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  We intend to rid the United States of America of political vermin and our action today is the beginning of the end for all traitors. Let the world know that we will make the supreme sacrifice. We will risk everything to stand up for the sacred American Bill of Rights.

  You, Mister Communist President, you who has besmirched the American nation and all its proud sons, are next on our execution list. Say your prayers.

  Long live the white race!

  THE ARYAN DISCIPLES OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  "The ADs," Kallenstien said.

  Breckinridge knew about the neo-Nazi Aryan Disciples of the United States of America, the most dangerous extremist group in the U.S., whose members included insane right-wing political zealots and dangerous ex-convicts. Members of the Aryan Disciples were responsible for a long series of violent acts, including the bombing of the Ronald Reagan Federal Building in D.C. that killed twenty-nine people and wounded eighty; and the bombing of the Houston and Albuquerque federal buildings that killed another forty-two people. Recent rumors had it that the Libyan Army Intelligence Service had been secretly funding some Aryan Disciples terrorist actions.

  "It arrived by private courier service," the duty agent said. "The driver who signed the delivery paperwork has a route in Alexandria. There are no other clues."

  Breckinridge signed an evidence receipt.

  "Thanks. By the way, this case is classified from here on."

  "I'll mark the file."

  Breckinridge and Kallenstien crossed the street, heading back to Headquarters.

  "If they figured they could get Charlie alone when he was coming off duty, they had to know that he would be carrying a gun," Breckinridge said. "Why take that risk when they could have hit him when he was off duty; at the grocery store or on a golf course when there would be a good chance that he would be unarmed? And if this were an Aryan Disciples thing, why would they murder him a block from the White House? They had to know that other agents park in that lot too. One of them could have been nearby and seen what was going on-"

  "Maybe they want to throw it in our faces."

  "Rachel, this is the first time the Aryan Disciples have claimed responsibility for a terrorist action - a complete change of M.O. And they've never directly threatened the President. Up to now they've always targeted Cabinet officers and lesser officials. The IRS. Federal buildings."

  "They could be looking for press coverage."

  "It doesn't fit. Why would they believe that killing an off-duty Secret Service agent would gain them more attention than their usual actions - like detonating a bomb in a public building?"

  "Maybe they are trying to change their methods just to be clever. Just to keep us all guessing."

  "We're guessing, all right," Breckinridge said after a silence.

  Later, at her Georgetown two-bedroom apartment, Breckinridge unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The message light on her answering machine was flashing. She pressed PLAY.

  "Martha, This is your mother. I just called to say hi, but I guess you are still working. Please make sure you eat a good dinner. Love you. Bye."

  "Okay, Mom."

  She pressed REWIND.

  Breckinridge had chosen to enter the law-enforcement field while at Oklahoma State. After five years with the Tulsa Police Department, she decided that the nearly all-male power structure would keep her from getting promoted out of her radio car, so she joined the U.S. Secret Service. To avoid the boring ex-President and Foreign Dignitary Protection Details to which most female Secret Service agents were assigned, she maneuvered herself into the Protective Research Division, where she'd been working inordinate amounts of overtime, hoping to eventually get promoted to the White House Detail.

  Her divorce was final. Ted had been the "man of substance" her mother had told her to marry: a steady, nine-to-five lawyer who'd convinced her there was no reason his career would conflict with her Secret Service aspirations. His direct, straightforward approach - the lifetime commitment - had caught her off guard. Just the word marriage. He'd dazzled her with his poise and uprightness. But she knew their relationship wasn't going to last. It wasn't that she didn't like the idea of having a life partner she could share everything with. But the moment they'd moved in together, he'd changed from romantic suitor to demanding prosecutor. It had become clear to her that he considered her less than an equal life partner. She'd believed his words rather than his actions, and she'd known better. She'd allowed herself to be a dreamer. Now she was alone again and much wiser for the experience.

  She showered, washed her hair, and put on a terry-cloth robe. She combed her hair, leaving it wet, then went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine before she walked to the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table. She sipped wine for a while, reliving the day. Finally, her eyelids became heavy. Leaving the half-full wineglass sitting on the table, she went into the bedroom and crawled between the sheets. Closing her eyes, she pictured Charlie Meriweather dead, his hand on his gun.

  ****

  CHAPTER 2

  PETE GARRISON LEANED back in the passenger seat of a Secret Service limousine and gazed at the scenery along a wooded Highway 404. First Lady Eleanor Hollingsworth Jordan was in the right rear seat, reading. They were headed to the President's summer home at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, the nearest beach to the White House. A thick, fully soundproof window separated the front seat from the rear.

  Agent Walter Sebastian was driving.

  "What's bothering you, Pete?" he asked.

  Garrison fidgeted. "Nothing."

  Sebastian was a tall, muscle-bound man with an oversized head and hands. He'd been an Army Intelligence officer before joining the Secret Service. Garrison liked him.

  "It's a change all right," said Sebastian.

  "Whatsat?"

  "Tagging along with the First Frau. It takes a while, but you'll get used to it. Sure, everyone knows the First Lady Detail is a dumping ground for agents from the Man's detail. It was the same when they sent me here for using the Oval Office phone to place a bet on a Redskins game. But the moment some other agent ends up in the barrel, everyone will forget. I used to tell myself I'd get back to the Man's detail someday. But then I finally realized that I was getting paid the same for going to tea parties as for risking taking rounds for the Man. Hell, we'll be at the beach all weekend while the first team is working double shifts because of the Aryan Disciples. We have it made."

  Deep down, Garrison knew Sebastian was right. But Garrison had no choice. Three weeks earlier he'd been "promoted" to supervisor of the First Lady Detail. Disciplinary transfers were often couched as promotions. He'd blown his position in the Presidential detail, the assignment that he'd desired from the day that he'd received his badge, thirteen years earlier. Working his way up to the Presidential detail had been for naught. He'd wasted his time in the Secret Service bomb detail, terrorist task force, and PRD.

  Sebastian changed lanes, following the lead car. The limousine was part of a motorcade consisting of a police escort sedan, the First Lady's limousine, and a backup limousine manned by a Secret Service automobile mechanic whose sole duty was to repair and maintain official cars. Security had been augmented as a result of Charlie Meriweather's murder two weeks earlier.

  Garrison glanced at the specially designed rearview mirror extending nearly across the entire windshield.

  Eleanor Jordan unexpectedly looked up and met his eyes. She was a handsome woman of Garrison's age. She was a Manhattan ice queen with high cheekbones, deep-set, green eyes, and strawberry-blond hair, a head-turner and darling of the media whose photograph appeared on the covers of the women's magazines.

  Passing a sign that read DESIRE BAY, Sebastian swerved off the highway. Garrison could smell the ocean. Winding his way along a one-lane road leading toward Rehoboth Beach, Sebastian pulled up to a guard booth at a private condominium development. The gate lifted automatically and a private security officer motioned them inside. They cruised slo
wly past high-priced, two-story homes that all looked the same: clapboards, weather vanes, swamp-grass lawns, and bicycles on front porches. Making a left turn into a cul-de-sac, Sebastian parked in front of the President's summer home, a two-story, rectangular house with a central chimney and a steep, shingled roof. In a Mercury sedan across the street were two agents from the local field office.

  Garrison and Sebastian got out of the limousine. Garrison led the First Lady inside and Sebastian followed.

  A service counter separated a modem kitchen from a large living room with two pillow-covered sofas. Ceiling-high bookshelves lined a small study off the main room. Tinted-glass sliding doors led to a patio with a full view of the ocean.

  Garrison cleared his throat.

  "Are you expecting any visitors tonight, Mrs. Jordan?"

  "No."

  "If you decide to go somewhere, please let me know as soon..."

  "As soon as possible?" she said wryly.

  "Just a reminder. Have a nice night."

  Garrison and Sebastian exited the kitchen door and walked along a short walkway to the house next door, an ad hoc command post that the Secret Service termed a security room. The living area faced sliding glass doors leading to the beach.

  "I'll take the first shift," Garrison said.

  "Are you sure-?"

  "I feel like staying up."

  "I'll get the iron out of the trunk."

  Sebastian exited the front door.

  Garrison checked the equipment. On the dining room table were a portable Secret Service worldwide radio console and a large, open suitcase containing emergency lights, an Uzi submachine gun, night-viewing devices, emergency manuals, smoke grenades, a complete paramedic's first-aid kit including poison antidotes and snakebite serum, surgical operating tools, and a foldable metal stretcher; the required Secret Service security equipment.

  Sebastian returned carrying a leather shotgun case. He unzipped it and handed Garrison a .12-gauge Remington 870 shotgun. Garrison checked it, insuring that the safety was off and there was a round in the chamber.

  "What are you gonna do for dinner, Pete?"

  "Call out."

  "I can bring you something-"

  "I may even skip dinner."

  "Suit yourself."

  Sebastian walked to the glass door. "You know, it's kind of sad to think of a good-looking woman like her sitting over there alone all weekend.

  Garrison placed the shotgun on the table. "Sounds like you're failing in love, Walter."

  The term "falling in love" was a Secret Service phrase that implied nothing about romance, referring rather to Secret Service agents who allowed themselves to become friends with a protectee and lost the required professional distance called for by Secret Service custom and protocol.

  "All I'm saying is that it's a shame to see a good-looking woman like her go to waste like that. But after D day, her and the Man do their own thing."

  Garrison joined him at the sliding glass door. Looking left, to Eleanor's beach house, he could see its patio and a solitary lounge chair.

  "What's D day?"

  "A few weeks ago she and the Man had a knock-down, drag-out in the solarium. I was outside the door and heard the whole argument from beginning to end. Lots of shouting and screaming, She ended up throwing a candy dish at him. Thus, the D in D day."

  "What was the argument about?"

  "The Man is planning to divorce her the moment he leaves office. You being in charge of her detail, I figured you should know."

  Garrison was aware of how important it was to have a feel for a protectee's personal life. To be an effective bodyguard was to be able to anticipate the actions of the protectee. But Eleanor had always told him about her estrangement from the President. Even in his mind, it felt odd calling her by her first name....

  "Thanks for filling me in," Garrison said.

  "What do you think of her, Pete?"

  Garrison found the First Lady to be sensual, and captivating - a real knockout. "As long as she tells us where she is going ahead of time and doesn't give us any guff, what's not to like?"

  "I wonder if she'll start dating again after she and the Man finally cut the cord."

  "Probably."

  "I heard that before she met him, she had plenty of guys after her. Rich playboys. Major Wall Street players, English royalty dudes.... like that. Let's face it. She is a good-looking woman. I'd like to jump her myself. Hell I'd like to climb her like a ladder-"

  "When she gets divorced you can ask her out."

  Sebastian laughed. "Me? Not a chance. A woman like her wouldn't give either of us a second look."

  "Why not?"

  "To her we're nothing but stooges with neckties. The way women like her figure it, why get involved with a guy who doesn't drive a Mercedes Benz? Uptown broads like her don't want to just be able to order the lobster. They want to walk out of the restaurant and leave it on the plate. More than anything. They want the power and prestige. They want to be on the arm of some guy who owns the Redskins, not some defensive lineman."

  Sebastian moved to the table, signed the daily report, and headed for the door. "Have a nice night."

  Garrison's eyes were on the house next door.

  "See you in the morning, Walter."

  Sebastian departed. Garrison shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair. He checked the Uzi. It was loaded, and there were extra ammunition clips. If the Aryan Disciples terrorists came calling, he and the agents across the street would be able to give them a warm welcome.

  He reached for the telephone, but stopped himself.

  He sat on a sofa and picked up a copy of Time magazine. The First Lady's face was on the cover. Flipping pages, he scanned another breathless account of her history. He and everyone else in the world already knew the details. Eleanor Hollingsworth Jordan was the divorced daughter of political kingmaker and wealthy philanthropist Joseph Horton Hollingsworth III. When she'd begun dating California Senator Russell Jordan, everyone had wondered what she saw in an aging politician fifteen years her senior. After a marriage ceremony on the Hollingsworth family yacht, she became Jordan's campaign manager and spent millions from her father's estate to fund a campaign that carried Jordan into the U.S. Senate and later the White House.

  It was going to be a long night, Garrison told himself. After a while he dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups, counting out loud. He reached one hundred, took a five-minute break, and then started again. The phone rang. He vaulted to his feet and snatched the receiver.

  "Agent Garrison speaking."

  "Is Walter gone?" Eleanor asked.

  "Yes."

  "I don't feet like eating alone, hon."

  "I never thought you'd ask."

  Garrison racked the phone, picked up the Uzi, and walked across the yard. He didn't consider leaving his assigned post a breach of security. The main house was alarmed and secure. In the event of an emergency, he would be closer to her. He opened the kitchen door and went in.

  Eleanor was at the stove. Her hair was down, brushed shiny after a wash and swept boldly back. She looked comfortably casual in white slacks, a black sweater, and sandals.

  "I hope you're hungry, Pete."

  He placed the Uzi on an empty bookshelf. "Starving."

  He offered to help in the kitchen. She declined. As she worked at the stove, he admired an oil painting that hung over the sofa. He'd never noticed it before.

  "Do you like it, Pete?"

  "It's very engaging." He'd once heard the word engaging used repeatedly by an art critic at a Presidential visit to the Corcoran Gallery.

  "It's called Farmhouse in San Gabriel by Dorothy Hibbert. It belonged to my father. He was a collector of fine art, among other things."

  She pointed above the mantel to an oil painting of a svelte blonde, the wind blowing her hair as she hurried along a dark, cobblestone street with a band of sunken-eyed orphans.

  "That one was painted by Carleton Phipps - a recluse who
paints naked on the porch of a cabin in Idaho."

  Garrison could hear the waves outside. "I'll bet that becomes a real hardship for him in January."

  Her courtly laugh revealed perfect, white teeth. It occurred to Garrison that beauty was, as someone once said, in the symmetry. Nothing about Eleanor Jordan was out of balance. Nothing at all. She turned back to the stove to cook. He admired her for a moment, and then walked across the kitchen and turned off the stove.

  "Pete-"

  He wrapped his arms around her. They kissed, and her tongue met his. He embraced her tightly, and the sound of the waves seemed to get louder. Then, in a blurry trance, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. They devoured each other with kisses and undressed one another. He could hear her breathing. His tongue flicked her erect nipples. Then, moving lower, he kissed her abdomen, her navel. Her hips began to move. He gently tasted her sex, making love to her with his tongue for a long time, her hands grasping his head tightly. She pulled him up, kissing him hungrily, reaching for his hardness. They melded together, her legs wrapping around him. As he was locked with her in the driving tempo of sex, her deepening warmth consumed him. They kissed and bit one another feverishly until, finally, pressing her lips to the nape of his neck, she cried out in orgasm. Garrison continued to ravish her, and then, finally thrusting his hips in a paroxysm of brain-throbbing ecstasy, he too found release.

  As they ate, they chatted about an upcoming Russian summit meeting to be held at Camp David and journalist Joe Kretchvane's unauthorized biography of her, which she said he was slanting to put her in the worst possible light.

  "Pete, what's being done about the Aryan Disciples threat?"

  "More agents on post, more scrutiny of White House visitors, less scheduled Presidential stops. Other than that, the security plan remains pretty much the same. Don't worry. We have it under control."