I SAY STRAIGHTAWAY and without hesitation, “Impossible. If she’s missing, you need to contact the FBI, Homeland Security, DC Metro Police, the Virginia State Police, and I’d even bring in—”
The President holds up a hand. “That’s exactly what we don’t want. The news coverage, the various agencies jockeying for position and headlines, a massive search and hunt…that won’t be helpful. That’s why we want you, and a few agents you can trust, to find her.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” I say, taking in all of the history that has occurred here in this Oval Office, wondering what twist of fate has put me right in the center of probably the biggest story to come out of here in fifty years, “I can’t do that. We’re a protective agency. Not investigative.”
Parker says, “Bullshit. You are an investigative agency. You have access to intelligence information from Homeland Security. You go out in the field and investigate threats made against the President. You work with law enforcement agencies from cops in one-streetlight towns all the way up to New York City.”
I feel like slapping that smug face, hard. “As part of our protective duties, Mr. Hoyt. Not to find a missing person.”
He says, “A person isn’t missing. The First Lady of the United States is missing.”
“But—”
The President says, “Agent Grissom, I’m ordering you to locate the First Lady, and do it quietly, confidentially, and quickly. Otherwise, in all of the news stories that come out if we do anything else, and eventually locate the First Lady, there will be other stories as well. Those tales will also focus on how you and your highly skilled and highly trained agents…lost my wife. Do you want to go up to Capitol Hill and try to explain to a special congressional committee how that happened? On your watch? Do you?”
I say, “I’d rather do that than…what you’re asking me.”
Parker settles back on the couch. “How’s Amelia?”
I’m stunned again, for the second time in less than ten minutes. “My daughter? She’s…fine. Why are you asking?”
He grins, showing very firm and sharp teeth. “Divorce is always hard on kids. No matter how much work a single mom does, no matter the therapy sessions and counseling, there will always be scars, will always be permanent damage. The best a mom like you can do is to mitigate the damage.”
It’s like there are only two people in this famed room, him and me. “I don’t see what you’re driving at…Mr. Hoyt.”
His smile gets a bit wider. “Your husband…Ben, isn’t it? Works for the Interior Department, has a little problem with the bottle, and with college interns…I can see why you’re in the midst of divorcing him. His lawyer is Albert Greer, am I right?”
I now know where this is going, and I feel trapped, like I’m in the back of a Diamond cab in a sleet storm, the driver having lost control, and we’re spinning out as we slide into oncoming traffic in Dupont Circle.
“You’re correct, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Sure I’m right. I don’t know Albert Greer, but I know his firm. Lockney, Trace, Fulton and Smith. Big DC firm, does a lot of work, both public and private. Back when I was VP of operations at Global Strategic Solutions, we tossed a lot of business their way. I even let Mr. Lockney beat me a few times at golf over at Burning Tree. So he and his firm owe me a number of favors.”
I look to the President, to see what he thinks of all of this, but he’s staring over my shoulders, looking at a painting of a sailing ship over on the opposite curved wall.
“You’re a piece of shit,” I say, surprising even myself.
“No, not a piece,” he replies calmly. “Just the biggest chunk in all of DC…so let’s make this clear, so there’s no misunderstanding. You do what your President wants you to do, and we’ll give you everything you need…all the backup and information necessary, so long as it’s kept quiet and under the radar.”
A pause for effect, no doubt. He goes on, his tone sharper. “But if you leave here without saying yes, then you’re going to find out that your tentative divorce settlement is going off the rails. There’ll be lots more motions…hearings…expensive delays…and you can expect a final divorce when your pretty little girl is about ready to enter college…if she still has it together to go on beyond high school and if you have any money left for tuition bills.”
I’m breathing and staying conscious, but just barely. I stare at the chief of staff, and he doesn’t flinch or flicker, giving it right back to me. I say, “I see how you’ve gotten so far.”
“All those nasty rumors about me?” he says. “They’re true. We’re wasting time. What’s your answer?”
A small part of me wants the President to intervene, to make it all right, to make the bad man go away, but the President isn’t going to help me today.
I get up.
“Two answers,” I say. “The first one is yes.”
I walk away from the couch with the two men sitting there, one of whom I had once admired.
“And the second answer is go to hell.”
I exit the Oval Office and then remember something else important.
Because of its design, it’s impossible to slam the door in anger.