Out of the Dark

45 The Entitlement of the Mighty

Martin’s Tavern had hosted every president since Give ’Em Hell Harry, a slice of D.C. lore that the Martin clan didn’t hesitate to advertise at every turn.

President Bennett sat at “The Proposal Booth,” where JFK had allegedly popped the question to Jackie. Commemorated by a brass plaque screwed into the wall, the apocryphal event had recently been corroborated by an aging eyewitness, a former ambassador named Marion Smoak, who recalled watching the young senator from Massachusetts consummate the political alliance that would serve as the cornerstone of Camelot.

The Georgetown eatery, nearly a hundred years old, made every effort to look its age — dimly lit wooden booths, antique fox-hunt engravings in warped frames, charmingly hideous stained-glass lamps hanging over a bar worn from decades of forearms and workday stress.

In the cramped space between booths, tables were arranged cheek to jowl. If you weren’t the president, you’d have to watch your elbows.

At Agent Templeton’s request, the Service had cleared out the restaurant. Through the window Bennett could see agents at intervals all up the sidewalk, hands crossed over their groins, the trademark posture. At least a third of the plainclothes “civilians” in eyeshot, at closer look, sported surveillance kits, earpieces snugged into place, pockets bulging with radio transmitters.

Until recently Bennett had felt like the king of all he surveyed.

Since Orphan X had announced himself, the world had remained just as vast, but it seemed the space from which Bennett could view it was shrinking.

Naomi Templeton sat across from him, that blunt-cut blond hair framing an obstinate face. “—hoping you will reconsider and cancel, Mr. President. It’s like sending a Google Maps route to Orphan X.”

Bennett dragged the tines of his fork through the gravy-covered slab of turkey. He could taste the giblets in the sauce, rich and meaty. He looked across at Johnson’s favorite table.

And then at Nixon’s.

“My appearance before Congress is a gesture of grace, Templeton. Backing away from it would be disastrous. I am not going to let an assassin dictate the operations of the highest office in the nation.”

“Mr. President—”

He set down his fork firmly, the slender handle plinking on the rim of his plate. “I’m the leader of the free world. At your disposal you have the most advanced and resource-rich security apparatus history has ever known. If you can’t get me seventeen blocks safely, we both deserve to die.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “Continue.”

She returned her focus to the leather-bound folder before her. “It’ll be the formal motorcade package, forty vehicles, and extra SUVs to accommodate a second CAT team. I want our backup to have backup. We’ll cordon off the blocks along the route and send an intel car in the lead, running real-time facial recognition on everyone behind the barriers. Let’s see.” She tapped her pen against her chin, her eyes scanning down the page. “Motorcycle units blocking side streets, post standers at every intersection, three Park Police helos in the air the whole way.”

“And the ground game?”

“We’re locking down all the buildings along the primary route as well as the two contingency routes — that means each doorway, entrance, and exit secured. By the time the motorcade pulls out of 1600 Penn, not a single window between you and the Capitol will be open. My men are already acquiring master keys to every condo building, every office, every hotel room. We’ll secure utility rooms, roof access points, circuit boards — anything that could throw a wrench. FSD — sorry, Forensic Services Division — has worked up interactive 3-D digital models of every structure along the trajectory, complete with floor-by-floor blueprints. This afternoon I’m personally leading the briefing to walk everyone through the route one square foot at a time. Thursday morning we’re getting EOD on loan from the army to spot-weld manhole covers shut, remove mailboxes, all that jazz. They’ll run dogs through alleys and garages, make sure we pass the sniff test. Building-extraction scenarios are complex when we’re dealing with the Capitol Building, but we’ve worked up several…”

As she continued, Bennett took a measured sip of the 1865 Château Lafite that Billy kept stored in the back for him. The grapes had been harvested the year the Confederacy surrendered, and they’d aged through both world wars and a host of others, through the polio epidemic and the Great Depression, the airplane and the A-bomb, space travel and supercomputers, only to spend themselves in a moment’s pleasure upon his palate.

The world flowered in order to be picked by the daring. It was a privilege, yes. And the entitlement of the mighty.

“… full-body scanners at the door,” Templeton was saying. “Airspace will be cleared, of course, but we’ll also shut down drone flights, model aircraft, everything. Capitol police will have two mobile command centers in the vicinity, feeding directly into the White House Communications Agency switchboard.…”

Most presidents didn’t require this level of detail.

Most presidents didn’t cut their teeth in the DoD.

Most presidents hadn’t been hunted by Orphan X.

It would have been easier in a dozen different ways to receive the brief from Templeton in the Oval, but he’d insisted on the excursion to Georgetown over her strenuous objections. He needed to make a point. The bottle on the table had waited more than 150 years for him to consume it — three times the span of his own life. Time waited on him, acquiesced to his desires, bowed before him.

Not vice versa.

He leaned back, taking in the storied walls of the tavern. The entryway featured another Victorian flourish, beveled leaded-glass windows announcing the restaurant. He stared at the tavern’s name sandblasted into the black flashed glass, thinking of everything that had come before him and everything that would come after.

For the first time, he truly entertained the notion that Orphan X could succeed. Victoria Donahue-Carr would assume the Resolute desk. The media would rejoice. The sun would rise on another day.

And he would be nothing more than another brass placard screwed into another table here in Martin’s Tavern, like Nixon but remembered less fondly.

He found himself staring out the window, considering the passing cars, the facing windows, the pedestrians across the street.

Everything a threat.

The heat of the gravy wafted up to him, heavy with the scent of organ meat. For the first time he could remember, he’d lost focus.

Abruptly, he directed his attention back at Templeton. “How many agents are here?”

He’d cut her off, a rare show of impulsivity.

She was taken aback, her head slightly withdrawn. “Seventy-five. We have G-rides circling the area as well. Are you concerned?”

He said, “No.”

He could sense her eyes on his face, studying him.

“Was it really worth it?” she said. “To eat here?”

“Yes.” He pushed his plate aside. “To show I’m not afraid.”

He reacted instantly at the bang — a startling percussion from deep in the restaurant. The agents by the entryway swung around, their SIGs clearing leather. Templeton was already halfway over the table, one hand grabbing his arm, forcing him down.

He’d ducked beneath the windowsill, flattening against the weathered wood of the booth. Crimson dripped down past his face, and for a moment he thought it was his own blood, that he was staring at what had an instant before rushed through his veins and arteries.

The smell of bordeaux reached his nostrils.

And then the sound worked its way from the stem of his brain to the white matter, allowing him to process it as a metallic clang from the kitchen.

A dropped pan.

He pulled himself upright as the last of the Lafite dribbled from the knocked-over bottle, pattering onto his thighs.

He righted the bottle, thumping it down on the table again.

He said, “I’m ready to head back.”