Ten minutes later, a man with a blond crew cut and sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves of his dark blue uniform poked his head through the door behind the kid, probably getting a look at who was in the waiting room. He caught a glimpse of Lynch, said something she couldn’t hear, and then waved her to a side door.
“Sergeant Victors,” the officer said once she was in the back hallway. “What can we do for you?”
“Are you the shift supervisor?”
“Supposed to be Lieutenant Cassel,” Victors said, “but he’s away on leave. Afraid you’ll have to deal with me.” He held up his ceramic A2PD mug. “Want some coffee? What’s this about? Counterfeiting case? Don’t you guys do wire fraud now?”
“Yes,” Lynch said. “I’d love some coffee. No, I’m not here regarding a counterfeiting case. And yes, we do wire fraud investigations. But this is different. Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“You got here as swing shift is coming on,” he said, nodding down the long hall where a knot of patrol officers congregated in front of a bulletin board. “I’m about to lead fallout. I can sit down with you after that.”
“We should probably talk first—”
The door beyond the gathered officers opened and a man in a pair of faded jeans and a white dress shirt walked in. The officers stood aside with just enough deference to let Lynch know it was the chief.
“Are you the Secret Service agent?” he asked, striding up and extending his hand. He was polite, but not exactly glad to see a Fed standing in the inner sanctum of his building. “What’s this all about?”
“Could we go in your office?”
The sergeant raised his hand. “I should probably get to fallout.”
“Go ahead,” the chief said.
Lynch leaned in close so other officers walking by couldn’t hear. “FLOTUS is coming to town.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Flo—?”
“The First Lady of the United States.”
“Ah,” Victors said. “FLOTUS. I can see why it’s so sensitive. But that’s above my pay grade.”
“All right,” the chief said. “FLOTUS is coming to Ann Arbor and you need our assistance. When is she due to arrive?”
“Ten hours.”
The sergeant staggered a half-step backward, as if she’d slapped him. “You have got to be shitting me…”
“I’m afraid not,” Lynch said.
The chief folded his arms, giving Lynch a glimpse at the face he must have used on his troops when they’d displeased him. “And we’re just being told about this?”
Absent an office, Lynch stepped into an open breakroom and motioned the chief and sergeant inside. She pulled the door closed — risking the wrath of anyone who needed their coffee before fallout. “I’m authorized to tell you that this isn’t a pleasure trip. The details are extremely close-hold. This must be kept under the radar. No lights and sirens. No hint that she’s even been here. We’re protecting FLOTUS, but there’s a lot more than that at stake. We just don’t want to be obvious about it. I’ll reimburse for overtime, but I’d like you to pick four officers for special duty. I’ll put a Secret Service agent in each car.”
“SWAT?” the sergeant asked.
“Best people,” she said. “SWAT or not, that’s up to you. I’m looking for tactical but not talkative. They have to be able to keep a secret.”
She handed him a color-coded lapel pin. About the size of a quarter, it was white ceramic with a gold five-pointed star like the one on her badge. “Every gun-toter involved in this movement will have on one of these. Including your guys. If someone who does not have one approaches, then challenge them and get me on the radio. We’re handling outer perimeter. You can tell the rest of the shift there’s special duty, but that’s all. Only the officers involved should even know it’s happening.” She looked at the chief. “I’ll ride with your sergeant, if that works.”
“Okay,” the chief said, processing what little information she’d given him.
She nodded at the pin in his open palm. “They’re numbered. I need them back at the end.”
“And when do you anticipate that will be?”
“The end?” Lynch looked at her watch.
“I’m wondering when I can tell the rest of the guys what happened.”
Lynch gave him the friendliest Texas Panhandle grin she could muster.
“Chief,” she said. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. These orders come from the highest possible level. This is not something you should talk about. Ever.”
As director of national intelligence, Mary Pat Foley rated a spot in the senior staff alcove on Air Force One. Foley found herself on edge, unwilling to be cooped up in the small office, so she sat on the couch outside the medical clinic with Admiral Jason Bailey, the President’s physician. The 747—designated a VC-25A in military parlance — was large, but it was still an airplane, with limited space. The President’s office, sometimes called the mini-Oval, was just forward of the clinic. The Secret Service kept two agents posted outside the door, at a small desk forward of the couch where Doc Bailey worked on a sudoku and Foley waited impatiently for a phone call.
