Home Free - Fern Michaels [3]
“Having said that, I now want you each to place a hand on my Bible and swear to me, the president of the United States, that not one word of what is spoken here will ever pass your lips. Anyone who can’t see her or his way to doing this is free to leave.”
No one moved to leave. One by one, hands reached out to touch the small, tattered white Bible.
Twenty-seven minutes into the meeting, much of it heated, all of it loud and angry at times, the assembled guests finally agreed to the president’s demands to form a new agency among the many others in Alphabet City.
“Taxpayers will not be funding this agency. There will be neither a temporary nor a permanent address for this agency on record anywhere, because this agency does not exist. The new agency is to have carte blanche. It will report directly to me. And I want to personally assure all of you that the Post, which has been the White House’s nemesis, is on board with all of this. By four o’clock this afternoon I want the twelve special gold shields, which I believe are in your care, Director Yantzy, on my desk. Do we understand each other, Director Yantzy?”
The director of the FBI nodded. “There are only eleven shields, Madam President. One went missing. There is no proof. Well, actually there is proof, but we thought, as a matter of discretion, not to make an issue of it. The Post would have gone nuclear with that information if it got out the way they threatened to make it public. Jack Emery and that thug, Harry Wong, confiscated it from our agent.”
The president looked Yantzy in the eye and said, “I heard about your agent, who beat reporter Ted Robinson within an inch of his life, and Mr. Emery and Mr. Wong felt duty bound to protect their colleague. Harry Wong is not a thug. Bear that in mind, Director. Seems like a fair trade to me, the gold shield for Mr. Robinson’s missing spleen. You will have all eleven shields on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon. And make arrangements to have the twelfth one made up.”
“Why?” the national security advisor asked.
“Do you want the long or the short version, Mr. NSA?”
The national security advisor looked sheepish. “The short version, Madam President.”
Martine Connor slipped off her perch and went to stand behind him. She clamped her hands hard on his shoulders, Cleo at her side, looked around at the group as she said, so quietly the others had to strain to hear the words, “Because when the FBI, the CIA, and the entire Secret Service—not to mention the DOJ—on their own couldn’t find the head of the Secret Service when he was kidnapped, I had to ask seven very talented ladies, also known as the vigilantes, to step in and do your damn job for you. Which, by the way, they succeeded in doing with absolutely no fanfare and no publicity. No one but me, my chief of staff, and all of you here know about it. Not one word leaked out. I also ask you to recall, Mr. National Security Advisor, what happened to your predecessor, Karl Woodley, when he went up against the vigilantes. Unless you’re totally stupid, I think you will all agree that we would rather have the vigilantes working for us than against us.
“I want to see a show of hands.”
Cleo stood on her hind legs and let loose with a bloodcurdling bark.
Nine hands instantly shot upward.
Cleo offered a more subdued bark.
“I think our business here is finished and we should adjourn for lunch.”
The president then did something else that was totally unprecedented and oh