color of her eyes. If she wore anything like this on campus, she'd never hear the end of it. As it was, her image would be plastered all over the papers and the evening news. She wriggled inside the suit, itchy and overheated. As was her custom, she wore a minimum amount of makeup—she had not given in on that one—and her nails were cut almost as short as a man's.
When Sam nodded, Nina urged her charge forward, and Alli emerged from the plush cocoon of the limo. She saw the Unites States Marine and Air Force bands standing at attention to either side of the inaugural platform and, on it, the Speaker of the House, who would make the Call to Order and the opening remarks; the Reverend Dr. Fred Grimes, from whom the invocation and the benediction would come; and two mezzo-sopranos from the Metropolitan Opera, who would sing arias during the musical interludes. There was the vice president and his family. And her father, chatting with the Speaker of the House while her mother, head slightly bowed, spoke in hushed tones with Grimes, who had married them.
Then, Alli was inundated by a swirl of people, voices, microphones, hundreds of camera shutters clicking like a field of crickets. Sam and Nina cut a protective swath through the straining throng, guiding her at long last up the steps of the inaugural platform, draped in the American flag, the blue-and-gold symbol of the president's office affixed to the center podium, where the speeches would be made, the swearing in would take place.
She kissed her mother as she was embraced; her father turned, smiled at her, nodding.
Her mother said, "Are you okay?" as they pulled away.
"I'm fine," Alli said in a knee-jerk reaction that she didn't quite understand. The breeze picked up and she shivered a little. As