Undercover (4 page)

“That's what I mean,” Jack said knowingly, and Bill couldn't say that he was wrong. He just hated to admit how badly they damaged their men sometimes. But it was inevitable with the kind of work they did. Both men knew it was true.

“So what do I do with him?” Bill said, looking worried. He felt responsible for Marshall, and what his undercover assignments had done to him. He wanted to help him now. “He's a terrific agent. One of our best. He belongs in the field. His psych reports are fine—they just think he needs time to acclimate to the United States again, but it's not happening for him. It's written all over him. He deserves a better break than this. I get the feeling he might quit, because of the desk job, which would really be too bad. He's one of the most dedicated, talented guys I've got. He's got instincts like no one else I've ever met.”

“I could use more of those,” Jack said with a smile. “My guys get burned out too. Guarding ex-presidents can get pretty dull. Thank God, they don't get a lot of chances to show off their stuff. Your boys in the field get to use all their wits and everything they've got every day. Their lives depend on it.” And then he thought of something as he said it and looked at Bill quizzically. “You said you were afraid he'd quit. Do you think he'd quit the DEA and come over to us? I have two vacancies on the presidential detail. We had a guy die of a heart attack two weeks ago, at thirty-nine. Perfect health, no cardiac history, and he dropped dead jogging before he came to work. And one of my best guys is going on family leave because his wife has cancer and he wants to stay home and take care of her and the kids. I know we don't cross-hire, but if I like this guy, what if you put him on a leave of absence and he came to me, for six months or a year? It sounds like he's got the skills, and it might be more interesting for him than the Spanish desk at the DEA, analyzing reports for you. With his background, this guy is more of a doer than an analyst.

“What do you think? You know the guy—how polished is he? Would he hold up to White House protocol? It's a far cry from the jungles of Colombia. Has he got what I need?” He had a dozen other men he could use, but something about the story Bill had told him intrigued him, particularly if it was short term to fill in for his man on family leave. And then he could go back to the DEA and go undercover again.

Jack knew that if he hired from among Secret Service ranks for the presidential detail, no one would want to give up their spot, when his agent came back from leave. The presidential detail was considered a plum job by everyone in the Secret Service. There were risks, but nothing as dangerous as what Marshall had done for the DEA. Jack knew that those boys lived on the adrenaline rush of risking their lives every day. Marshall would certainly be capable of handling the presidential detail, if he wanted to and was willing.

“Why don't you send him over to me and I'll take a look? If you put him on sabbatical, I might be able to ‘borrow' him from you for six or nine months. If I like him, I can ask the president what he thinks. We've done stranger things, and it might be a blessing for everyone. It would get him out from behind that desk, which might preserve him for you, rather than his just quitting because he hates it. Talk to him about it and see what he says.”

They changed the topic of conversation then to other things: a scandal in the Senate, some changes in structure in the Justice Department, and a new appointee to the Superior Court bench, which had taken everyone by surprise. The new president was young and had some very different ideas that not everyone liked. There was always something to talk about in Washington. Both men liked their jobs and the responsibilities that went with them. And when they left each other after lunch, Jack reminded Bill again to talk to his agent about taking a sabbatical to be on loan to the Secret Service. Bill promised that he would, but didn't have time to do so until the next day. He called Marshall into his office. He walked in with a hopeful look.

“Good news? You're sending me back to the field?” Marshall looked like a kid at Christmas, as though he were still hoping for Santa Claus to show up. Bill hated to disappoint him.

“Not the way you mean,” he said immediately. He didn't want to mislead him, and Marshall's face fell the moment Bill said it. “I had lunch with a great friend of mine yesterday. He's at the Secret Service, and he was telling me about the problems they're having. They just lost two guys on the presidential detail.”

“I read about the one who had a heart attack two weeks ago. What happened to the other one?”

“His wife is sick. He's going on family leave. We don't usually cross over with the Secret Service, as you know, but my friend came up with an interesting idea. If you take a sabbatical from the DEA, he might be able to ‘borrow' you for a while, until their man comes back. How would you feel about being on the presidential detail?” Marshall's face clouded for a minute. This was not what he had in mind at all. He hated his job on the Spanish desk, but as he saw it, standing around the halls of the White House, or at official dinner parties, was not his idea of hard work either. He wanted to go back into the field, live on adrenaline every day, and serve a useful purpose fighting the really bad guys. He had joined the DEA to make a difference in the world. As part of the presidential detail, failing a bomb or a direct assault on the president, he thought he would be as useless as he was now at the desk job at the Pentagon.

“I don't know,” Marshall said honestly. “It's not what I was trained for. I want to go back to work, doing what I know how to do. I'm not a babysitter, or a desk man. I want to be up and running, in the field.”

“And you will be again,” Bill reassured him, “just not yet. You need to let some time pass. People know you now. We don't want to send you back to be slaughtered. We need to wait until the air clears a little. It was getting way too hot for you there when you left. Something like the presidential detail might be a nice middle ground in the meantime. Those guys earn their money too. They're not sissies. Would you like to meet my friend at the Secret Service?” Marshall nodded cautiously, but he still wasn't sure. It didn't sound like it was for him.

When he went to visit Jack Washington three days later, Marshall found him incredibly charismatic and convincing. He made the job sound just as exciting as what Marshall had been doing for the last six years, although Marshall wasn't sure that was true. Jack tried to make it seem very appealing, and he kept reminding Marshall of how bored he was on the Spanish desk, which made it an easier sell.

“You could actually take me on loan to the Secret Service?” He didn't want to leave the DEA permanently, which Jack said he understood. And Jack was impressed by what he saw when they met. Marshall was smart and was quick to get everything Jack implied. He looked presentable and was a very bright young guy.

“Pulling a few strings, I think I could borrow you from the DEA,” Jack said cautiously. He had never done it before with a DEA agent, but he wanted to try.

“Let me be clear with you,” Marshall said. “It's not what I want to do, and if they offer me an undercover spot anywhere in South America, I'm going to leap on it. But you're right, it's better than the Spanish desk. What do we need to do to clear me for the presidential detail?”

“Why don't you send me your CV, and I'll have a couple of earnest conversations with the right people about how much I need you. I can bill this as a rare opportunity to get our hands on a DEA guy. We did something similar with a CIA man a few years ago, and an FBI special agent about ten years ago. It happens, although it doesn't happen often. But sometimes it's worth the paperwork and the challenge, if it's the right fit.”

“I'd like to do it. It would get me out of the office,” Marshall said, beginning to warm to the idea. “If I have to stay there for another five months or longer, I'll go crazy. I might even quit. I've thought about it.” Jack wasn't surprised, and Bill had suspected it too, and didn't want to lose him.

“Well, don't do that,” Jack said calmly. “Maybe this will solve the problem, for both of us. Send me your CV, and I'll go to bat for you in the right places. Sometimes you just have to be creative.” Marshall nodded, suddenly intrigued by the idea, although he hadn't been very excited about it at the outset. Marshall wanted action, he thrived on it, and had been longing for it since his return.

He didn't hear from Jack again until late October. Jack had spoken to Bill first, and had gotten the approval he needed, from the highest source. They had run a check on Marshall, and liked everything they'd heard. And if Marshall agreed, Jack wanted Bill to draw up the agreement to give Marshall a sabbatical, and then he could come to work at the White House. It was a prestigious job, and when Jack told Marshall about it in greater detail, he was excited about it. He knew the job wouldn't be as interesting as what he'd done undercover, but it was a lot better than the desk job he was desperate to get away from, and it was a highly prized assignment.

Once the paperwork for the transfer came through approved, Jack called him to start work on Monday. They had already filled the other position of the agent who had died with someone from within the ranks of the Secret Service. Marshall was going to be the exception, covering the man on family leave with the sick wife, and he wondered if his coworkers on the presidential detail would resent him for getting special clearance for the assignment. If so, he thought that he could handle it.

Marshall was nervous the first day on the job. He wasn't sure what to expect. Once he got there, he was given a run-through of his duties and a tour of the area where he'd be working, including the Oval Office and the private quarters. When an aide showed him around, they could only go so far in the private quarters because the first lady and the children were having dinner. The president had flown to New York on Air Force One to give a speech at the UN that night, and the first lady had stayed home. The person giving them the tour explained that the first lady often ate with the children, when she didn't have to attend an official function. She liked being with her kids, who were six and nine. Family was very important to this presidency, and the president was often seen playing with his children on the weekend. It gave a slightly more relaxed feeling to the current administration and the White House as a home. His daughter had even sneaked down to see a state dinner, and had been photographed peeking through the banisters of the grand staircase. The photograph had been adorable, the senior member of the Secret Service said, although Marshall didn't remember seeing it. He had had very little contact with children in his life, both undercover and in real life. His baby with Paloma would have been the first.

He was told to report for his first shift. He had worn the dark suit that he had bought for work, and had arrived early for the tour and orientation. And when he left the DEA for his “sabbatical,” Bill wished him well and said he hoped he'd enjoy the temporary mission, although not so much that he'd abandon the DEA for good. Bill promised to speak to him from time to time to see how it was going, and made it clear that if Marshall still wanted to go back to South America as an undercover agent, they still wanted him. Marshall assured him that he would, and that he had every intention of doing his best on the presidential detail in the meantime.

“Make us proud,” Bill Carter had said.

“I will, sir,” Marshall assured him with a smile and left.

On his first morning, he was assigned to stand in a specific spot outside the Oval Office, and to follow the president if he moved. Three other Secret Service agents were near at hand. He wasn't expected to emerge until lunchtime, at which point he would eat in the family residence dining room, and he had a full afternoon of meetings in the Oval Office as well. Marshall's supervisor told him that the president was staying put and had important conferences by phone and in person set up for the entire day, some with foreign heads of state.

Marshall had been standing in the same spot for two hours, looking like a statue in a suit with “spaghetti” in his ear, which was slang for the earpiece and wire they wore to stay in constant communication by radio. Marshall's earpiece was turned on and he was fiercely bored as he tried not to fall asleep on his feet. Several pretty women whizzed past him, carrying papers, files, and iPads. He was staring at his shoes for an instant when he saw two small feet appear in front of his, in sparkly pink shoes with bows on them. And the moment he spotted them, he looked up to see a little girl with her blond hair in pigtails, missing her front teeth. She was looking up at him very seriously, and she was wearing a gray skirt and a pink sweater. She looked incredibly cute, and was giving Marshall a thorough once-over. She was even prettier than she was in pictures, and she had huge blue eyes that met his squarely. He was startled by the intense, direct look, and surprised to see the president's six-year-old daughter alone, unescorted.

“I've never seen you before,” she said matter-of-factly. “Did you just get here?”

“Yes, I started here today,” he said, as he would have to an adult asking the same question. He wasn't sure how to talk to her, and hadn't expected her to interrogate him.

“Do you like it?” she asked politely, and he nodded, trying not to grin in amusement. She was like a funny little elf. He hadn't expected to meet her or have a conversation with her.

“Yes, very much,” he answered. “Everyone's been very nice,” he said, wondering if she always wandered around the White House alone, and why she wasn't in school.

“My name's Amelia. He's my dad.” She pointed to the Oval Office, and Marshall nodded. “Have you met my daddy yet?”

“Well, actually, not yet. He's been busy all morning.”

She nodded as though that was expected, and then answered his unspoken question. “I usually am too, but they have chicken pops at my school, and my mom doesn't want me to get it. They give you spots and make you itch. Did you ever get them?”