Kill Alex Cross - James Patterson [32]
Just then, a familiar voice came into the room from an unseen speaker.
“Excuse me. I’d like to say something.”
It was coming from the wall, or the ceiling, or maybe even the table itself. I couldn’t tell. But there was no mistaking who it belonged to.
President Coyle was there with us, and apparently he was ready to make a statement.
TWO WIDE SCREENS flicked on, one at either end of the room. Suddenly President Edward Coyle was there, sitting at a generic-looking desk, with a set of plain blue drapes drawn behind him.
For all I know, it was a set piece, a bit of theater meant to hide any clues about where he actually was at this time. Still, it gave me a chill. Probably did the same for everybody in the room.
“We have you, sir,” Stroud said. “Go ahead. We’re here and we’re listening.”
Coyle looked bone-tired, and his face was drawn. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I also got the impression he hadn’t been planning on doing this, speaking to our group right now.
“Let me state the obvious first,” he said. “I have two separate and distinct obligations here. One is to Ethan and Zoe, and the other is to this country.
“Right now, we don’t seem to know how enmeshed those obligations might be. But I do know that by all indications, and according to the best advice I can get, our capital city is under attack.”
The president was incredibly focused. I thought of the eye of a hurricane as I watched him. He was obviously a strong man and it was no fluke that he had risen to this position.
“I’m not saying that we’ve reached some critical point at which a decision has to be made between my children and our nation’s security —”
“No sir, not at all,” Stroud cut in.
The president immediately put up the flat of his hand to quash any discussion. “I need to make one point very clearly,” he went on. “With all due respect to the opinions in the room, if I have to show my face to lead the country through this crisis, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Sir —”
“That’s all for right now. Carry on,” he said. “Evan, I’ll expect my next briefing by ten o’clock. I should be back in the residence by then.”
“Yes, sir,” Stroud said.
There were a few more mumbled “thank you, sir”s around the table before the screens went blank again, and the president was gone. He’d said all he needed to say.
I looked down at my watch. It seemed impossible, but it was only a few minutes past six a.m. Bree would be getting off work about now. The kids would be waking up and starting to get ready for school after their day off. It sounded like President and Mrs. Coyle would be headed back to the White House. And two murdered policemen’s families were going to have to start piecing their lives back together this morning.
It was another day in Washington, DC, and none of us — the ones who were supposed to protect the city — had any idea what it would bring.
HALA WOKE UP first, as she almost always did. But something was different, she sensed. No, she knew something had changed. For the better?
It was the sound of the adhan. The sound of home, ringing out from somewhere nearby. She raised her head to see where she was.
Tariq was still asleep on the metal cot across from hers. Shelves of paper towels and toilet paper, the most pedestrian materials imaginable, lined the corner space above his bed. Where were they?
Her clothes were the same as the night before, except for a slight stiffness where they’d been sweated through and dried again.
How many miles had they run? It had seemed as if the night would never be over. But now they were here. Safe for the moment, in a new hiding place.
“Tariq?” She swung her legs out of bed. It was stuffy in the room, and the cool cement felt good underfoot. “Wake up. Tariq. Tariq.”
His eyes fluttered open just before he sat up fast. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened?