Read Online We Are Holding the President Hostage by Warren Adler - Free Book Online
Authors: Warren Adler
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get things done."
He kissed her perfunctorily on the forehead and stormed out
of the room.
8
THE PRESIDENT STOPPED by the Oval Office to pick up the
mail that was to be delivered to the relatives and to review the statement he
would make. He looked at his watch. Nearly three. The relatives, he knew, were
already gathered in the East Room. The television cameras were set up, all the
geegaws of a presidential appearance in place.
His immortal words would go out to the four corners of the
world. America is a wimp, he thought, mocking himself. Sorry, folks, we've lost
our cojones. Go on. Take a piece of our ass. It's up for grabs.
The Secret Service contingent was ready and waiting outside
the corridor. He knew the routine, the pacing, the right moves. They wore their
little lapel buttons and earpieces that plugged them in to the great
orchestration known as "protecting the President."
He supposed he had upset Amy with his talk about danger.
Subconsciously deliberate, he decided, regretting it. But it was easy to
dispense advice about violence and morality when you were safe and snug. Or
thought so.
The fact was that danger existed every second of every day.
Indeed, he had been continually reminded of this situation by the head of the
Secret Service contingent, Ike Fellows. No system was perfect. To press the
point home, he had been shown notes, letters, transcripts of conversations, all
threatening, in one way or another, to eliminate him. Whenever he exhibited the
slightest bit of bravado or machismo, the material was trotted out for his
perusal.
"You make them up," he had told Fellows.
"Just to scare the hell out of me."
"I'm not asking you to be a believer. Just to remind
you of four things." It was his standard reply and the President knew his
response.
"And what are those?"
"Lincoln, McKinley, Garfield, and Kennedy."
"And Roosevelt and Reagan. The two that got
away."
The remainder would invariably find its mark.
Nevertheless, he had offered a pro forma objection to the
placement of cement barriers around the White House entrances and the use of
walk-through security devices to check all incoming personnel, visitors, and
guests.
"It's demeaning," he had protested to Fellows.
"Yes, it is," Fellows had agreed. "But less
demeaning than lying on the floor showing the world the presidential
innards."
Fellows knew all the stock answers and was savvy enough to
spare him the "My job is to keep you alive" crap. Mostly, the
President worried about Amy and the kids. Their children were both grown. They
had their own lives; Tad, a stockbroker in New York, Barbara married to a
doctor in Connecticut. They, too, were protected by the Secret Service. But
there was some comfort in the historical fact that no presidential wife or
child had ever fallen victim to either an assassin's bullet or a kidnapping.
As instructed, he moved through the corridor from the Oval
Office in the direction of the East Room. Nickels met him at the corridor's
entrance.
"Ready?" Nickels asked.
"Like a pig being introduced to a python." The
President smirked.
"Which one are you?"
The President looked at his Chief of Staff and snorted.
"Where's Potter?" he asked, looking around for
his press secretary.
"He just called, Mr. President," Nickels said.
"He asked us to wait."
"Wait? I'm the President."
The little self-effacing wisecrack seemed to fall flat.
"Got a good house?" the President asked.
"Unfortunately."
"Want to switch jobs for the rest of the
afternoon?"
"I would if I could, Mr. President."
And so you would, the President thought. Nickels was a good
man, loyal and tough on the troops. Just the way he wanted it. They waited for
a minute or so. The President began to get impatient. Then he saw him, coming
across the corridor from his own office. He was walking slowly, as if the
unhurrying gait was a deliberate attempt to advertise an oncoming sense of
doom. He was obviously not carrying happy baggage.
"What's with you, Steve?" the
He kissed her perfunctorily on the forehead and stormed out
of the room.
8
THE PRESIDENT STOPPED by the Oval Office to pick up the
mail that was to be delivered to the relatives and to review the statement he
would make. He looked at his watch. Nearly three. The relatives, he knew, were
already gathered in the East Room. The television cameras were set up, all the
geegaws of a presidential appearance in place.
His immortal words would go out to the four corners of the
world. America is a wimp, he thought, mocking himself. Sorry, folks, we've lost
our cojones. Go on. Take a piece of our ass. It's up for grabs.
The Secret Service contingent was ready and waiting outside
the corridor. He knew the routine, the pacing, the right moves. They wore their
little lapel buttons and earpieces that plugged them in to the great
orchestration known as "protecting the President."
He supposed he had upset Amy with his talk about danger.
Subconsciously deliberate, he decided, regretting it. But it was easy to
dispense advice about violence and morality when you were safe and snug. Or
thought so.
The fact was that danger existed every second of every day.
Indeed, he had been continually reminded of this situation by the head of the
Secret Service contingent, Ike Fellows. No system was perfect. To press the
point home, he had been shown notes, letters, transcripts of conversations, all
threatening, in one way or another, to eliminate him. Whenever he exhibited the
slightest bit of bravado or machismo, the material was trotted out for his
perusal.
"You make them up," he had told Fellows.
"Just to scare the hell out of me."
"I'm not asking you to be a believer. Just to remind
you of four things." It was his standard reply and the President knew his
response.
"And what are those?"
"Lincoln, McKinley, Garfield, and Kennedy."
"And Roosevelt and Reagan. The two that got
away."
The remainder would invariably find its mark.
Nevertheless, he had offered a pro forma objection to the
placement of cement barriers around the White House entrances and the use of
walk-through security devices to check all incoming personnel, visitors, and
guests.
"It's demeaning," he had protested to Fellows.
"Yes, it is," Fellows had agreed. "But less
demeaning than lying on the floor showing the world the presidential
innards."
Fellows knew all the stock answers and was savvy enough to
spare him the "My job is to keep you alive" crap. Mostly, the
President worried about Amy and the kids. Their children were both grown. They
had their own lives; Tad, a stockbroker in New York, Barbara married to a
doctor in Connecticut. They, too, were protected by the Secret Service. But
there was some comfort in the historical fact that no presidential wife or
child had ever fallen victim to either an assassin's bullet or a kidnapping.
As instructed, he moved through the corridor from the Oval
Office in the direction of the East Room. Nickels met him at the corridor's
entrance.
"Ready?" Nickels asked.
"Like a pig being introduced to a python." The
President smirked.
"Which one are you?"
The President looked at his Chief of Staff and snorted.
"Where's Potter?" he asked, looking around for
his press secretary.
"He just called, Mr. President," Nickels said.
"He asked us to wait."
"Wait? I'm the President."
The little self-effacing wisecrack seemed to fall flat.
"Got a good house?" the President asked.
"Unfortunately."
"Want to switch jobs for the rest of the
afternoon?"
"I would if I could, Mr. President."
And so you would, the President thought. Nickels was a good
man, loyal and tough on the troops. Just the way he wanted it. They waited for
a minute or so. The President began to get impatient. Then he saw him, coming
across the corridor from his own office. He was walking slowly, as if the
unhurrying gait was a deliberate attempt to advertise an oncoming sense of
doom. He was obviously not carrying happy baggage.
"What's with you, Steve?" the
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