Undercover (5 page)

“I think so. I can't remember,” he said seriously, continuing the exchange with his new friend in the pink shoes.

“Well, I don't have them, so you won't get them from me. My brother had them last year, but I didn't get them then either, so my mom doesn't want me to get them now. Martha, who takes care of us, has the flu. My mom is getting her hair done, so I came down to visit. What are you going to be for Halloween?” The question took him by surprise, and he started laughing.

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it.” He hadn't worn a Halloween costume in twenty years.

“You should,” she said solemnly. “It's tomorrow.”

“What are you going to be?” he asked her, enjoying talking to her. She was very bright and funny, and it made a boring morning of standing outside the Oval Office already more entertaining than his desk job.

“I was going to be Cinderella, but the shoes are hard to walk in and I might fall down, so I'm going to be a mouse. I can wear my ballet shoes for that, and a tutu,” she added, looking pleased, and Marshall smiled.

“A mouse in a tutu sounds like a great idea.”

“My brother is going to be a vampire, and Daddy bought him fake blood. My mom says it's going to make a mess everywhere,” she said, and giggled. The notion of the president of the United States going out to buy his son fake blood for his vampire costume sounded remarkably normal to him. It was a far cry from what he had been doing for the past six years, and reminded him of what other people did, who had family lives and kids. And with that, the door to the Oval Office opened, and suddenly the president was standing there and looked surprised to see his daughter chatting with the Secret Service man assigned to the door. He glanced at Marshall and smiled, and then down at his daughter with a quizzical look.

“What are you doing down here by yourself, young lady?”

“Martha's sick, and Mommy's getting her hair done. I told him about the fake blood you got for Brad. He's not going to be anything.” She indicated Marshall as she said it. “He forgot it was Halloween tomorrow. I told him about my mouse.”

“I think it's almost time for lunch, and Mom is going to wonder where you are. Did you tell her you were coming down here?” He sounded like any other father as he asked, and Amelia looked instantly sheepish.

“She's busy.” And Amelia loved sneaking off to visit him. She did so whenever she could.

“I'll take you back up.” And then he turned to Marshall with a friendly expression. “Thank you for entertaining my daughter. She has lots of friends at the White House,” he said. And she loved turning up at his office. He disappeared to the private elevator, and Amelia turned and waved to Marshall before she got in and called back down the hall to him before the door closed.

“I'll come show you my costume tomorrow!” she promised, and he waved as she and her father disappeared.

“She's cute, isn't she?” one of the president's assistants said, as she hurried past him with an armload of books. “They both are, she and Brad. He's got nice kids. They come down here all the time. It's one of the perks of the job.” He hadn't been enthused about working for the Secret Service, it sounded boring to him, though not as much as what he'd been doing at the Pentagon. But he hadn't expected the family atmosphere created by the president's children. Much to his own surprise, he was looking forward to seeing Amelia all dressed up as a mouse. He wondered if the kids came trick-or-treating to the office. It made it feel as though he were part of a family and not just a job, having met Amelia, and he liked it. It added another dimension to his work to see how human they were.

The president came back ten minutes later and shook Marshall's hand. “I hope Amelia didn't give you the third degree. She loves to make new friends.”

“Not at all. She was telling me about her Halloween costume and the fake blood for your son.”

“I suspect we'll be seeing a lot of it tomorrow. Mostly on his mother's new white couch, and I'll be in the doghouse. Amelia thought I should come to work in costume tomorrow,” he bantered with the new Secret Service man, sizing him up as he did. He liked the fact that he had been friendly to his daughter and Amelia said he was nice. He looked pleasant to him. “I thought Superman might be appropriate, but I'm not sure how the press would feel about a president in tights.” They both laughed about what he said, and a moment later the president went back to the Oval Office, to meet with a head of state from the Middle East. Marshall had already been briefed that the British prime minister was coming to meet with the president the next day, though presumably not in costume. And the vision of the president in a Superman costume made Marshall laugh. It had lightened the tension of his first morning in a new job, particularly one like this. This was light-years away from what he normally did, working undercover for the DEA. And Marshall didn't see the president again until the end of the day.

Phillip Armstrong came out of the Oval Office at seven o'clock, said goodnight to everyone, and smiled at Marshall. “Decent first day on the job?” he asked him. He liked the look of Marshall, and had spotted him first thing, even before the meeting with Amelia, and Marshall nodded with a smile.

“Very good first day, sir. Thank you. And I enjoyed meeting your daughter.”

“Who were you assigned to before this?” Probably a past president, or someone similar, the president assumed.

“I'm actually on temporary leave from the DEA. I've been undercover in South America for six years. I've been at the Pentagon for the last eight months between assignments, and they sent me over here, on loan to you.” Marshall smiled.

“This must seem very dull to you,” the president said, raising an eyebrow, impressed by his work history. The undercover DEA boys were a hardcore elite, and lived an entirely different life in hardship conditions, at constant risk.

“No, sir. Just different. The Pentagon is a lot quieter than this.” There had been a lot of activity around him all day. He was more of a passive but alert observer, unless the president went somewhere, which he hadn't. He had been busy in the Oval Office since early morning, except when he escorted his daughter upstairs.

“Well, welcome to the White House. I hope you'll enjoy it. We're happy to have you as part of the team,” the president said warmly, and then went to speak to one of his secretaries, got in the private elevator immediately afterward, and went upstairs. Phillip Armstrong seemed like a quiet, wholesome family man, and he'd been pleasant to Marshall and made him feel at home on his first day. He was a likable man, and the polls said that the majority of Americans liked him as well.

When Marshall left the White House after his first day of work, it had been a good day. He wasn't hunting down bad guys or trying to outsmart them, or arranging for transport of tons of cocaine to Africa, the Caribbean, or the United States. Today had seemed like a normal day at work, although he was working at the White House, and chatting with the president of the United States, and Marshall was beginning to think that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, for a while anyway. And he liked meeting the little girl. He smiled to himself as he drove home to his furnished apartment in Georgetown, and tonight it actually felt like home to him, despite the bare walls and sparse decor. And as he looked around, he realized that he needed to do something to warm it up a little. He felt as though he were seeing his apartment with new eyes. And for the first time since leaving Colombia and learning of Paloma's and the baby's deaths, he felt alive again. A little girl in braids with sparkly pink shoes had touched his heart and made it a good day.

The next day at the White House was far more active than the first. Marshall was part of a detail of six Secret Service men who accompanied the president by helicopter to a meeting held at Camp David, with the British prime minister. They stayed there through lunch, and then the president spoke in Congress, and it was midafternoon by the time they got back to the White House. It had been an interesting day, and the British prime minister and his aides had been very pleasant to them all. The Secret Service men and their British counterparts had chatted and had a few good laughs. And there was something exciting about the people they met on the job. Marshall had had a chance to talk to the other Secret Service men, while they waited through lunch. They appeared to have a relaxed, easygoing style about them, but were always on the alert. One of them had been in the job for more than twenty years, but the others were closer to Marshall's age. They were intrigued when he said he was DEA, and was recently back from six years in the field in South America, which they knew meant he must have been assigned to the drug cartels, which instantly won their respect.

“This must be a hell of a change,” one of the younger men said admiringly. “I thought about DEA, but I got married right out of college, and you can't have a wife and family and do that kind of work.” Marshall thought instantly of Paloma and their baby and nodded. “You're lucky you got out in one piece. You hear bad stories.” Yes, of the woman you love and the baby she's carrying being murdered as a reprisal, Marshall thought and didn't say it.

“Yeah, there are bad stories,” Marshall conceded but didn't volunteer any information about himself. He was used to concealing who he really was, as a person, even now. “You don't think about that when you're there. You do what you have to do. But what you're doing here is just as important, more so. You're protecting the president of the United States, that's an important job. I was just following drug runners, and trying to make a dent in the cartels.” They all knew it was a nearly impossible job, but Marshall had done some damage to their operation. Not enough by his standards, but according to his superiors and the reports written about him, his impact had been huge, especially with the information he had shared when he came out. Raul would be hurting for a long time. Marshall said nothing about it to the other men.

“Did you have to leave because someone blew your cover?” one of them asked, curious about him and the job.

“There was a leak,” he said simply. “I had to get out fast.” His eyes told nothing about how painful his departure had been, or what he'd left behind.

“That's a tough way to live. You must be glad to be home.” Marshall sighed in answer. The truth was, he wasn't. He longed for his old life, and he considered the time in Washington temporary. That was the only thing that kept him going—the belief that one day he'd go back to undercover missions.

“It's different” was all Marshall said, and it reminded his new colleagues that the guys who did undercover work were addicted to it.

“Your Spanish must be amazing,” another Secret Service man said with quiet respect, and Marshall laughed. They had all noticed how modest and discreet he was.

“Better than my English sometimes. I hadn't spoken English in six years. You become someone else, and forget who you really are, or used to be. It all seems pretty strange at first, and after a while it's the only life you know.” He still read South American newspapers more often than North American, and watched Spanish TV, but he didn't say it, at the risk of sounding weird.

“Are you finished with the DEA?” the other Secret Service man asked with interest.

“I hope not,” Marshall said quietly. “It suits me. You've got more room to move around, and do some damage where it counts. Maybe I'm addicted to the adrenaline rush.” They all knew that a lot of operatives got killed working in the field for the DEA, even in the States.

“You get that rush in this line of work occasionally too. I always think how bad the boys must have felt when Kennedy was shot. They were doing all they could, but sometimes shit happens…you do everything right, and get screwed anyway.”

“Undercover work is like that too. You never know the outcome till it's over, if you'll make it or get killed.” They nodded, in silent agreement, and then the meeting with the British prime minister broke up, and they moved on to Congress with the president and had no time to talk. But it had been an interesting exchange, and gave the others a glimpse into who Marshall was. He didn't talk much about himself, and was still trying to get oriented to his new line of work, but they could see how serious and conscientious he was about it.

He didn't relax his guard all day until the president was back in the Oval Office, and Amelia appeared in her mouse costume with the pink ballet shoes and tutu, at four o'clock. Someone had painted mouse whiskers on her face. She was beaming and bouncing as she threaded her way through the desks, and darted in and out of offices, and came up to Marshall with a big toothless smile. She was carrying a plastic Halloween pumpkin already half filled with candy, and several of the secretaries had come prepared and dropped some miniature candy bars into her pumpkin. Marshall was sorry he had nothing to give her. He hadn't thought to buy candy for the kids. And minutes after she got there, her brother appeared, a serious, handsome boy, in his vampire costume, with the fake blood dripping from his mouth. He was wearing plastic vampire teeth, and politely shook Marshall's hand.

“This is my brother, Brad,” Amelia introduced them.

“Marshall Everett,” Marshall said as he shook the boy's hand. “Great blood,” he said admiringly, and the nine-year-old smiled ghoulishly. Marshall could just imagine the damage the fake blood had done upstairs, some of it was dripping from his face.

“Are you two going trick-or-treating?” Marshall asked. Amelia looked instantly disappointed and sighed.

“Daddy won't let us. And we'd have to take Secret Service with us, which is no fun. We can only trick-or-treat here in the house.” The house being the White House, but several of the employees had already contributed to their candy stash. “But I was in the parade at school,” Amelia said proudly, as her brother knocked on the door of the Oval Office, and a familiar voice invited them in. They stayed in the office with their father for half an hour, and when they emerged, the president was with them, and had vampire blood on his shirt, and a spot on his tie. He looked at Marshall ruefully, and Marshall grinned.

“I see the vampire attacked you, sir.”

“Be careful he doesn't get you too,” the president warned him, as Brad guffawed, and one of the secretaries handed them each a candy bar with a smile as she walked by.

“We're going to the kitchen next,” Amelia announced. She was more outgoing and chattier than her brother, who seemed shy to Marshall. Amelia had friends everywhere, and she acted as though she had known Marshall for years, and had enlisted him as one of her many friends. They ran off shortly after, with their trick-or-treat pumpkins nearly full, and the president went back to work, as Marshall and the three other men on duty outside his office stood guard.

“They're sweet kids,” one of the other men commented. “This can't be an easy life for them.” But they barely knew any different life. Their father had been in office for almost two years, so Amelia had been four when they moved in, and Brad seven. And the president had been in the Senate for eight years before that, so this was the only life they knew and would for a while. He was a shoo-in for the next election if the polls held up, which meant that Amelia would be twelve when they left the White House, and Brad would be in high school. It was an interesting place to grow up, and a golden life, however normally their father treated them.

The following day, Marshall met the first lady for the first time. She was a taller, even prettier version of Amelia, and as shy as Brad. The children were a combination of their parents, and Marshall could easily imagine Amelia as president one day, mouse costume, braids, and all. Their mother was an intelligent, gentle woman, who had been an attorney and graduated from Yale top of her class. She and the president had gone to law school together, and she had given up her career when he ran for the Senate shortly after they married. She was a devoted wife, and had espoused many charitable causes, trying to improve the lot of the indigent, and was a staunch supporter of all the poverty programs, particularly those that focused on children. She avoided all controversy and sensitive issues, took no aggressive political positions, and was a model wife. She was the perfect partner for the president of the United States, and she had learned French and Spanish when he became president, and she was currently studying Chinese. She was forty-two years old, four years younger than her husband. She was beautiful, had a great figure, played tennis, was an expert skier, and worked out with a trainer every day at six
A.M.
And the country loved her. Melissa Armstrong's gentle shyness, in spite of her remarkable intelligence, made her especially appealing. Her husband always credited her with the elections he had won. There was something vaguely Kennedy-esque about them, but in a modern, more modest way. They weren't showy, they were the real thing, and far more popular and beloved than any presidential family in recent years.

The day after Halloween, Marshall met her at a state dinner, and he was impressed by how striking she was in a sleek black evening dress, which covered one shoulder and left the other bare. She spotted him immediately as someone new, and made a point of saying hello to him between greeting guests.

“Amelia told me about you,” she said warmly, with the shy smile she was famous for, and he was instantly reminded of Princess Di when she was young. She had the same kind of blond good looks, in a wholesome all-American way.

“You have a fantastic little girl,” Marshall complimented her, “and a very handsome son, despite the vampire blood.”

She rolled her eyes as he said it, and groaned. “You should see our new white couch.” The president had predicted that but bought the blood anyway, to please his son. He often tried to make up to them for the restrictive lives they led. There was no hiding the fact that they lived in the White House, and there were many “normal” activities they couldn't do. It didn't bother Amelia but often upset Brad. He had recently joined the boys' soccer team at his school, but half a dozen Secret Service men went to his practices and games, inevitably.

The first lady turned to her duties then, but her contact with Marshall had been brief and warm, and the president made a quick friendly remark to him that night too. For the first time in his career, Marshall felt as though he were being inducted into a family and not just a job. It made him enjoy his work far more than he had expected to. And the state dinner that night was an elegant affair for a hundred and forty people, given in honor of the Japanese crown prince and his wife. It was a spectacular evening, typical of the social events given by this administration. In just a few days, Marshall had gotten a taste of what they were about, from Halloween to state dinners, to meetings at Camp David, and the only time the job was stressful was when the president was on the move. Then every man with him had to be on the alert and ready to protect him at every instant. The president had a relaxed, easy style, which sometimes made it even harder to shield him from potential attacks. He was more than willing to shake a hand, or stop somewhere he wasn't planning to, which made the Secret Service men's job even more difficult than it already was.

President Armstrong did just that in Marshall's second week, when he insisted on stopping at a department store to buy something for his wife, and rushed into the store unannounced, surrounded by Secret Service men, with Marshall in the lead. Melissa had mentioned something the night before, which he wanted to buy her as a surprise, and he wanted to buy it himself. He was almost instantly thronged by astonished shoppers who wanted to shake his hand, while the store security tried to help as best they could. Two of the Secret Service men finally convinced him to wait outside in the car, while they completed the purchase of the bag Melissa had wanted, to go with the suit she was planning to wear for Thanksgiving. And the president was delighted with getting it for her, while the Secret Service men heaved a collective sigh of relief when they got him back in the car.

“He scares the shit out of me when he does that,” the senior agent in charge said to Marshall once they had delivered the president safely to his next appointment. “I age ten years every time he makes one of those random stops. He does it with the kids all the time. He doesn't realize how dangerous it is.” Their surprise visit to the department store had made Marshall nervous too, as his eyes had darted everywhere, checking the crowd for suspicious people and activity. But stops like that were less dangerous than the ones where he was expected, when a deranged person, or even a terrorist group, could make a plan. But the unplanned stops and outings weren't easy for them either, and it was something the president loved to do, to maintain an illusion of normalcy in their lives. The first lady was always more sensible and easier to reason with, and concerned for her children's safety. President Armstrong loved spontaneity, and was famous for it, and rarely did as he was told, which kept them on their toes.

The president and his family spent Thanksgiving at Camp David, with relatives they had invited to join them there, and Marshall worked all four days and was happy to do so. Most of the other men had families or someone they wanted to spend the holiday with. Marshall didn't, and preferred being on the job to sitting alone in his apartment, so he covered for one of them every day, and they were grateful to him. They were surprised he didn't have plans of his own, but with no family after six years undercover in South America, there was no one he wanted to be with.