First Family

CHAPTER 73

THERE IS probably no more formal, preplanned space for sale in the world than the Oval Office. Who was allowed into the room, from the prime minister of a relatively unimportant country, to a large compaign donor, could take days if not weeks of wrangling behind the scenes. Simply an invitation to the Oval Office for folks not routinely engaged in business with the man must be fought for with equal parts ferocity and delicacy. Once you gained entry to the hallowed space, the treatment you received-a handshake, a pat on the back, a signed photo as opposed to merely the picture-was all in the details. And in the negotiations. The Oval Office was not an environment that encouraged spontaneity. The Secret Service in particular frowned on anything approaching unplanned movements.

It was late, but Dan Cox was knocking out a few of these obligatory requests before he left in the morning for his UN address. He had been briefed on who these people were; mostly elite campaign supporters who'd opened their checkbooks and, more importantly, induced lots of their rich friends to do the same.

They came in one by one, and the president went into automatic greeting mode. Shake hand, nod, smile, pat back, say a few words, and accept the groveling thanks in return. For some particularly heavy hitters, deftly pointed out by his team of aides who hovered everywhere like the guardian vultures they were, the president would pick up some national treasure off his desk and talk to them about it. A lucky few even received a small memento. And these happy folks left believing that they had registered a personal connection with the man. That some brilliant thing they had said had precipitated the world leader giving them a signed presidential golf ball, or box of presidential cuff links, or pens that had the seal on it, all of which the White House kept by the ton for just such occasions.

This carefully planned process was ripped savagely apart when the door to the Oval Office was flung open, no mean task since it was quite a heavy door.

Dan Cox looked up to see his wife standing there-no, rather, teetering there in her high heels, stylish dress, her coat trailing behind her, her eyes wild and unfocused, her normally perfect hair in disarray. Right next to her were two anxious-looking Secret Service agents. The conflicted looks on their faces were clear. Despite the unofficial policy allowing the First Lady to enter the Oval Office mostly when she wanted to, on this occasion they obviously hadn't known whether to let her in or tackle the woman.

"Jane?" the astonished president said as he dropped a golf ball he was about to hand to a real estate developer from Ohio who had raised a truckload of money for Cox's campaign.

"Dan!" she exclaimed breathlessly. And she was indeed out of breath since she'd run all the way from where the limo had dropped her off and the White House has a pretty large footprint.

"My God, what is it? Are you ill?"

She took a step forward. So did the agents, as they delicately moved in front of her. They might have thought she actually had become ill, or had been doused with some poisonous substance and they were duty-bound not to let it infect the leader of the free world.

"We need to talk. Now!"

"I'm just finishing up here." He glanced at the man who had retrieved the golf ball from the floor. Smiling, Cox said, "Been a long day for everybody." He took back the ball. "Let me just sign that for you…" Usually terrific with names, the interrupted president had just had a very human brain fart.

Jay, his "body man," sprang forward to remedy this. "As we discussed, Mr. President, Wally Garrett here has raised more money for your reelection campaign in the Cincinnati area than anyone else, sir."

"Well, Wally, I really appreciate-"

What the president really appreciated would never be known because Jane had shot forward, grabbed the golf ball from her husband's hand, and flung it across the room, where it struck a portrait of Thomas Jefferson, one of Dan Cox's personal heroes, leaving old Tom with a gouge where his left eye had been.

The Secret Service agents rushed forward, but Dan held up his hand, stopping them in their tracks. He nodded at his aides and Garrett was rushed from the room without his coveted golf ball. However, no politician who had achieved the position Dan Cox had, ever left anything to happenstance or let a donor go away unhappy. The Ohio man would receive a signed photo of the president, and VIP tickets to an upcoming event, with the understanding that what he'd just seen would never be made public.

Dan Cox reached out to his wife. "Jane, what the hell is-"

"Not here, upstairs. I don't trust this room."

She glared at the agents and aides, turned and rushed from the room as fast as she had entered it. The aides and agents looked from her to the president as soon as the thick door had slammed behind her. No one dared to speak. There was no thought that any of them had about what they had just seen that they would ever voluntarily verbalize in front of their boss.

Cox stood there for a few moments. Any politician who'd reached the level that he had, had truly seen it all. And handled it all. Yet even for the veteran Dan Cox, this was a new situation.

"I guess I better go see what she wants," he finally said. The sea of bodies parted and the president headed out.

Larry Foster, his protection detail chief who had been called while this had been going on, appeared and said, "Mr. President, do you want us to accompany you…?" The strain was evident in the veteran agent's face as he struggled to finish his thought in the most judicious way possible. "All the way, sir?"

Meaning beyond the door to their private quarters, which was typically taboo for the security detail to cross, unless asked.

Cox seemed to consider this for a moment before saying, "Uh, no that won't be necessary, Larry." As he walked out, he added over his shoulder, "But stay close. Um, just in case Jane needs anything."

"Absolutely, Mr. President. We can be in there in seconds."

Cox headed upstairs to confront his wife. The Secret Service team followed and stood a few feet beyond the portal to their private quarters, listening for anything that would indicate the president was in jeopardy in any way. No doubt each of them was wondering the same thing. They were duty-bound to protect the president from all danger. They had been trained to sacrifice their own lives so that single life could continue.

Yet what they had not been exactly prepared for was a situation that might be materializing a few feet away right now. What if the danger the president was in was coming from his wife?

Could they use deadly force if necessary? Could they even kill her to save him? That was not really spelled out in the Secret Service manual, but each agent was thinking the answer to that was probably "yes."

This had happened once before if presidential lore was to be believed. Warren G. Harding had been president and he and his mistress had been found out by Mrs. Harding. They had taken refuge in a closet in the White House and the angry First Lady had attempted to chop down the door, allegedly with a fireman's ax. The Secret Service had to delicately relieve her of the weapon and Harding had survived. However, he had succumbed later in a San Francisco hotel room under mysterious circumstances while still president. Some thought the missus had finally gotten her revenge through a poisoned dish served to her husband. That had never been proved because Mrs. Harding had not allowed an autopsy, and had ordered her husband's body quickly embalmed. It was a fine example of a cheated-on wife's sheer will topping the desires of an entire nation.

Fire axes were no longer kept in the White House. And while there was a small kitchen in the private quarters, the First Lady never really did any of the cooking anymore. Or if she did, it was far from certain that any president who knew how Harding had died would actually eat it.

Larry Foster racked his brain, trying to remember if there were any letter openers in the personal quarters that could be used as a weapon. A heavy lamp that could crack a presidential skull? A poker from the fireplace that could end that supreme life on his watch? Foster thought he could feel the ulcer actually forming in his belly as he stood in the hall contemplating the end of his career. Though it was far from warm inside the White House, sweat stains appeared under Foster's armpits and trickles of the stuff rose on his forehead. He and his team inched closer as their collective heart rates spiked.

Each of the agents could envision the next day's headlines in six-inch-high letters: