Jack Ryan met Mary Pat Foley at the top of the staircase on the second floor of the White House Residence, diagonally across from the Lincoln Bedroom. It was early, too early for breakfast, really, but both had such full schedules that they had to start work at the proverbial zero-dark-thirty if they hoped to put any kind of a dent in their days. Ryan embraced Foley as an old friend, brotherly, but close enough to smell her rosewater shampoo. She wore an expensive-looking A-line wool skirt befitting the director of national intelligence and a fashionable silk blouse that she’d probably describe as camel or taupe but Jack would have said was tan.
Foley was in better-than-average shape for a woman in her sixties, but used the banister to haul herself up the last two steps for dramatic effect.
She shook her finger at her old friend. “I thought about having my detail bum-rush your detail so I could take the elevator.”
“I’m pretty sure my detail can take your detail,” Ryan said.
“That’s because this is your home turf,” Mary Pat groused. “My detail doesn’t have guys on the roof with sniper rifles. They’re pretty damned good, though.”
“I know they are,” Ryan said. “But next time use the elevator. Nobody’s going to stop you.”
Mary Pat grinned. “I’d rather gripe about it, Jack.” They’d been acquainted for well over thirty years, fast friends for most of that, and she customarily used his given name unless they were in the Oval Office and there were others present. She’d been here enough to know her way around, and walked toward the dining room off the West Sitting Hall without being told. “Anyway,” she said. “I could use the exercise.”
Foley could be counted on to speak her mind. Ryan liked that. He enjoyed their no-spin chats.
“Griping counts as exercise now?” Ryan chuckled, following a step behind. “I’ll have to tell that to the kids.”
“You know what I mean, wiseass,” she said, drawing a raised brow from the female Secret Service agent posted in the Center Hall, across from the elevator.
“What do you think, Tina?” Ryan said as they passed. “Could my detail take Director Foley’s detail?”
“Without question, Mr. President,” Special Agent Tina Jordan said, stone-faced. With her hands folded low and relaxed in front of her slightly rumpled gray slacks, she tipped her head cordially to Mary Pat. “Good morning, Director Foley.”
The DNI paused outside the dining room door and turned to face Ryan, sniffing the air. “Eggs and bacon, Jack? What gives?”
“Hey,” Ryan said. “The most powerful man in the world should be able to eat what he wants for breakfast.” He shot a guilty glance over his shoulder as if afraid of being caught, then showed Foley through the door. “Seriously, Cathy had an early surgery to perform. That leaves me to harden my arteries at will.”
“I’m up for some comfort food,” Foley said. “Because we need to talk about Russia — and Russia should not be discussed over something as paltry as a breakfast of seeds and whey.”
“Not China?” Ryan mused. “President Zhao and his war games are all over the PDB this morning.” The PDB was the President’s Daily Brief, prepared by Foley’s office. It fused sensitive and secret data gleaned from across the nation’s seventeen intelligence agencies and was ready for Ryan when he woke up each morning.
“Russia first,” Foley said. “I’m saving the Chinese for last.”
A steward from the White House kitchen got them both seated, while the sous-chef, a woman whose parents were from the Dominican Republic, uncovered two plates piled high with eggs Benedict — made with bacon, the way Ryan liked it, instead of ham.
“Thank you, Josey,” Ryan said to the sous-chef. “It looks fantastic.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” The woman stood fast, as if she were waiting to be dismissed.
“Was there something else?”
“There is, Mr. President,” Josey said, shuffling her feet like a child with a
Ryan sighed, waving a hand over his plate as if to give her the go-ahead. Photos of his food for social media — one of the countless things you never realized about being President of the United States until you were on the job. “This has Arnie’s name written all over it,” he muttered.
“Truth be told, Mr. President,” Josey whispered, glancing toward the doors, “it was Mr. van Damm who asked Chef to get some photos.” She took a small digital camera out of her jacket pocket — personal cell phones were locked away downstairs.
Mary Pat reflexively held up an open hand in front of her face at the sight of the camera. “Just the President, if you don’t mind.” She shot a sheepish glance at Ryan. “I know, I know. My photo is all over open-source media now that I’m in this job, but old habits die hard.”
“Of course, Director Foley,” Josey said, snapping three quick photos from different angles before thanking Ryan and stepping out.
