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“Call Warch first. I need to think about a couple of things before we tell the president.”
“And the FBI?” asked Kennedy.
“I’ll call Director Roach.” Stansfield pointed to his credenza, where a second phone was located. “Get Warch on the line fast, but stress that he take reasonable precautions. We don’t want this to rattle too many cages until we’re absolutely positive.”
Executive Office Building
JACK WARCH, THE special agent in charge of the presidential detail, sat behind his desk located in room number ten of the Executive Office Building, directly across the street from the West Wing. Warch had served under four presidents and had been with the Secret Service for over twenty years.
The special agent in charge had that runner’s look about him. In his early forties, he still jogged four to five times a week and expected the men and women who worked under his command to do the same. The presidential detail was the most visible aspect of the Secret Service, and posts in it were in very high demand. Over the previous decade, Warch had watched fitness take a backseat to an insidious wave of political correctness and an older, equally insidious, old-boys’ network. When Warch took over the detail, he put everyone on notice by spreading the word that he didn’t care who your dad was, what color your skin was, what sex you were, or who your patron was; if you couldn’t pass your fitness tests, you weren’t going to work on his detail.
Reaching out with his left han
d, Warch took a sip of hot coffee and looked over the day’s schedule. Things looked light, just the way he liked it. No visitors and no trips off premises. If every day was like this, he would be a bored but happy man. Warch’s phone rang, and without taking his eyes off the schedule, he reached out and grabbed it. “Special Agent Warch speaking.”
“Jack, it’s Irene Kennedy.”
Warch had sat in on dozens of briefings with Kennedy over the years and knew her well enough to know from the tone of her voice that she had something serious to say. “Hello, Irene. What’s the problem?”
“I’ve got some bad news,” started Kennedy. “We’ve just learned that there is a possibility that the White House will be the target of a terrorist attack.” Kennedy paused to give Warch a second to digest the information before she dropped the other shoe. “And . . . we think the attack is supposed to take place today.”
Warch closed his eyes and squeezed his forehead with his free hand. “Say again.”
Kennedy repeated herself and then added, “Jack, we don’t want you to overreact, but we’ve received this information from a very reliable source.”
“What are we talking about, a car bomb, a plane . . . what?”
Kennedy cleared her throat.“We were told an assault. That’s all the information we have, and we are trying to get more.”
Warch pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. “What?” he asked incredulously. “An assault. That’s impossible. They’d need a tank if they wanted to breach our outer perimeter.”
“Jack, I don’t know how they plan on doing whatever it is that they are going to do,” started Kennedy in a calming voice, “and I’m sorry I can’t give you anything else at this point. But the bottom line is we are taking this very seriously. For obvious reasons Director Stansfield wanted me to call you first. We suggest that you tighten things up over there without alerting the press, and as soon as we find more out, we will let you know.”
Warch continued to squeeze his forehead. “Today. You think it’s planned for today?”
“Yes.”
Warch looked at his watch. It was almost nine A.M. “I’ve got to get moving.” He grabbed his digital phone from the desk. “If you hear anything more, call me on my mobile.” He gave Kennedy the number and then hung up. Warch, who was more entrusted with the president’s life than any other person in the Secret Service, took every warning, no matter how small, very seriously. And a warning from the CIA’s lead official on terrorism ranked about as serious as it could get. Leaving his office in a hurry, he walked quickly down the hallway and started to run through a mental list of options.
As Warch moved toward the exit, his mind fixed on the question of what type of assault could be planned. The Secret Service made it a priority to practice defending against different attacks on the president. They spent millions of dollars running their agents through their training center in Beltsville, Maryland, on a monthly basis. They practiced motorcade tactics, rope-line tactics, Air Force One and Marine One evacuations—almost every scenario one could think of. The analysis was in on truck bombs. With the barriers that were set up around the grounds, it would be impossible for a truck to get close enough. There would be a lot of broken glass, but the president would be safe. A plane, Warch thought. In every scenario they covered, an attack by a plane loaded with explosives represented the most lethal threat to the president.
As Warch walked out the door and onto West Executive Drive, he raised his hand mike to his mouth and said, “Horsepower, from Warch. Tell Hercules to look sharp, and tell them I want the stingers out and ready.” Hercules was the call sign for the part of the detail that handled the rooftop. Warch hesitated for a second. He was tempted to put the entire White House detail on full alert but decided he should consult the president first. Hayes didn’t like surprises, and despite Kennedy’s intensity, this would not be the first time the Secret Service had been given a false alarm.
8
The White House
ANNA RIELLY POKED her head into her new basement office. The windowless room was smaller than the kitchen of her not very roomy one-bedroom apartment back in Lincoln Park. There were three desks against three of the walls and barely enough room for all of the chairs in the middle. A handsome man in his early forties, whom Rielly recognized from TV, stood to greet her.
“You must be Anna Rielly.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Stone Alexander, ABC’s White House correspondent. We’ve been expecting you.”
Rielly shook his hand and looked dejectedly at her new office.
Alexander read the disappointment on her face and said, “It’s not quite what you expected, is it?”
“No. I mean I didn’t expect the Taj Mahal, but this is ridiculous.”
“Don’t worry. Look at the fringe benefits.” Alexander grinned and held his arms out.
