Long May She Reign (43 page)

He hesitated.

Thereby upholding her suspicions. “At first, my mother couldn't even place the name ‘Susan,'” Meg said. “Dowd
or
McAllister.”

Which officially eliminated one of the two prime suspects.

“The Secret Service was
raving
about her,” Preston said. “She passed all of the security checks with flying colors.”

No, he couldn't fool her with a tangential issue. This whole thing had her father's well-meaning fingerprints all over it. “What in the hell was he thinking?” she asked.

Preston sighed. “He wasn't thinking, Meg. I don't think he
can
think clearly anymore, insofar as your welfare is concerned.”

A loving, sweet—and selfish—instinct, on his part, then. And because of the first two reasons, she probably wouldn't take him to task for it. Not today, anyway.

“The fact that she's well on the way to getting a black belt didn't hurt,” Preston said.

Yeah, if a band of armed terrorists—or possibly, suicide bombers—attacked her, Susan would immediately be pressed into service to karate chop them all and avert the crisis.

Preston sighed again. “Come on, Meg. I can't always read your mind.”

That was probably for the best.

“He thought that she would have extra insight about me, because she's had a tough time herself,” she said.

He nodded reluctantly.

“And even though it might end up screwing
her
up, it was a risk worth taking,” she said.

“A calculated risk,” he said.

Poorly
calculated. But continuing to rake him over the coals wasn't going to accomplish much, other than annoying both of them more than they already were. “I still don't see how my mother can blame you,” she said. Although actually, she might have made the conscious, safe choice to take most of it out on Preston, instead of waiting until she went back to the Residence later.

Preston shrugged. “She trusted me to be objective, and give good advice, but I wasn't, and I didn't.”

She was glad he had trouble being objective about her—but, okay, it would be nice if he had been, on this one occasion.

“Gabler was telling me today that they were so hard on her during one of the last interviews that they all felt terrible, afterwards,” he said. “But she didn't even flinch, and they really liked that. Liked
her
.”

That didn't sound too good. “What do you mean, ‘hard on her'?” Meg asked.

Preston looked tired. “Meg, they can't risk having anyone around you, especially in such close proximity, who they think, in any way, under any circumstances, could be
bought
.”

Could sell her out to the highest terrorist bidder, the way Dennis had.

“And while they liked Dirk, and some of the other JAs, too, with Susan they were lucky enough to find someone who had already been tested in a terrible situation, where she never lost her dignity, never spoke to the press, and never showed anything resembling a hint of emotional instability,” he said. “I mean, how could they resist? The problem is that everyone was so concerned about you, that no one really thought enough about how it might end up affecting
her
.”

Hmmm.

“So, we blew it,” he said.

They sure had.

25

A LUNCHTIME MEETING
had been arranged at the college president's house, which included deans, Secret Service agents, campus security people, the college press office, the local police chief, and a few other campus officials whose exact purpose for attending Meg couldn't quite figure out. Naturally, Preston and Ginette were there, too, along with an uneasy Dirk, and a very quiet Susan.

Although Meg had been dreading the MRI and other medical exams which were likely to be in her immediate future, within about ten minutes, she decided that they would be preferable to sitting in this meeting. Everyone was being extremely nice to her—but, the MRI still seemed enticing, by comparison.

The upshot of the matter was that campus trespassing ordinances were going to be more stringently enforced, and that Susan was offered a choice between Meg's being assigned to another dorm and
definitely
getting another female JA, or that Susan herself could relocate elsewhere on the campus, as soon as this very afternoon, if she so desired.

Susan smiled, and nodded—and declined to accept either suggestion.

“Any or all of the students in your entry will naturally be given the same opportunity, if they feel they'd be happier with other living arrangements,” one of the deans said.

“I'm not aware of there being any problems whatsoever, ma'am,” Susan said, Dirk nodding in agreement, “but we'll certainly speak to each of them privately and make sure.”

The discussion with Juliana was likely to be contentious, if not
blistering
.

Meg was also presented with similar options, but she just said that she'd do whatever would make life easier for everyone else, up to and including, transferring altogether—which everyone in the
room
dismissed, none more swiftly than Susan.

It was a great relief when the meeting—or, at least, the part in which she and Susan and Dirk had been required to participate—broke up. Susan was gone with only the barest nod, Ginette trudging along behind her.

“Maybe not a match made in heaven,” Meg said to Preston, who grinned.

Before she could escape herself, Mr. Gabler came over to take her aside.

“Are you happy with everyone assigned to your current detail?” he asked. “Because if any of them are making you even the slightest bit uncomfortable, I'd like to replace them immediately.”

Dennis had always made her very nervous, for no reason she could quite pin down, at the time, except maybe that he
watched
her so closely—and she'd been too stupid to tell anyone other than Beth and Josh, both of whom she knew still felt guilty that they hadn't told anyone else, either. Meg shook her head. “No, they're all really nice.” Or, at least, the few with whom she'd had actual conversations seemed to be. Even short-fused Kyle. “But, if any of them don't like being assigned to me, my feelings aren't going to be hurt if you—”

“Not an issue,” Mr. Gabler said abruptly.

She had her doubts—but, okay. Every so often, agents were rotated to new assignments automatically, but any atypical reassignments probably didn't look very good on their records. The theory was that if agents stayed with the same protectee for too long a period of time, non-professional attachments might form, which would hinder their ability to do their jobs effectively.

But, was she allowed to make a recommendation? At worst, Mr. Gabler would nod—and ignore her opinion. “When it's time for them to be reassigned, though, I'd
really
like to see Martin moved onto my mother's detail,” she said. “Or, failing that, my father's. He always seems to be the one on duty when—well, lots of times lately, he's had the toughest job of any of them, and he's been great.”

Mr. Gabler's eyebrows came together. “The toughest?”

She was supposed to believe that he wasn't monitoring the security logs regularly? Highly unlikely. “The nightmares,” she said.

Mr. Gabler nodded now, so he must be fully up to speed on her tendency to wake everyone up in the middle of the night.

“He's handled it very delicately, and professionally—and I appreciate it,” Meg said. Granted, all of her agents had been kind to her during the late-night—and, sometimes, mid-afternoon—encounters, but Martin was her favorite, by far. The most comforting one.

“Well, that's good to hear.” Mr. Gabler made a quick note in a small leather-bound book, then returned it to his inside jacket pocket.

She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to this, but—“How's the, um, chatter lately?” she asked. Threats, intelligence, extremist groups bragging and preening.

Mr. Gabler didn't blink, but also didn't respond immediately. “I would characterize it as being within expected levels,” he said.

Not terribly consolatory. Meg nodded. “You mean, the elevated number of crackpots and whack jobs we now take for granted since I turned into sort of a touchstone for terrorism?”

Mr. Gabler winced.

That
could legitimately be described as a big yes.

“Everything is being very closely monitored, Meg, and I can assure you that we're not unduly concerned at the moment,” he said.

Unduly. “Preston says you guys kind of like it when the press flocks around me, because it can actually help security,” she said.

He nodded in his careful way. “On occasion, members of the media have voluntarily come to us with observations and information about some of our protectees, and we welcome their input.”

She could only hope that that journalistic response would be the norm, and not the exception.

“Is there anything else you want to discuss with me?” he asked.

Yes, even though it was embarrassing. Meg glanced around to make sure that no one—not even Preston—was listening. “Have you run a full background check on Jack Taylor?”

“The Frisbee kid?” Mr. Gabler asked, and she nodded. “Several, actually. Why?”

That sounded ominous. She looked at him nervously. “Did he come through okay? I mean, is there anything I should know about?”

“Not from a security standpoint, no.” Mr. Gabler was a very serious, all-business type, but he suddenly cracked a smile. “But—well—”

“What?” Meg asked, dreading the answer.

“He may be a cad, Meg,” Mr. Gabler said.

Not exactly a shocking revelation. Meg grinned, too. “Figured that out by myself, sir.”

“In which case, you're entirely on your own with this one,” Mr. Gabler said.

The first good news she'd had all day.

She hadn't eaten anything at the lunch meeting, and Preston wanted to stop at Paresky and pick up something before they left, but she refused. The sooner they got to the hospital, the sooner she would find out how badly she'd injured herself. He frowned, but didn't argue.

“How much does it hurt?” he asked, once they were in the car.

Finally, she was alone with someone around whom she could be completely honest without a second thought. “It's god-damn
killing
me.”

Preston nodded, and looked worried. “I was afraid that was going to be your answer.”

The one possible upside was that she might get prescribed some slightly effective painkillers, at least for a week or two.

“It's terrible about the soldiers,” she said.

He nodded.

The last she had heard, there were now ten KIA, and seventeen injured, most of them seriously. Terrorists were claiming responsibility, but the White House's public position was that the crash was a tragic accident and had been the result of unforeseen mechanical and weather-related difficulties. She had no idea whether this was true or not.

Her knee seemed to be locked in place again, and she absentmindedly slapped the side of her leg and shook it loose to try and get herself into a more comfortable—or, anyway, less excruciating—position.

“Your hand broke my heart,” Preston said.

She frowned at him.

“There you are, storming around in the snow, not even noticing that you're
trashing
your knee, and the whole time,” he demonstrated with his own hand, “you have your poor little hand cupped in front of you.”

Swell. Meg set her jaw. “In other words, I looked pathetic.”

“You
looked
like the Avenging Angel,” Preston said. “Your hand just made me sad.”

Well, it was sad. Especially, she assumed, for someone who had known her when she was still herself. “You know, you're the only one who can look me in the eye. You and Beth.” She sighed. “And, strangely enough, Susan McAllister.”

Preston nodded. “I noticed that about her.”

His cell phone rang then, and it was her father, checking in. They were always cautious about the security of cellular transmissions, so they were both intentionally vague, on the off-chance that the conversation might be intercepted. But as far as she could tell, her mother was Not Happy, and he was still talking about the possibility of them both flying up to see her, even though they had all already agreed that it would only magnify the situation that much more, and should probably be avoided. She decided not to mention that, at the moment, she was Not Happy with him, either.

“How bad
are
the stories?” she asked, after she'd hung up. She had steadfastly avoided turning on her television, looking at a newspaper, or hitting her usual haunts on the Internet for about eighteen hours now—which might well be a personal record.

“Not as bad as they could have been,” Preston said. “The New York and Boston tabloids really went to town, and apparently, Fleet Street is getting ready to have a field day, too. But we were able to get it buried reasonably well with most of the print media, and it didn't get too much play on the airwaves outside the Northeast and the Beltway. The blogs are working overtime, but that isn't anything new. You can pretty much count on seeing a fair number of ‘where are they now's and features following up on the murders for the next week or two.”

“And the same about me,” Meg said, “only more so.”

Preston's phone rang and he glanced at the number on the display, but didn't answer it. “Unfortunately, Meg, there's too much file footage of you out there to suppress it all. And—well, more and more, you just
look
and sound too damn much like her, so they can't resist, especially when something like last night comes along.”

When she had thrown any political enemy her mother had a golden opportunity to make mischief and sow dissent. Christ, she needed some sleep. Meg closed her eyes. “How much damage did I do?”