Secretary of State Sanders got out of his car and hit the button on his fob to lock it. The horn honked once with the flash of yellow parking lights to accompany it. A spattering of rain hit the hood and windshield. The black clouds overhead blocked out the sky, reflecting nothing but artificial light from the city with an eerie, gray glow.
Sanders was still in disbelief. The president had given him his endorsement to be the nominee for the party going into next year’s election.
While it wasn’t a guarantee of victory, it certainly did more than help. Dawkins was a beloved president, a leader of the people. He’d been strong yet accessible, never rushing into things with foreign policy and always looking to help on the domestic side.
It was a difficult tight rope to walk, and the nation loved him for it.
Sanders didn’t care about any of that except for the fact that the people would do pretty much whatever President Dawkins told them. They were his sheep, and soon Sanders would be the shepherd.
He had his own grandiose plans for shaping the nation once he was in office. He’d often daydreamed of the things he would do, who he’d appoint for his cabinet, vacationing to Camp David.
More than that, he thirsted for the power the president wielded. Sanders knew that the job was far from easy, that there weren’t many days off in a given week for the most powerful man on the planet. That said, he wanted to be the most powerful man on the planet.
Once he was in the Oval Office, no one would dare stand in his way.
It was a far cry from his upbringing on the streets of Chicago, where he’d had to do things—awful things—to survive.
That was far in the past, though, and Darren Sanders had made a new life for himself that most would have considered impossible.
His memoirs would be best sellers. People loved a rags-to-riches story. They would adore his. Of course, he’d leave out some of those things he’d done as a juvenile: the drugs, the dealings, the killing….
He took in a deep breath of the rain-scented air and exhaled. He stopped on the top of his steps and looked out toward the city across the river. Despite the cloudy skies and the chill in the air, he felt a surge of warmth course through his body.
The night was full of promise.
To celebrate, he’d invited Nancy over. She would be arriving any time now, a little treat to consummate his imminent nomination for the presidency.
Sanders had never allowed her to come to his home. He thought twice about it on this occasion, wondering if it could turn into scandal later on down the election trail.
No one knew of Dawkins’s endorsement yet, though, so he could afford one last tryst in the comfort of his own home before having to resume more clandestine means of carnal satisfaction.
He turned around and slid the key into the lock, twisted, and heard the mechanism click like it had done so many times before. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, hung his coat on the rack by the entrance, and made his way into the kitchen where the bar beckoned.
Sanders kicked off his shoes next to the drink station and picked up a whiskey glass. He spied the three crystal decanters, each holding a different variety of bourbon or sour mash, and picked the one in the center. It was the most expensive bourbon he had in his modest collection. Why not? Tonight was a night to celebrate. The amber liquid splashed into the glass, rising slightly higher on one side as the wave of alcohol poured into it. He placed the crystal topper back on the decanter and pushed it to its place between the other two. Sure, it was a generous pour, but who was going to criticize him? Besides, he wanted a little buzz before Nancy arrived. It would loosen him up from a stressful day—stressful week, in fact. He preferred not to be so uptight for their little encounters. It made for a better overall experience, for both parties.
He wandered over to the living room and eased into his dark chocolate leather couch and propped his feet up on the matching ottoman. He took a sip of the warm whiskey and let the spicy burn creep down his throat. He let out a low “ah” and looked across at the gas fireplace. It would be a good night for a fire, he thought.
Sanders set his drink on the end table and stepped over to the fireplace. He took the remote from the mantel and plopped back into the soft cushion of the couch, then pressed the button to turn on the fireplace.
There was a click, then the sound of a spark. He waited a moment, but nothing happened. He hit the button again, and the clicking resumed, a snappy electric sound that came every time he tried to light the fire. Normally, the flames would have ignited and produced a warm, orange glow.
Something was wrong.
Frustrated, he took another pull from the bourbon and walked over to the fireplace. He jerked back the screen on either side and looked around under the faux logs. He saw the pilot light was out. That was problem number one. Upon further inspection, he noticed the gas knob was turned to the off position.
Sanders didn’t remember turning it off. That was why he had a remote. According to his elementary understanding of how the fireplace worked, when he turned it off with the remote control, the valve automatically shut off.
Had he turned this knob off at some point and just not remembered? It had been a while since he had used the fireplace. He wasn’t much for cozy comforts. There usually wasn’t time. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he had used the thing. Perhaps the maid had turned if off while she was cleaning.
Sanders shrugged off the curiosity and switched the knob back to the on position. He closed the screens and returned to his seat on the couch, picked up the remote, and hit the button again.
The electric sound of sparks clicked in rapid-fire succession a second before the fireplace whooshed. The fake logs erupted in bright orange flames for a second and then died down to their usual steady burn.
Sanders let out a relieved sigh and reached for his drink. Nancy would like the fireplace. It would be a nice touch. He thought about how delighted she’d be and checked his watch. She wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. Plenty of time for him to down this drink and pour a few glasses of wine.
He knew her preference when it came to alcohol. Her refined palate came across as demanding, but he didn’t mind. He could afford whatever she wanted. Soon, he’d be able to acquire even the most hard-to-get wines in the entire world. The world, he believed, was the president’s oyster.
Sanders had thought about the relationship with his administrative assistant. There was no way he could fire the woman. The second that happened, he’d be immersed in a scandal that would destroy everything he’d worked so hard to gain. No, Nancy was going to have to come with him to the White House, one way or the other. He’d find a position for her. Something small, unimportant but that gave her a sense of importance. Whether or not their romantic flings could continue was yet to be seen. He figured those would need to stop, but it was certainly possible he could have a taste now and then.
Of course, as the president he could have anyone he chose—another fringe benefit of the office.
He took another sip of the bourbon. It went down much smoother after the first few tastes. Now he savored the warm oak flavors mixed with a hint of vanilla and leather.
“No need to pour me one, Secretary Sanders.”
The familiar voice startled Sanders, and he shot up from his seat. The bourbon sloshed in the glass and spilled onto his pants.
He looked to the doorway, but there was no one there. He stood up and spun around to find the mystery man from his office standing in the hallway between the kitchen and the master bedroom.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. He tried to wipe the spilled beverage from his slacks to no avail.
“I don’t like using the phone for business,” Alain said. “In this town, especially.”
He was smart to think that way. There was no telling who the FBI or CIA was watching. And the NSA was keeping tabs on almost everyone. Sanders recalled talking to a guy with the NSA a few years before. He'd said they literally had a file on every American in the country, and some who were out of the country.
Sanders expressed his concern about such a boast, but the guy eased his mind, telling him that they didn’t pay attention to most people just trying to go about their normal lives.
“Why are you here?” Sanders asked again.
Alain took a dramatic step closer to the living room and stopped near the bar. He turned and examined the small collection of alcohol in expensive decanters and picked up the nearest one. He held it out as if doing show-and-tell at a grade school. “This stuff clouds one’s vision,” he said in an informative tone. “Makes you weak.”
“Yeah? Well, if you’d had the week I have, you’d need a drink, too.”
Alain set the container back on its platform and shook his head. “We do not drink alcohol,” he said flatly. “It is against our code.”
Sanders rolled his shoulders and held out his glass. “More for me, I guess.” He tipped the glass up and downed the rest of its contents, then made his way past the uninvited guest to the bar and grabbed the decanter on the right. He poured another generous round and slid the container back to its place without putting the top back in.
This guy gave him the creeps. Now he was standing in his home, appearing again like a threatening apparition.
“I’d ask how you got in here, but I don’t think I want to know.”
“Doors and locks are for your peace of mind. They do little to deter our order.”
“Great. Have a seat.” Sanders tried to use a little humor to deflate his overwhelming sense of dread.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sanders stepped over to a club chair near the fireplace and sat down so he could face the intruder. “You wanna make this quick? I’ve got a…friend coming over in less than a half hour.”
“Your secretary. Yes, I know.”
Sanders was in mid-sip when Alain made the comment. He nearly spit out the drink but managed to choke it down, though it burned much worse now. Some of it went down the wrong pipe, causing a violent fit of coughing for half a minute.
He wiped his lips with his sleeve and stared across the room at Alain. “What do you want?” he asked for what felt like the hundredth time. “I get it: You’re sneaky and can get into any building in the world. So, why are you here?”
“We have to move up the timeline.”
Sanders frowned and put one hand out to the side. “What timeline?”
Alain walked slowly around the end of the couch and put his hands behind his back as he stopped next to the end table. “It’s time you know more of the details behind my plan.”
“I figured you’d eventually come around. Everyone wants something in this town. You’re no different.”
“Indeed. And we are no different. I need access to the White House.”
Sanders raised a befuddled eyebrow. “What, like a tour or something?”
Alain ignored the foolish comment. “We have all but given you the office of the president. You will easily defeat any competitor in next year’s election. I’d hoped that we could wait until then before asking you to return the favor. Recent events have caused us to…accelerate our schedule.”
This came as a surprise to Sanders. He wondered what could have thrown such a wrench into this man’s plans, a man who seemed unfazed by anything.
“Okay…so, why do you want access to the White House?”
“That, Secretary, is none of your concern.”
Sanders coughed again, nearly choking up another sip. “Really? Because, you’re asking me to get you into the White House. I’m assuming it’s not for usual reasons, you know, seeing the Easter decorations and such. That either means you’re planning on doing something like—oh, I don’t know—killing the president or stealing something. I’m not sure what you’d want to take, so I’m gonna go with assassination.” He paused for a second and then added, “Nice work with the Speaker, by the way.” He dumped another drink into his mouth, hoping this would be the one that dulled his nerves.
Alain dismissed the last sentence. “I have no intention of harming President Dawkins. If that was my plan, we would have done it already.”
The line carried an immense amount of weight. It was no easy feat to kill a president. Only four had done it in the history of the United States. Others had tried and failed. This guy acted like it was nothing more than blowing his nose into a tissue and tossing it in the trash.
“So? What is it?” Sanders nervously poured another shot into his glass. He was on the expressway to Drunkville now.
“There is something in the White House that belongs to us. I’d hoped that this could wait until you were in office. Then the extraction would be much smoother. It, unfortunately, cannot wait any longer. We need you to navigate the red tape and get us access to the building. It could take as long as twenty-four hours to remove the item.”
Sanders guffawed. The drink splashed around in the glass as he laughed. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Alain’s narrowed eyes and stern expression showed nothing less.
“I mean, twenty-four hours…that’s a long time. We’re not just dealing with the president here. He has Secret Service everywhere on the property. There are guys in trees with high-powered rifles, cameras all over the place, security gates, metal detectors, the works. You can’t just walk in there and hang out for twenty-four hours.”
Alain listened patiently while his host explained all the things he already knew. When Sanders was done, he calmly put up his right hand for Sanders to be quiet.
“I know all those things,” Alain said. “However, the president will be going out of town on an international diplomatic visit to Brazil on Monday.”
“So?” Sanders shrugged. “It’s not like the place will be empty. All that stuff I mentioned will still be in place.”
“Yes, but every now and then, even the home of the president of the United States needs some repairs.”
“Repairs?”
Alain gave a slow nod. “It would be a shame if, say, the basement had a leak that needed to be fixed.”
“A leak?”
“I’ll let you figure it out. Let me know when it’s done. My men will be ready to enter the premises on Monday evening. The president returns Wednesday morning. That window should give us more than enough time to extract the…item.”
Sanders took another sip of whiskey and grimaced. He was the secretary of state, not the head of maintenance for the White House. They had people for that kind of thing. Not to mention he was supposed to fly to France on Tuesday with a delegation meeting with the French president.
All of those excuses flashed through his mind in a nanosecond. As he stared at the intruder, he realized none of them would hold up. There would be so much red tape to get through, not to mention he’d have to cancel his trip, which would not go over well. Sanders could come up with an excuse, a national security emergency or something. It didn’t even have to be that elaborate. The only thing he knew for certain is this man across from him wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Okay…I think I can do something like that. Will take some finagling, but it’s doable. There are some work crews in there now and then. The person in charge of that sort of thing likes me for some reason. If I say the word, they’ll listen to a gentle suggestion, although it would take some kind of miraculous play to get the regular crews out of the building.” He paused and looked his visitor dead in the eyes. “I gotta ask, though, what is so important that you’re willing to go to such lengths? What is it you’re trying to steal from the White House?”
He turned to the fire and set his drink on the mantle. “I mean, it’s gotta be pretty valuable, right?” He spun back around, but the living room was empty. His guest had vanished like a ghost.
Sanders looked around, suddenly feeling a rush of panic crash over him. He checked behind the couch, in the kitchen, down the hall in the bedroom and guest bath. There was no sign of him.
The stranger had simply disappeared.