“I was contacted by the secretary general’s office earlier this morning,” Tron says.
Of course, she would have been since she was visiting Interpol at the same time I was, both of us members of the Doomsday Commission.
“Also, of huge concern to us is that you and Benton are presidential appointees,” she’s saying. “So you can understand the United States having an interest.”
“We can’t be certain at this point of the intended target,” Benton adds. “Although I’m willing to bet a small fortune it wasn’t Kay or those of us around her.”
“I suspect we’re going to find it was Gabriella Honoré,” Tron replies. “There are other incidents, other things going on, possibly all of it connected even if indirectly because of the Russian factor.”
CHAPTER 19
IT’S ALL SHE’S GOING to divulge while noticing everyone around us, every vehicle parked in front the West Wing’s entrance. She’d have you cuffed on the ground before you can think. I have no doubt of that having seen her take down metal plates on the firing range and burn rubber on the driving course.
Benton calls Tron a bona fide badass, handling business quietly, rarely reacting to much or raising her voice. We follow her to the West Wing’s entrance, onto the rusty-red carpet runner under the big white awning, through the double glass-paned white doors beneath the gold presidential seal.
Just inside, she parks the umbrella in a stand, and to our left are a series of wooden cabinets that weren’t here when I was last. Inside them are lockboxes for our electronic devices. I find it ironic watching Tron and Benton tuck away our phones, also fitness trackers and a smartwatch. But not their guns.
Through another set of doors, another officer checks our IDs again without cracking a smile as Tron chats with him. I’m wondering what’s changed since I was here last, and I look around. Nothing seems all that different at a glance except I notice other women wearing pants and comfortable shoes like mine.
Beyond the desk, the lobby is hung with priceless oil paintings of pioneers in covered wagons, and Old Faithful going off in Yellowstone Park. I recognize George Washington crossing the Delaware in his boat, and other Americana art I’ve admired on previous visits.
The reception area for the public is surprisingly Spartan and bustling, the mood strictly business, not remotely ceremonial. There’s little room to linger, no hosts to offer coffee or to hang your coat. The furnishings aren’t nearly as lavish as one might expect when visiting the highest office in the land.
This Tuesday morning, the last day of November, there’s a touch of nervous energy in the air, and Tron informs us that the prime minister of England is expected later. Meanwhile, a VIP tour of schoolteachers congregates by the door leading outside to the West Colonnade. They’re from the Midwest, I gather, and they can’t stop smiling and shyly asking questions.
“Also known as the forty-five-second commute,” their tour guide is saying. “That’s how long it takes to get from here to the executive residence, and in the process, you’ll have a glimpse of the Rose Garden, the Oval Office . . .” They follow him outside.
Guides and other staffers in uniform are assigned to the White House Military Office. WHMO （pronounced whamo） runs all hospitality and food services. It also handles medical emergencies and transportation, whether it’s the presidential limousines, Air Force One or the helicopter landing on the South Lawn.
Specially trained military personnel are the president’s aide-de-camp, on hand 24/7 to take care of every need. All to say, there are plenty of brass stars and lots of camouflage to be found in here, and it’s a bit like a train station this morning. People are converging from all directions, carrying paperwork, on their phones and in a hurry.
Some stop to engage in quiet conversations, casually making appointments to speak later. While important-looking guests wait on the formal blue-upholstered sofa and chairs off to the side, almost pushed against the walls to make room for traffic. There’s not much other furniture, just antique brass lamps on tables and the large gilt clock that’s been in the lobby forever.
As has the splendid pre-Revolutionary War breakfront with its rare books and mementos. It’s awe-inspiring to imagine those who have passed through since the early days when President Theodore Roosevelt decided his office should be separate from his living quarters. Nobody is above waiting in plain view of all who come through the same front door Benton and I just did.
It could be a head of state, a princess, a biotech billionaire, a movie star or your average Joe waiting for appointments with high-level officials. That won’t include the president or vice president right now. I have a feeling they’re preoccupied as it’s dawning on me where I’m being taken.