enemies of the state (4 page)

President Spiers leaned back and threw his arm over the back of the couch. One long leg crossed over the other, his foot gently tapping in the air. A soft smile lingered on his face. “How can I help you, Ethan? I take it this meeting is off the calendar?”

“And off the record.” Ethan tried to smile back, but years of a beaten-in respect for authority and an ingrained sense of honor for the chain of command twisted his lips into a tight, thin grimace, more pained than anything else. His feet were rooted to the floor as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Sir, my men tell me you’ve been cancelling your workouts.”

The president stared at him. He didn’t blink.

Ethan swallowed. “Sir, physical fitness is important, especially with this job. You need a stress relief—”

“I didn’t realize babysitting and tattling were part of the Secret Service’s duties.”

His hands clenched behind his back. “Sir, that’s not at all what is happening here. We are concerned for you and for your health. We’ve all seen presidents who had meltdowns because they didn’t have the right stress relief. Trust me. Working out is a great way to shake this office off when you need to.”

Again, the president was silent. He simply stared at Ethan, gazing into his eyes, and where there had been friendly openness only moments before, there was now a guarded wariness. “And what if it’s my workouts that are causing me stress?” He spoke softly.

“Sir?” Ethan frowned.

Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and paced away from Ethan, heading toward his desk at the far end of the Oval Office. His hands disappeared into his suit pants pockets, but his back was ramrod straight, shoulders tight and tense. Ethan could see the seams of his jacket straining at his shoulders.

“I’m not a gregarious guy, but I’m not a shut-in either. My whole political career has been built on being a ‘man of the people.’“ He paused in front of his desk, his head bowed, chin almost on his chest. “Suddenly I’m the president, and there’s this impenetrable divide between me and everyone else.”

There wasn’t anything sudden about his presidency. Ethan remembered the long campaign, watched first on the news and, then, during the whirlwind cycle of campaign stops and plane rides that made up the last 180 days of the campaign, when he and his team—and so many other agents—were assigned to the major candidates in the election. “Sir, you’re the president. You’re the most important man in the world—”

“Nah, I’m not.” The president chuckled, glancing out his office windows overlooking the Rose Garden. “I’m just a guy who wants to push his ideas on everyone else.” He winked at Ethan, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

It was Ethan’s turn to stay silent. He chewed the inside of his lip. Typically, appealing to a president’s sense of vanity worked for him. At least, it had in the past when he’d needed to convince a president to listen to the Secret Service and follow their directives for safety and security.

“I had a group of guys that I ran with in Austin,” the president said, breaking the silence. “And in DC, a few years back, I had a group of people I hung out with at the YMCA where I went swimming. We weren’t close friends. I lost touch with them when I started campaigning. Wouldn’t even know how to reach them.” He turned, leaned back against his desk, and gripped the edge of the carved wood in his hands. “But it was something social, you know?”

“We can…invite members of Congress to join you on a run? Or hire a personal trainer for the White House weight room? Or, if you have friends or associates locally, we can vet them and run a background check, and if that passes, they could join you during your workouts?” Ethan was scrambling, trying to come up with some kind of solution.

The president laughed at him. “Firstly, I don’t know any members of Congress who would voluntarily run anywhere, even with the president.” He grinned, but it faded quickly, and he shook his head. “And it’s not about hiring anyone. Good God, I’ve got enough people working for me as it is. And don’t you think it’s a bit depressing that anyone and everyone I’ve ever known has to submit to a complete background check to even see me, or take a jog with me? I’m going over to dinner at Bob’s house, and the whole evening has become a three-ring government event.”

“Bob” was Robert J. MacNaughten, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and the entire evening was a very big deal to the Secret Service. Ethan stayed silent.

Sighing, the president crossed his arms again. “Ethan, I appreciate your consideration and where the concern comes from. I’m just having a hard time adjusting, I think. I’m like a goldfish in that gym. Your guys are out there, standing guard, still and spooky, and I’m all alone in there, sweating it out under the spotlight. It’s weird.” He shook his head. “I can’t be the only guy to have gone through an adjustment phase.”

You’re the only one who didn’t love the spotlight, and the adulation, and the sudden spectacle being made of himself.
Ethan shook his head, keeping his thoughts to himself. “No, sir. But, please, sir. Can you resume your workouts? I’ll…” He trailed off. “I’ll think of something.”

Where that came from, he had no idea. Think of something to help the president? Who did he think he was? If the president had any brains, he’d laugh him out of his office. But, since this was President Spiers, he’d most likely thank Ethan for his time first and then excuse himself oh so politely to finish his lunch. Heat pooled in Ethan’s belly, heavy and filled with embarrassment. Why was he always sticking his foot in his mouth around this president?

President Spiers smiled, big and broad. “I’d appreciate that, Ethan. You know, I do value your advice. You’ve seen my predecessors, and all of their foibles and faults. If you have advice for me, I’m always all ears.”

That was not what he’d been expecting. Swallowing, Ethan tried to find his tongue. “I’m just your detail lead, sir.”

“You are the kind of guy I’d be proud to call a friend.”

And there it was, that invisible barrier the president had bemoaned, slamming down between them with all the force of a guillotine. Ethan felt the physical push of the barrier against him, a klaxon blaring in his mind, telling him to back away. This was dangerous, this path of familiarity and traded smiles. Where there was familiarity, there was ease, and where there was ease, there was danger and risk, and breaches in security. He couldn’t be a friend to him, the man he was supposed to protect at all costs, even with his own life. How could he ever be objective if he was to befriend this man?

Granted, it wouldn’t be difficult to befriend him. He was a unique man, a man apart amongst the political machine of Washington, DC. Someone who hadn’t lost their soul or sold their morality to the devil. He was a man of honor and kept promises, of easy smiles and warm laughs, and gentle blue eyes that listened. Someone who ran with strangers in Austin so he’d have normal guys keeping him grounded to reality, and who just wanted to make the world a safer, better place, but who hated the isolated tower he’d been put in to do so.

The presidency was going to crush him.

That thought hit Ethan hard, a punch to his gut, and he wished, for a moment, that it could be different. That he could pal around with the president, could give him some straight talk on how to fly right and not get lost in the quagmire that was the Oval Office. Or take him out for a beer when the stress got too high, or text him a YouTube clip to make him snort coffee in the middle of a brief. Those were things friends did, and if there was ever a man who needed a friend, it was President Jack Spiers.

But not Ethan. It couldn’t be Ethan.

Ethan pasted on a tight, fake smile, nodded once, and excused himself. “Mr. President. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

As he turned to head out, he didn’t miss the surprised light to the president’s eyes, or the way he failed to hide his sudden frown and the single line creasing the space between his eyebrows.

Ethan didn’t stop walking as he made his way out of the president’s secretary’s office. He bypassed the Cabinet Room, speaking to no one, ignoring the waves and nods he got in the halls. Down the stairs to the ground floor, past the Situation Room and Horsepower, and then into the tunnels.

Down, beneath the White House Residence, where tunnels funneled stewards and agents to and fro, and the occasional golf cart or small lorry loaded down with crates of food or laundry or binders full of briefs, or even fresh flowers. It could be anything beneath the White House, really.

He slipped out of the tunnels at the basement of the Residence and took one of the internal stairways up to the personal floors for the First Family. The First Family, at the moment, was a single bachelor, and most of the extra bedrooms were unused and unopened. Fresh flowers still sat in vases in all of the common areas. In the dining room, selections of State China were laid out, waiting for the president to choose his design. It was the responsibility of the First Lady to pick the official State China, but in the absence of a first lady, the president had yet to select his pattern. Ethan swallowed hard.

He finally arrived at the gym, sidestepping stewards with laundry and vacuums scuttling about, keeping the Residence organized and clean—aside from the president’s official clutter—while the president was in his office. Outside the gym doors, though, he hesitated. Through the windows, he could see the workout room. Treadmills, ellipticals, a stationary bike, a weight machine, free weights, a couple benches, and a wrestling mat for floor work. Mirrors lined one wall. Agents stationed themselves at the door and in the hallway, watching in case the president needed anything, but not interfering.

The plan had been banging around in his brain since he’d left the West Wing, and he’d spent the majority of the walk trying to convince himself that it was a stupid idea and that he was way out of line. That it would only end in disaster. All of that was true.

And yet, the president’s crooked smile and the tilt of his head stayed in his mind.

Damn it all. He was the president’s detail lead. This was just another part of the job. Keeping the president safe and sane.

If he repeated it enough, he might convince himself.

Ethan pulled out his phone and typed a quick memo to his detail. He didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t reread it. He just hit send. Leaning his head back, Ethan started counting the seconds until Daniels called.

Forty-two seconds. His phone vibrated. Daniels.

“Reichenbach.” His voice growled as he answered.

“You want us to
what
?” Daniels couldn’t have forced any more incredulity into that sentence.

Ethan closed his eyes, shutting out the president’s gym. He leaned his forehead against the glass. “Just be ready, all right? I’ll take the lead. And I want to get a debrief from you. Meet me in Horsepower in five?”

* * * * *

The next morning, Ethan, clad in crisp United States Secret Service PT shorts and a training T-shirt, tucked in tight to his shorts, paced inside the gym. Two other agents were working out: one on the elliptical and one on the weight machine. He put them on the two machines the president—according to Daniels—never used.

Before this morning, Daniels had taken the lead on the morning shift with the president in the gym while Ethan had managed the morning administration in Horsepower. Today, they flipped, and Ethan had apparently decided to lose his Goddamned mind.

He hadn’t even told the president.

He hoped the president would decide to work out today. This would all be an embarrassing show of stupidity if the president just ignored everything they had discussed yesterday. He kept pacing.

When the door to the gym pushed open, Ethan whirled around, his chin held high, jaw clenched and tight, and his eyes narrowed. Unconsciously, he stood at the ready, feet shoulder width apart, his linebacker’s shoulders raised, fists held in a loose clench. He was a big guy, and regular workouts helped keep his strength primed. He just normally used the Secret Service’s workout room. Not the president’s.

President Spiers stopped in the doorway, his mouth falling open as he saw Ethan and his agents set up in his gym. He was dressed in a ratty T-shirt from the University of Texas and baggy sweats with coffee stains on them. His eyebrows shot up as he slowly smiled. “So this is your solution? Invade my gym?”

Ethan’s spine cracked as he straightened. His shoulders tensed. “Sir, I thought you would enjoy some company.” And not just any company, such as getting some congressmen in there to harass the president on his workouts, or make him wait while they vetted a friend—or flew in a friend from Texas, even—but regular agents, men who were—when all the luster of the Secret Service was taken away—just regular guys living their life.

And who were top-level security cleared.

The president kept grinning as he padded over to Ethan, standing in the center of the wrestling mat. “So, what kind of workout do you have in mind, Ethan?”

Across the gym, one of the agent’s feet slipped out of his pedal, spinning the stationary bike’s wheels in a frenzy. Ethan gnashed his teeth but held the president’s gaze. “Whatever you’d like, sir. We can run laps and then move to the weights, like your normal routine.”

“I don’t know whether to be creeped out or impressed that you know my routine.”

“Part of my job, sir.” Ethan flashed a quick grin. “If I don’t know everything, then I’ve missed something critical.”

The president was stretching, leaning down and bracing against his knee. “Army Special Forces?”

Ethan nodded.

“You’ll have to tell me all about that. I love hearing from vets.”

Not knowing what to say, Ethan kept his mouth shut as he stretched alongside the president. Eventually, the president shucked his sweats, revealing an old pair of running shorts that barely stretched to the top of his thighs. His legs were toned, long and lean, and dusted with dark hair down to his ankles. Ethan glued his eyes to the ceiling.

“All right, let’s do a few miles to warm up and then hit the weights. I’ll spot for you if you spot for me? Though…” The president trailed off as he studied Ethan’s bulging biceps, straining the limits of his T-shirt sleeves. “I think I’d kill myself if I tried to lift what you were capable of.”