The Paris Protection (21 page)

Flash-flash.
 

A time of hope for the future.

Flash.

*     *     *

The celebration had begun with a boom of music and the rampant flashing of the auditorium’s elaborate lighting effects. Rainbow confetti and big, bright balloons floated down from the rafters.

“You did it!” her husband yelled at her over the cheering crowd.

“Mommy! Look!” her younger daughter, Jessica, shouted excitedly, pointing at the deluge of balloons about to engulf them.

Her older daughter, Stacy, just stared with moist eyes and an enormous smile, facing the sea of campaign staff and supporters stretching out from the stage.

President-elect Clarke smiled because the cameras were on her, and waved at the jubilant cheering crowd. She contained her desire to jump up and down and scream, because the world was watching and she must uphold the dignity of the office she had just won. She stood strong and composed, but the unfathomable prestige now being bestowed on her was something impossible to prepare for. Even now, in this historic moment, in the lights and under the microscope of the world and her own people, she thought about how her every action and gesture and expression would be perceived by others. Even in this moment, she wasn’t allowed to be truly herself. She had to be calculating in her response: modest, intelligent, passionate—a stateswoman and a leader. But inside, she felt both excited and, to her surprise, terrified.

She had run for the office of president of the United States because she had witnessed the failures of other leaders and believed she could do the job better. But now she worried that the job was impossible for anyone to succeed at. How could any one person be expected to lead such a diverse, complex, powerful nation? She loved America deeply, and she suddenly felt terrified that its immediate future now depended more on her than on any other citizen. What if she couldn’t do the things she had promised during her campaign? What if the system of government continued to be too difficult and divisive for her to lead? What if her political and economic ideas were wrong? What if she inadvertently hurt the country in her efforts to help? For the first time, she felt the weight of the power she had been given, and was astonished at just how heavy it was.

But she had to hide these fears. She waved at the crowd again, smiled, hugged her husband, and kissed both her children on the forehead.

Then she turned and walked toward the left side of the stage, to a group of supporters who had been cheering loudest. She wondered if they understood, amid their jubilation, that plenty of Americans out there would be disappointed, frustrated, even angry that she had won. She smiled and waved but was haunted by the knowledge that only slightly more than half of all Americans supported her.

Near the corner of the stage, standing in the shadows, was the Secret Service special agent in charge of her protection detail throughout the campaign. His cool gray eyes had been watching the crowd, but for a brief second she noticed him glance at her and smile when their eyes met.

Rock music was booming again, and the crowd seemed distracted by something on the image board behind the large stage. She seemed to have a moment until the crowd would settle down enough for her victory speech, so she took the opportunity to step over to Special Agent John Alexander, shake his hand, and thank him for his work. She knew it wasn’t protocol, but in this moment of uncontrollable celebration, many protocols throughout the auditorium felt relaxed.

“Congratulations, Governor,” John said with a smile. “I mean, Madam President-elect.”

Abigail gave him a joyous grin. “I hope you’ll stay on with me, John.”

“It’s the director’s call, not mine,” he said, “but I hope so, too. It would be my honor.”

“How many presidents have you served protection for?”

“Three, ma’am.”

“Any advice for me?”

“It’s not my place to say, ma’am.”

“Please. I’d like very much to hear it. Before they swallow me up.”

“Agents aren’t political, ma’am. We serve our country by keeping our protectees safe.”

“Just this once, John. If that’s against protocol, I won’t ask for your thoughts again. But before I walk back out there, I’d like to hear some straight advice from someone not playing the political game. And you’ve probably been close to more presidents than anyone else here.”

He nodded. “We’ll, ma’am, if you’re asking me to be frank—the way I see it, our country has been divided for a long time. Politicians always say they’ll unite us, but they never do. Maybe it’s impossible. But you’ve been given the honor to try to help, despite all our differences.” He paused, stone faced and sincere. “I like to think of the American flag, ma’am. It’s not one solid color—it’s sliced up by stripes and dotted with stars—all those different pieces crammed together onto one flag. But it is one flag, all of it bound together. And it’s
our
flag—yours, mine, all those who voted for you, and all those who voted against you. Those who have died before us, and those who will live on after us. You need to try to be like that flag, ma’am. Your presidency needs to be like that flag.”

“Holding all those parts together,” she said.

“Yes ma’am. We need you to hold us all together.”

Behind her, a familiar patriotic rock song blared as it had at many campaign events over the past year. More colored confetti drifted down from the rafters like rainbow snowflakes. Balloons rolled and bounced along the stage like giant leaves at the end of autumn. People cheered and called out her name. Many blew into loud, fringed party horns. Large lenses of television cameras lined the room and followed the excitement of this latest historic moment. Her husband was back on stage with her children and the vice president elect and his family. They all waved at the crowd. Then her younger daughter looked around, searching, found her with her eyes, and waved with a big smile for Abigail to come back to the stage.

“I should get back out there,” she said to John.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “You’ve got a country to take care of now.”

“And you’ve got a president-elect to take care of.”

He laughed. “You protect our country, ma’am, and I’ll protect you.”

“Deal,” she said, shaking his hand to seal their compact.

Then she turned and walked back out onto the stage, waving to the crowd and to the cameras broadcasting this moment to the world. Picking up Jessica, she kissed her on the side of the head and said, “Look at all those balloons, honey.”

“It’s like a big birthday party,” Jessica squeaked excitedly.

“You’re right.”

“You have lots of friends, Mommy.”

Abigail laughed. She loved the way her children saw the world. Despite the excitement of the victorious election night, it all would have felt hollow if her family weren’t here to share in the celebration.

“Why isn’t the dark-haired knight having any fun at your party?” Jessica asked.

“The knight?”

“Yeah, why isn’t he having any fun?”

Abigail followed her gaze to the side of the stage, where John stood scanning the crowd.

“Is
that
the knight? Agent Alexander?”

“Yes,” Jessica replied. “Stacy said you’ll be like a queen now, and he’s a knight to protect you from bad people.”

Abigail smiled. “Well, your sister’s right, and we’re very lucky because he’s one of the best knights in all America. But don’t worry, he’s having fun tonight. He just can’t show it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s here to keep us safe.”

“From the bad people?” Jessica asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes, but it’s okay because he’s stronger than the bad people and he will always keep us safe.”

“Okay.”

“And you know what else? If I’m a queen, know what that makes you?”

“A princess!” Jessica said without hesitation, slightly embarrassed.

“Yes,” Abigail said. “A very special princess. Both you and your sister are my little princesses.”

Jessica burst into giggles. Abigail hugged her tight and then reached out an arm to wave at the celebrating crowd. She would need to start her acceptance speech soon. In it, she would pledge her devotion to helping the country past the divisive election season and toward a just and prosperous future—as all great presidents had done throughout the rich and turbulent history of the United States.

*     *     *

Flash—flash—flash.
Her thoughts returned to Paris, and her eyes stared at the dancing light coming from inside the elevator. Agent Reid still had her pinned against the wall. She was tired and light-headed from the climb down and the adrenaline overload brought on by the constant danger. The darkness of the hallway only added to her confused state of mind.

It had been only a few days since she saw her family, but it felt like years. She wasn’t accustomed to such violence, to such darkness. 

But then, through the light of the elevator, John emerged into the hallway, followed by David.

And she felt Rebecca still at her side. 

And with these three around her, the darkness became bearable.

41

JOHN AND DAVID JUMPED OUT of the elevator and moved into the hallway toward Rebecca and President Clarke.

“Clear?” John asked.

“Clear,” Rebecca said.

John was familiar with all the details of the building’s schematics, including the basement levels. They were now just below subbasement level three. Because of the collapsing attack and their frantic scramble down the elevator shaft, he had told the protection team to stay off communications until they knew where to move POTUS. Throughout the past few minutes, he had heard reports from other agents. The hostiles had stormed the hotel from somewhere in a sublevel, rising up into the building as the fire grew. The combination of armed men and fire had been a shock to the protection detail. The attackers were moving with the fire, as if it were a key element of their strategy. The hotel’s fire suppression system had not worked, which couldn’t be a coincidence. In hindsight, it might not have been too difficult for a team to cut the water supply to the building moments before the attack started.

But now he needed to open up communications with the other agents on-site. He raised his wrist and spoke into his communicator. “This is Eagle One with Firefly. I need perimeter status.”

Almost immediately, a response came through his earpiece: a young man’s voice, professional and steady, but speaking with urgency. Guns were firing in the background. “Sir, middle perimeter is lost. Zenith is lost. Command Center is lost. Most of Shield One is lost. Outer perimeter holds, and reinforcements are moving to retake middle perimeter.”

“Where’s the fire?” John asked.

“Spreading everywhere. The fire suppression system is out. Local fire trucks had been rerouted for another fire. They’re a few minutes out, but it can’t be stopped now. The building won’t last an hour.”

John swore under his breath. They couldn’t go back up the elevator shaft, and they couldn’t say here. Their only chance was to find the safest stairway up and pray that they could avoid the attackers and the fire.

They had to move fast.

John stepped into the dark hallway, illuminated only by the red glow of the exit signs. The president was still in the alcove, protected by Rebecca. David had moved thirty feet out in the hall to secure the section that branched into a delta of other corridors in the hotel basement. 

“Are you okay to move, ma’am?” John asked.

“I’m okay,” President Clarke said.

“Rebecca?” he asked.

“I’m okay.”

“David?”

“Ready to go, sir.”

John nodded. He knew that this had become a defining moment in the history of the United States. By now the entire world would be shocked and horrified, watching on television or listening on the radio. Some few would be celebrating. But as long as the president was alive, there was still hope of avoiding a catastrophic blow to his country.

He raised his gun and started jogging down the dark hallway. Rebecca ran with the president. David moved in the back of the group because he was best able to cover the president from either front or rear attack.

The four moved through the dark basement hallway. They could smell smoke and hear the fire and distant gunshots from somewhere above. John could only imagine what the rest of his men and women—those still alive—were going through. His fear was well concealed and controlled by his training. But no matter how much the Service had conditioned its agents to react with instinctive heroism, no training had ever been devised to last as long as this attack had already lasted. Over half an hour had elapsed since the Crash POTUS alert, and the president was still in danger. The stress was nearly unbearable. But he was digging deep for courage, and he would keep on digging deep as long as he needed to.

He would
not
lose the president.

42

KAZIM’S RAGE BURNED. So many of his men were dead! Most of the building was a blazing inferno. And yet, the American president was still alive.

He pelted down the stairs two at a time, his mind racing to adapt the team’s strategy. Everything they had done was designed to kill the president on the rooftop. It had been their ultimate goal to decapitate her—throw her head off the roof while her body burned. It was that simple: send a message of horror to outrage the world and warn it that oppression had its consequences. And like the Romans in the empire’s waning decades, the West misunderstood its foes to be savages. But the Germanic tribes and the Goths of France were not savages; they were a civilized foreign people. And like them, Kazim’s and Maximilian’s men represented that spirited group of people that refused to let the intruding American empire dominate their lives any longer. As with Rome, mighty America must fall to give the rest of the world the opportunity to forge its own destiny.

And Kazim would find immortal glory that would carry his name through the ages.