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Rapp turned his attention back to Rielly’s cheek, and when he got closer to inspect the mark, she said to him, “You know women have a higher tolerance for pain than men.”
“So I’ve been told.” Rapp fished a sterile alcohol pad from his first aid kit and tore the small package open. Gently, he started to wipe the dried blood from the corner of Rielly’s mouth, and then the light scrape on her cheek.
When Rapp was done, he turned her head from side to side to check for any other cuts. He had not missed the obvious beauty of the reporter. He felt slightly guilty, under the current circumstances, for letting his mind wander, but it couldn’t be helped. Her skin was soft and smooth with just the right touch of color. Rapp nudged her chin to the side and noticed a trail of dried blood that ran down the back of her neck. He wiped away the blood and then placed both hands on her scalp. Rielly flinched slightly and pulled away.
“Does that hurt?” asked Rapp.
Rielly nodded, and Rapp said with a smile, “What happened to that high tolerance for pain you were bragging about a moment ago?”
“I don’t know, but whatever you just touched hurt like hell.”
“Try to hold still for a second. I want to find out how bad the cut is.” Rapp lifted and separated her thick brown hair. The cut ran only about an inch but looked to have broken the first several layers of skin. Holding one hand on her scalp, he reached behind him and grabbed another sterile alcohol pad. Without looking, he said, “Milt, would you do me a favor? Take those blueprints that you brought, and spread them out on the floor.”
Rapp wiped the cut several times and then waved his hand over the area to dry the alcohol. Rielly’s face twisted in pain. After a moment, Rapp let her hair fall back down onto her shoulders and sat back on one heel. “How’s that?”
Rielly brought her hand up and gently touched her head. “I’m fine if I don’t move too much.” But Rapp noticed the flicker of pain moving across her face when she raised her arm.
“What was that?” asked Rapp.
Gently, Rielly touched her side. “Something hurts in my side.”
“Can you stand up for me?”
“I think so.”
Rapp helped her up. “Does it hurt on the back, the front, or the side?”
She gestured with her hand. “The back and the side.”
“I need to take a look at it. Are you all right with that?”
Rielly looked at Rapp’s concerned face, and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. Reaching out, she placed her hand on his cheek and said, “If I can’t trust you, I don’t know who I could.”
Rapp blushed slightly and said, “Good, then turn around so I can take a look.” Rielly did as she was asked, and Rapp lifted up her sweatshirt.
Her skin was a golden olive from her narrow waist up and then the discoloration began t
o appear. Halfway up her back, on her left side, a red mark about four inches long and three inches wide had started to form. He checked for bright red streaks and found none. Rapp touched the area softly at first, and Rielly showed no sign of pain. Then he pressed a little harder, and she winced sharply.
“Can you take several deep breaths for me?” Rielly did so without pain, and Rapp let her shirt fall. “It’s probably just a bruise, which can still hurt like a bitch, but it’s ten times better than having a broken or cracked rib.” With a smile, he added, “You must be one tough chick.”
Rielly smiled slightly. “I have a lot of brothers.”
Rapp nodded. “I think you’re going to be all right, but then again, I’m no doctor.”
“What are you, Mr. Kruse?” asked the persistent Rielly.
Squeezing her shoulder, Rapp said, “I’ve got some work to do.” Turning toward the seated Adams, Rapp said, “Milt, I need you to show me every stairwell and elevator that leads from this floor to the third, and from this floor to the first.”
DALLAS KING WAS already on his second battery. His digital phone had left his ear only momentarily over the last hour and a half. He walked at a hurried pace next to Vice President Baxter as their entourage moved down the wide hallway of the E Ring at the Pentagon. A slew of seriouslooking Secret Service agents surrounded them. King thought the large contingent a bit much; they were, after all, in the Pentagon; but he had other things to worry about. As the group continued forward, the sea of people before them parted as Pentagon employees moved out of the way and clung to the walls while the current commander-in-chief passed by.
The buzz level was high. Everyone had either seen Aziz’s national address or heard about it. Now the natural question was, what would the U.S. government do in response? The answer was actually tied to a lone individual in Omaha, Nebraska. Reginald Boulay was his name, and at this exact moment he was giving Dallas King the results of his Husker Poll. Boulay had built up his poll over the years and made it into one of the most accurate in the political-consulting business. And he only supplied it to a few well-paying clients. The numbers from the Husker Poll were never found in the newspapers or on TV. Boulay wasn’t in the business to skew results by push polling and a variety of other techniques; he was in it to get the most accurate results possible. And he did it by asking brutally honest questions in plain English. King had decided after talking to two of his regular pollsters, and being irritated at their inability to understand what he wanted, that if there was ever a time to spend money on Boulay and his Husker Poll, now was it.
King nodded as he listened to Boulay relay the results. Although King had honestly expected them, he was, nonetheless, surprised. They reflected the new trend in America, almost a refusal to judge and condemn. King had sensed it while listening to Aziz’s speech and wondered if he was smart enough to know what he was tapping into, or if he was just one lucky bastard.
The handsome King liked what he was hearing from Boulay. Accordingto the Husker Poll, a little over sixty percent of those surveyed felt that Vice President Baxter should exhaust almost all options in an effort to resolve the crisis in a peaceful way. When it came to lifting economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving weapons of mass destruction, the numbers jumped to almost eighty percent. As Boulay had explained it to King, “There’s about twenty percent of the population that would just as soon level the White House before giving these terrorists a thing, and nothing you do or say will change that.”
King had also expected that. The zealots at either end of the spectrum would always be around. They were not the people you had to worry about. The rest of the populace was whom he had to keep his eye on—the sixty to eighty percent of the people who were not too far from the middle on any given issue. As a political adviser, King saw it as his job to try and get those people leaning in his direction or, more precisely, to position his boss in the middle of them. That would be his next course of action. After asking Boulay to fax him the results, King ended the call and brought the vice presidential armada to a screeching halt. Grabbing his boss by the arm, King stopped at the next door on the right and pulled Vice President Baxter over with him. The Secret Service agents were used to this type of semiprivate consultation between their charges and their aides, and without having to say a word, they turned their backs to the vice president and deployed in a protective shell.
