The Target (Will Robie 3)

can’t get close to him.”

“The Secret Service has been made aware of the need for heightened protection, although the president already enjoys the best protection in the world.”

“So if not the president, what then?” asked Reel.

“The vice president? The Speaker of the House? A prominent cabinet secretary? A Supreme Court justice perhaps? Maybe even a dirty bomb in a populous area. And the target would be largely symbolic and the message would be, ‘We can get to your leaders or people anytime we want.’ It would definitely be a blow to this country should they succeed.”

“But what’s the endgame on this?” asked Robie.

“After they strike back Pyongyang may release to the world whatever evidence they have about a plot led by this country to assassinate their leader.”

“The world won’t believe the North Koreans. They hardly have credibility,” Robie pointed out.

“But in this case they would be telling the truth, wouldn’t they? And we don’t know what they might have discovered. From Pak. Or from Lloyd Carson. The DCI doesn’t think there is anything there. But his judgment has not been infallible.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Reel icily.

Robie said, “You didn’t call us in here to tell us to do nothing.”

“No, I wanted to warn you,” said Blue Man.

“About what?” asked Reel.

“At the cottage where you saw Pak kill himself?”

“Yeah?” said Robie warily.

“You may have been seen.”

“That’s impossible,” said Reel. “We didn’t see anyone and our surveillance cameras showed no activity.”

“Nevertheless, the rumblings we’re hearing indicate you may have been seen. And if so, you may become targets as well.”

Robie looked over at Reel. “Well, it won’t be the first time. Although I think I’d take the neo-Nazis over the North Koreans.”

Chapter

53

PRESIDENT TOM CASSION SAT AT the breakfast table in his family’s private quarters in the White House. He’d already been given his daily briefing and was fortifying himself with an extra cup of coffee before truly beginning his day, which was mapped out to the minute.

He looked across the table at his wife, Eleanor, or Ellie, as he and her closest friends called her.

“I saw your schedule for the next couple of days,” he said, folding up a copy of the Washington Post and setting it next to his largely uneaten breakfast. “Pretty busy.”

She looked over her teacup at him. “Right. And I saw yours. Pretty empty. What a slacker.”

He smiled resignedly. “It’s not that bad.”

She glanced at all the food left on his plate. “You haven’t been eating lately, Tom.”

“Stomach’s been a little unsettled. Just under the weather.”

“Go see the doctor, then. You have your own private one.”

He nodded. “I will,” he said, vaguely staring off.

“When do you get back?” she said.

“Four stops. Seattle, San Francisco, Houston, and Miami. Air Force One wheels down tomorrow afternoon at two.”

“Sort of like the campaign.”

“Not nearly as busy. How many times did we travel to eight or ten cities in a single day?”

“Too many times,” she said dryly.

“And these days politicians never stop campaigning. With the changes in the laws any amount of money can be thrown into the ring. You have to make certain you get your share of it, because the other side certainly will take up any slack.”

She said, “I miss the days of printing our own campaign flyers and collecting checks in a coffee can at backyard barbecues.”

“Sometimes I do too.”

He ran his gaze over Eleanor as she went back to studying her schedule for the day. She was still young, forty-six, four years younger than he was. They had two kids, Claire and Tommy Junior. Claire was fifteen going on forty. She had adapted extremely well to the life they now had. She’d made many friends at school and was active and popular at Sidwell Friends, and a very good student. Tommy was still very much a little boy who had at first loved living in the White House but had quickly grown to hate it. Neither the president nor his wife really knew what to do about it, and their son’s unhappiness was weighing heavily on both of them.

Eleanor’s voice broke through these thoughts. “The kids have a week off from school soon. I was thinking about taking them out of town. Maybe Nantucket. The Donovans have offered the house again.”

He gaped at her. “Nantucket? At this time of year? It’ll be cold and rainy.”

“Actually, the average high is nearly seventy degrees and the average low is over fifty. And long-range weather forecasts say precipitation levels will be well below average, although the skies will probably be overcast. The Atlantic Ocean helps moderate the climate. It’ll be warmer there than in Boston.”

“As usual, I see you’ve done your homework, Ellie,” said the president grudgingly.

She smiled. “And the tourists are all gone. It will be private and we can regroup as a family. Toasty fires, curling up with a good book. Playing board games. Taking walks together on the beach. Just recharging. Getting to spend time with the kids.”

“You mean spending time with Tommy. Claire is doing just fine.”

“I mean as a family,” she said firmly. “And while I know your schedule is packed, it would be wonderful if you could come for at least a day.”

The president looked at her strangely. Their lives were all governed by phone-book-thick itineraries with travel mapped out well in advance.

“Is this on the schedule? I didn’t see it.”

“No, I just was thinking about doing it.”

“Well, I seriously doubt I’ll be able to come for even a day. My schedule is packed for the next two months. And besides, the voters don’t like presidents to just pop off to vacations. You’ll have to check with the Secret Service. They’ll need time to prepare. It might be too difficult on such short notice.”

“I’ve already got them working on it.”

“Okay, hope it works out. But I think you’re overreacting to Tommy’s issues. He just needs more time to settle in, that’s all.” He picked up his newspaper.

Eleanor sighed, started to say something, and then returned to her tea and schedule, looking over notes for a speech she was set to deliver after a tour of the White House she was giving to a group of senators’ spouses.

The president did not seem to notice his wife’s disappointment. His stomach was unsettled for one simple reason.

Guilt. Massive, unrelenting guilt.

He had given his word to General Pak that he would carry through on all that they had planned. He had said this to Pak face-to-face. And now the man was dead. The president had actually sent agents out to kill him, but Pak had taken his own life. And had told the agents to be sure to tell him, “Go to hell.” If the positions had been reversed the president would have done the same thing. He had betrayed the man, pure and simple. And now he had been told that Pak’s adopted children had probably been sent to the labor camps, most likely for the rest of their lives.

I betrayed the man. I killed the man. I’m guilty of murder.

“Dad? Dad?”

The president shook his head and glanced around.

His daughter, Claire, had come down to breakfast. “I wanted you to look at the term paper I did for American Gov class.”

“You think I know anything about government?” he said, attempting a weak smile.

“No, but Mom is obviously busy,” she retorted with a broad smile.

He laughed while Eleanor looked on, amused. Then he continued to proudly watch as his daughter dug into her breakfast while scanning notes for what looked like her math class.

He watched warily as his son shuffled into the room wearing his school uniform. The boy had gone from a public school to one of the most elite institutions in

the country. The transition had not been without some hiccups.