Hazardous Duty (Presidential Agent 8)

“Roscoe J. Danton,” the President said.

“He hates you, sir.”

“Yeah, I know. And everybody knows he hates me. That’s why people will believe him.”

The President looked impatiently around the room.

“Where the hell is Mulligan? He’s never around when I need him. How the hell long does it take to load one pint-sized female into her car?”

“Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken replied thoughtfully, “I would estimate about four minutes—no longer than five, unless Special Agent Mulligan encountered an unexpected problem.”

“Tell me, my fine-feathered friend, when you spent all those years at the Missouri School of Journalism, or later when you were covering women’s lacrosse for Time magazine, did the subject of rhetorical questions ever come up?”

Mr. Hoboken opened his mouth so that he could reply in the affirmative and define “rhetorical question” for the President’s edification. But before a sound slipped out Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan came into the Oval Office.

“Saddle up, Mulligan, it’s Round-Up time,” the President said.

V

[ONE]

The Watergate Apartments

2639 I Street, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

0935 8 June 2007

In the parking garage, Roscoe J. Danton stepped off the elevator and, his heart full of pleasant anticipation for what was shortly to follow, walked briskly toward his automobile.

First, just as soon as he unlocked the door and got in, his nostrils would be assailed by the smell of the fine leather in his new 2007 Jaguar XJR, a present to himself the day after he deposited his million-dollar-after-taxes bonus from the LCBF Corporation. Next, he w

ould have the pleasure of driving this automotive masterpiece on a beautiful spring day across town to the Old Ebbitt Grill, where he would partake of his regular breakfast of Chesapeake Bay eggs Benedict (succulent lumps of blue crab meat in place of the usual leathery Canadian bacon served by lesser establishments) washed down with one—or perhaps two—Bloody Marys.

None of this was to happen.

Just as he was putting the key in the door of his automobile, a familiar voice spoke to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Danton. And how are you, sir, on this fine spring morning?”

Roscoe turned and saw Supervisory Special Agent Robert J. Mulligan of the Secret Service, head of President Clendennen’s security detail.

“What can I do for you, Mulligan?” Roscoe asked.

“Actually, sir, this is a question of what Mr. Robin Hoboken can do for you.”

“Like what, for instance?”

“Mr. Hoboken did not elect to share that with me, Mr. Danton,” the massive Irishman said. “He sent me to offer you a ride to the White House, where he is waiting for you, sir.”

“Please tell Mr. Hoboken that while I appreciate his courtesy, unfortunately my schedule is such…”

Several things then occurred with astonishing rapidity.

Mr. Mulligan raised his hand above his head.

A GMC Yukon Denali with darkened windows suddenly appeared. Two muscular men erupted from it, grabbed Roscoe’s arms, lifted him off the ground, carried him to the Yukon, and deposited him in the backseat.