single move anybody made in or around the residence. Anybody who entered. Anybody who left. Anybody who so much as sneezed in front of the elevator. And I want video from the Rose Garden. And from every exit out of the Eighteen Acres. Every one, you understand? I want to know when she left, I want to know how she left, I want to know who she was with, and I want to know why she was in that fucking car. ”
Fielding nodded. “You got it.”
“You realize we’re going to take the heat for this, people. It’s imperative we get some answers fast.”
Fielding nodded again, along with the rest of them. Mark knew they all understood the point he was making: Not only their asses but the Secret Service’s reputation was on the line.
Whatever had occurred to put Mrs. Cooper in that crash, the bottom line was they had failed.
Now that the knowledge had well and truly sunk in, it was starting to eat at him. He felt as jumpy as a frog leg in a frying pan.
Failure is not an option.
Another rap on the door, louder than before.
Fucking Lowell.
“I also want to know everything there is to know about Jessica Ford.” Her name had lodged in his memory, along with her bloodied face and small, crumpled form. If he hadn’t stumbled across her, would she have lain out there until she died?
More to the point, who was she to Annette Cooper? And what was she doing in that damned car?
Thanks to the press, the world would know the answers soon enough. He wanted to know first.
“Isn’t she the survivor?” Wendell, always quicker than the rest, met his gaze with sharpened interest. Ever the professional, she was keeping any personal-level grief she felt at Prescott’s passing well hidden.
“Survivor?” Mark frowned.
“That’s what they’re saying on CNN. That there were four people in the First Lady’s car, and one survived.”
Mark felt surprised, then felt stupid for feeling surprised. He’d seen the reporters on the scene for himself, seen the trucks and cameras circling the White House. Why hadn’t he realized that every tiny detail they could scratch up would be broadcast instantly around the world?
“Jesus.” He’d known it, of course, but the reality was just now hitting home: The scope of this thing was going to be huge. Global. An international convulsion that would play out in the media for days, possibly weeks, maybe even months to come. And everybody in the world who was in the least bit interested was going to know every tiny dredged-up detail about Annette Cooper’s life and death—unless some things could be kept hidden. He hoped to God they could be kept hidden. “Yeah, she’s the survivor. And I want to know who the hell she is, and what the hell she was doing in that car. In about fifteen minutes, tops.”
“I’m on it,” Wendell said.
“Okay, everybody keep your mouths shut on this subject until further notice. No talking to anybody—and I mean anybody—outside this group.”
With a nod of dismissal, he turned to open the door. Lowell was standing there, hand raised to knock again, glaring at him. Behind him, the long corridor was filling with people. More Secret Service agents coming in, heading for the room he was just exiting. Medical personnel bound for the in-house clinic. FBI agents. Housekeeping staff. Some military types. More than a few were openly weeping. Others were pale, grim. Most looked to be in the first disbelieving stages of shock.
Hell, he was still in that stage himself. But he was being forced out of it fast. Survival mode was kicking in.
“You got no room for error here, Ryan,” Lowell warned under his breath as they stepped across the hall to the elevator that would take them up to the family residence. “The President wants an explanation. Where the hell were you guys?”
“I don’t know what happened yet. I will.”
Lowell grunted. After that they rode up in silence. At its heart, the White House is a vast, impersonal office building with a small,