“I’m not sure,” Montgomery said. His brow creased in a grim line, like he was fighting a headache — a frequent occurrence in this job. “We were running AOP scenarios when I got the call.” AOP meant Attack on the Principal. PPD conducted frequent drills at their training facility in Beltsville, imagining assaults from every conceivable venue — water, motorcycle, rope line, even explosive drones. There was a full-scale mockup of the Ryan house in Maryland that saw frequent use by the Secret Service Counter Assault Team and Anne Arundel County Special Operations Response Team. Mo had been conducting a walk-through and AOP drill of her own with the agents she’d handpicked for the Ann Arbor trip, using a mat room in the Secret Service gym to tape off the floor plan of the Kellogg Eye Center.
“It’s not like we don’t have anything to do,” Mo groused.
“I know what you mean,” Montgomery said. “Van Damm wasn’t exactly forthcoming with specifics. All I know is that POTUS wants to see us both.”
“Does he call you in like this very often?”
Montgomery gave a halfhearted shrug. “More than I thought he would, yes,” he said. “I’ve never had a protectee ask my opinion as much as this one. How about the Mrs.?”
“The same,” Mo said. “To be honest, it’s hard not to get too close.”
Montgomery chuckled. “Yeah, the boss and I had to have ‘the talk’ not long after I came aboard. He’s a good guy.”
Richardson paused outside the door to the secretaries’ suite adjacent to the Oval and turned to face Montgomery. “You ever wish you’d worn a different shirt when you get called over last-minute like this?”
“You look fine, Mo.”
“I was talking about you,” she said. “You have a little bit of mustard right…”
He glanced down and caught her grinning. “You little turd.” He motioned her in, but checked his shirt again just in case. “After you.”
“Thanks,” Mo whispered. “I hear the second guy through the door is the most likely to get shot.”
Betty Martin waved the two agents into the Oval Office immediately. Again, Montgomery let Richardson lead the way. Both stopped just inside the door, getting the lay of the land and waiting to be told if they were supposed to sit down or just offer a quick update and leave.
President Ryan, who was seated in his favorite chair by the fireplace, stood when they came in, prompting the others in the room to do the same.
“Mo, Gary,” Ryan said, gesturing toward the sofa to his left. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Richardson scanned the faces in the room. None of them provided an answer to what the meeting was about. Arnie van Damm and Mary Pat Foley sat on the couch to Ryan’s right, along with the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. On the couch across from them sat Director Howe of the Secret Service. The President directed them to sit next to their boss. In the chair beside Ryan sat an Asian man Mo had never seen before. Her focus rested immediately on him, since he was the only unknown in the room.
Clean shaven, he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was medium length, just over his ears, long enough that he would look well groomed if he combed it or rakish if he mussed it a bit. He sat up straight, but not on the edge of his seat, a relaxed pose for someone visiting the Oval Office. His suit was modest, not too expensive, not new, but nice enough if he wasn’t trying to impress anyone or get himself noticed — a rarity in the White House, where everyone was trying to make their mark.
That was it. He had the kind of eyes that Maureen would have passed right over in a crowd when she worked protection. Nonthreatening eyes. This guy didn’t want to be remembered.
He had to be CIA.
Ryan nodded at the DNI, giving her the go-ahead once everyone was seated.
“I’ll get right to it, then,” Foley said. “By virtue of your positions, the two of you are, as you Secret Service guys like to say,
Foley glanced at Ryan, then back at the two agents, as if she were uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. “It goes without saying that the things we are about to discuss have to stay within the room.”
“Of course,” Richardson said.
Ryan gestured to the Asian man seated next to him.
“Mo, I’d like you to meet Adam Yao, with CIA. He’s done some incredible work. Saved a hell of a lot of lives.”
Yao gave a half-smile, squirming slightly, as the compliment put him in the limelight. Richardson couldn’t tell if he was just being modest or if he wasn’t comfortable being introduced by his real name — if Adam Yao truly was his name.
Richardson found herself wondering what was coming next. She assumed this had something to do with the First Lady’s trip. Still, she was a protector, not a spook.
“Adam,” the President said. “Would you be so kind as to bring Special Agent Richardson up to speed?”
