This 44-part series began running in WCT Nov. 8. Readers can read all the installments to date at www.windycitymediagroup.com .
From the journal of John 'Jack' Quincy Adams, Chief Secret Service Special Agent in Charge, The White House. Code Name: One.
Part 22. The Dark Nights of Dover
Jack Adams, the Secret Service agent charged with assassinating President George W. Bush and being held for psychiatric evaluation, is telling about a surprise call he got one night from the First Lady.
I hadn't seen Laura to speak with her since our uncomfortable conversation during the Middle East trip. She had been expert at avoiding me and I didn't want to push her. Naturally, it left me feeling at odds with her and with myself. I was afraid I was overstepping my bounds, pushing where I ought to be pulling; after all, my job was to protect and defend, not argue. And I no longer knew for sure what we were talking about when we talked. Were we talking about us—or rather my feelings for her and shades of our distant past—or were we talking politics? Was I angry that the woman I had loved in secret all my life was being held a virtual prisoner by her husband and his family? And if I could do something to free her from their grasp would it be so she could go off and have the private life she always wanted or was it on the condition that she would ride off across the Potomac with me? I ached to get these things settled between us, but there had been no chance since that night in Jerusalem. Every time I went early to her office either she wasn't there or she was busy with her staff and made no attempt to get them to leave us alone for a few minutes. Then one night in early December, right after Thanksgiving, I received a phone call.
Hearing her voice threw me for a moment. Whenever I got a call from her it was usually Noelia or Alison in her press section or her secretary. This was the first time she had called herself. I instantly shifted into 'One' mode.
'Oh, Mrs. Bush, I didn't recognize you,' I said, always aware of being tapped to on my home line. 'What can I do for you?' It was nearly nine o'clock and I was sitting by the fire reading USA Today.
'Jack, are you free this evening?'
'Pardon?'
'I said, are you free this evening? Can you accompany me someplace?' She was speaking in a low voice, almost a whisper.
'Sure, as long as Trail…as long as the president doesn't need me.'
'He's in for the evening. But I have to go someplace and I'd like you to come with me.'
'Absolutely. Shall I come now?'
'No. I'll pick you up on the way. Say in about thirty minutes?'
'I'll be waiting.'
I put on my suit and waited by the bay window. This felt almost nefarious and I couldn't help but wonder if she was involving me in something I would later regret.
Her car—a 'formal' limo rather than one of the stretch limos used for state events—arrived a half hour later accompanied by only one black Service SUV. I couldn't tell if it was a War Wagon, but I doubted it; although for her to go someplace with only one detail car was highly irregular. One of her agents opened the back door for me, a slight breech of protocol, and as I got in he arched his eyebrows and gave me what I interpreted as a knowing grin. I let it go until I had as much information as he had.
She said very little except for small talk until we were away from the city's mercury streetlights and cruising along the parkway where I had spent my snowbound night.
'May I ask where we're going?' I said.
'I want you to see something. I want you to….' She sighed. 'I want you to see what I do in my spare time.'
'If you don't mind my asking, what does the president think you're doing?'
'I told him I was going to visit a sick friend.'
I stifled a chuckle. 'And he believed you?'
'George believes whatever I tell him.' In the dim light of the rear console I could see her turn toward me. 'I never lie, Jack. To anyone. As you will see.'
We rode in silence for a long time after that. We drove through Baltimore, onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and into Delaware. In a short while we were in Dover and then I knew where we were headed.
Krandall Kraus has published six books, including the Lambda Literary Award winner It's Never About What It's About, co-authored with his partner Paul Borja. He is the recipient of the 2006 Christopher Isherwood Fellowship in Fiction; his first novel, The President's Son, was a bestseller. A former consultant to the Office of the Vice President, his political thrillers are filled with White House insider details.
