Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

The fact is, most assassination attempts take place when the President is away from his customary haunts."

"The President is firm on the date," Fawcett said. "As long as you work for the President you'll do as you're ordered, same as me.

If he wants to row a dinghy alone to Miami, that's his choice."

Fawcett had struck the wrong nerve. Lucas' face turned rigid and he moved until he was standing toe to toe with the White House Chief of Staff.

"First off, by order of Congress, I don't work for the President.

I work for the Treasury Department. So he can't tell me to bug off and go his own way. My duty is to provide him with the best security with the least inconvenience to his private life. When he takes the elevator to his living quarters upstairs, my men and I remain below.

But from the time he steps out on the first floor until he goes back up again, his ass belongs to the Secret Service."

Fawcett was perceptive about the personalities of the men who worked around the President. He realized he'd overstepped with Lucas and was wise enough to call off the war. He knew Lucas was dedicated to his job and loyal beyond any question to the man in the Oval Office.

But there was no way they could be close friends-professional associates perhaps, reserved, but watchful of each other. Since they were not rivals for power, they would never be enemies.

"No need to get upset, Oscar. I stand reprimanded. I'll inform the President of your concern. But I doubt if he'll change his mind."

Lucas sighed. "We'll do our best with the time left. But he must be made to understand that it's imperative for him to cooperate with his security people."

"What can I say? You know better than I do that all politicians think they're immortal. To them power is more than an aphrodisiac-it's a drug high and alcoholic haze combined. Nothing excites them or inflates their ego like a mob of people cheering and clamoring to shake their hand. That's why they're all vulnerable to a killer standing in the right place at the right time."

"Tell me about it," said Lucas. "I've baby-sat four Presidents."

"And you haven't lost a one," Fawcett added.

"I came close twice with Ford, once with Reagan."

"You can't predict behavior patterns accurately."

"Maybe not. But after all these years in the protection racket you develop a gut reaction. That's why I feel uneasy about this boat cruise."

Fawcett stiffened. "You think someone is out to kill him?"

"Someone is always out to kill him. We investigate twenty possible crazies a day and carry an active caseload of two thousand persons we consider dangerous or capable of assassination."

Fawcett put his hand on Lucas' shoulder. "Don't worry, Oscar.

Friday’s excursion won't be given to the press until the last minute. I promise you that much."

"I appreciate that, Dan."

"Besides, what can happen out on the Potomac?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe the unexpected," Lucas answered, a strange vacancy in his voice. "It's the unexpected that gives me nightmares."

Megan Blair, the President's secretary, noticed Dan Fawcett standing in the doorway of her cubbyhole office and nodded at him over her typewriter. "Hi, Dan. I didn't see you."

"How's the Chief this morning?" he asked, his daily ritual of testing the water before entering the Oval Office.

"Tired," she answered. "The reception honoring the movie industry ran past one A.M."

Megan was a handsome woman in her early forties, with a bright small-town friendliness. She wore her black hair cropped short and was ten pounds on the skinny side. She was a dynamo who loved her job and her boss like nothing else in her life. She arrived early, left late and worked weekends. Unmarried, with only two casual affairs behind her, she relished her independent single life. Fawcett was always amazed that she could carry on a conversation and type at the same time.

"I'll tread lightly, and keep his appointments to a minimum so he can take it easy."

"You're too late. He's already in conference with Admiral Sandecker."