35
THE WEST WING
McDermott’s assistant met Marcus in the basement of the EEOB.
She did not take him to McDermott’s office. Instead, she led him through a tunnel few staffers knew about into the basement of the White House, telling him that she was under strict orders from her boss to keep him away from the prying eyes of the press corps. When they arrived at the presidential movie theater, she asked Marcus to step inside and wait.
Ten minutes later, McDermott arrived, stern-faced and impatient. “Take a seat,” he said.
“We’re not going to the Oval?” Marcus asked.
“No.”
“Bill, come on, if the president is going to fire me, he should do it to my face. Haven’t I earned at least—?”
McDermott cut him off. “Marcus, listen to me.”
“No. I have the right to—”
“Marcus, sit down and—”
“I’m not going to sit down and take a lecture. If the president has something to say—”
“Shut up, Marcus—for once in your life would you just shut your mouth and listen to me?”
Marcus felt adrenaline surging into his system. He resented everything about McDermott’s body language and tone and the feeling that he was suddenly back in the corps as a lowly recruit. But for the moment he would listen to what the man had to say.
“Twenty minutes ago, the president collapsed in the Oval.”
Marcus could barely believe it, but it was obvious that McDermott wasn’t kidding.
“He was having a screaming match with Stephens and then . . .”
“What?”
“He just keeled over.”
“Why? What happened?
“We have no idea. And nobody knows what I just told you. Just Stephens, me, the president’s detail, the chief of staff, his medical team, and now you.”
“The press doesn’t know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How could they miss him being whisked off to Walter Reed in an ambulance?”
“Because he wasn’t whisked off.”
“Why not?”
“The detail took him to the Residence.”
“Why?”
“Because he ordered them to.”
“He’s still conscious?”
“He was at the time. I don’t know about now. The president’s physician is working on him as we speak. Specialists are on their way from Walter Reed.”
“Where’s the VP?”
“Stop.”
“Why? What did—?”
“Just stop—you’re acting like you’re on his detail, Marcus. But you’re not in the Secret Service anymore, and I’m not looking for advice. I summoned you because the president has suspended you without pay, effectively immediately.”
“Suspended me?”
“Pending an investigation into your conduct and how badly you botched the intelligence and put this administration into the toilet.”
McDermott handed Marcus an envelope. Marcus opened it and read the two-sentence letter, printed on White House stationery and signed by the chief of staff.
“Didn’t Stephens tell the president to fire me?” Marcus asked.
“Of course.”
“Which is why he rushed to the White House the moment he heard the news?”
“That surprises you?” McDermott asked.
“Hardly—but why isn’t the president canning me? Why only a suspension?”
“Don’t kid yourself, Marcus. I have no doubt the president is going to pull the trigger on you when the time is right. First he’ll let Congress have its little investigation. Then he’ll give them a scalp or two, including yours, but at a moment of his choosing, no one else’s.”
“That wasn’t good enough for Stephens?” Marcus asked.
“Apparently not.”
“And Stephens went ballistic?”
“That’s about the order of things.”
“Did you defend me?” Marcus asked, already knowing the answer.
“It wasn’t my fight.”
“Bill, I’ve known you for almost half my life.”
“And you’ve resented me for most of it.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is, but that’s immaterial,” McDermott replied, his manner as cold as it was clinical. “How exactly was I supposed to defend you, Marcus? What exactly is the case you’d want me to make? This isn’t about friendship. It’s not about loyalty. It’s about competence or the lack thereof. This thing is on you—all of it—and the best thing to do right now would be to submit your resignation and spare the president and this country a political witch trial it cannot afford.”
“So just to make sure I’m hearing you correctly, Bill, the president of the United States made the decision to order the bombing, not me—since I work for an agency that is only allowed by law to collect and analyze intelligence, not make policy or take direct action—yet you want me to fall on my sword for the whole thing? And now the president has collapsed from some unknown ailment. But rather than be transparent with the world, you guys are keeping it a secret, lying to the press, lying to Congress, and lying to the entire country about his health. And you’re telling me to ‘do the best thing’?”
“Get off your high horse. It wasn’t my call to keep this secret. That’s way above my pay grade. But that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“The point is the president is under a tremendous amount of stress—and frankly you put him there. I’m not going to stand here and argue with you about it. You know what you told the president and the rest of the NSC. You know he made the decision based on your advice. And you know innocent civilians are dead because of it. So you’re suspended. Soon you’ll be fired. Right now, I need your White House hard pass, your CIA credentials, your DSS badge, and your gun. Next, you need to clean out your desk. Then you’ll be escorted off the premises.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is, Marcus.”
Marcus stood toe to toe with McDermott, disgusted that after all they’d been through together, the man hadn’t lifted a finger to defend him. Yet Marcus had no recourse. There was nothing he could do but comply. A shouting match wasn’t going to get him anything except, perhaps, a night in jail. Marcus could see a uniformed Secret Service officer standing outside in the hallway. So he forced himself to keep his mouth shut and handed over everything to McDermott, even his Sig Sauer.
Then his phone rang. As he pulled it out of his pocket, they both looked down at the caller ID. It was Pete Hwang.
“You should take it,” McDermott said.
Marcus wasn’t going to, but McDermott insisted.
“He knows you’re with me. He wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”
Marcus held his tongue and hit Answer. “What?” he said, curt and defensive.
“Are you in the Oval?”
“No.”
“Are you with the president?”
“No—Pete, this isn’t the time.”
“Are you still with Bill?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You both need to hear this.”
“What?”
“Put me on speaker,” Pete insisted.
Against his better judgment, Marcus did. “All right, go, but make it fast.”
“There’s been a terrorist attack in Yemen,” Pete explained.
“What was the target?” Marcus asked.
“A Christian relief organization in Aden.”
“When?” McDermott asked.
“It just happened.”
“Casualties?”
“Five dead, maybe more—but it gets worse.”
“How?”
“Three American aid workers—all women—have been taken hostage.”
“Kairos?” Marcus asked.
“It’s not confirmed, but it’s got all the earmarks of them, yes,” Pete replied.
“Well, isn’t that lovely,” McDermott sneered. “The one-two punch. First Kairos leaks their macabre video to CNN and humiliates POTUS in front of the entire world. Then they grab three American women to bury him alive. Congratulations, Marcus, the blowback for your Libya fiasco is well underway.”