First Daughter - Eric van Lustbader [7]
"To think that it's almost Christmas." The president made a noise in the back of his throat. "Time, Dennis. Time betrays us all, remember that."
The president gripped the back of the sofa as if it were the neck of his worst enemy. "I've spent eight years doing my level best to pull America out of the pit of immorality into which the previous Administration had sunk it. I've spent eight years protecting America from the most heinous threat it's every faced, and if that meant exercising the power of this hallowed office, if it meant turning the country around so that it would know its roots, know itself, see itself as the righteous Christian nation it is, then so be it." His eyes were filled with righteous pain. "But what do I get for my hard labor, Dennis? Do I get the thanks of a nation? Do I get accolades in the press? I do not. I get protests, I get excoriated in the liberal press, I get blasphemous videos on YouTube. Does no one understand the lengths I've gone to to protect this nation? Does no one understand the importance of my legacy as president?" He rubbed the end of his nose. "But they will, Dennis. Mark my words, I will be redeemed by history." He regarded his companion. "I've made sure that we've become Fortress America, Dennis, a stalwart redoubt against the fundamentalist Islamic terrorists. But now we have to contend with traitors from within. I won't have it, I tell you!" By way of punctuation, the president added his no-nonsense nod.
"Now let's pray." He got down on his knees and the Secretary followed suit while their cadre of bodyguards turned their backs. The two men bowed their heads, clasped their hands against their striped rep ties. Sunlight glittered off the president's polyurethane hair. My hair's gone white, my beard is shot with gray. I feel the weight of the world crushing me, Paull thought. The expectation of greatness, the dread of making a mistake, of missing a vital piece of intel, of being one step late to the dance of death. Jesus, if he only knew. We've all aged a century since we came into power, all except him. He looks younger now than when he took office.
"Lord, we humbly beg thee to come to our aid in our hour of need, so that we can continue your work and hold back the turning of the tide that threatens to overrun all that we've labored so hard for these past eight years."
A moment of silence ensued as the two men regained their feet. Before they took their leave of the guesthouse, the president touched his secretary's sleeve, said in a low but distinct voice, "Dennis, when on January twentieth of next year I step aside, I want to know that everything is in place for us to retain our grip on Congress and on the media."
Paull was about to respond when the sound of a helicopter sliced into the pellucid morning like a knife, exposing in him a sense of foreboding. And with that his cell phone rang.
It had to be important; his office knew whom he was with. He connected, listened to the voice of one of his chief lieutenants, his stomach spewing out acid in pulsarlike bursts. At length, he handed the phone to the president.
The president waved it away, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. "Good Lord, just give me the gist, Dennis, like you always do."
This is why he hasn't aged, Paull thought. "I think you'd better hear this yourself."
The president's voice was querulous. "Why?"
"Sir, it's about Alli Carson."
The president reached for the phone.
TWO
ARE YOU all right? Can you move?"
Jack McClure heard the voice, but he could see nothing. He tried to move, but between the seat belt and the airbag, he was held firmly in place.
"I've called nine-one-one," the familiar voice said. "There'll be an ambulance here soon."
Jack could smell hot metal, and the sickly sweet scent of fresh blood and gore.
"Bennett?"
"Yeah, it's me." Captain Rodney Bennett was his boss in the Falls Church, Virginia, ATF Group I, specializing