Part 39 (1/2)

Sarah stood up, took a deep breath, and straightened some imaginary wrinkles out of her white blouse. A couple of panicked thoughts flashed through her head. Did I forget to put on deodorant? How do you talk-intelligently-to the president?

”After you,” said Dan, his arm outstretched. ”He wants to see you, not me.”

So many times, Sarah had watched this scene play out when she used to tune in to The West Wing on television. But those were all actors. Make-believe.

This was the real deal. With only one step into the Oval Office, she could feel her heartbeat going into overdrive.

Is it too late to call in sick today? Not funny, Sarah. None of this is funny.

Clayton Montgomery, the most powerful man in the free world-and not too shabby a figure everywhere else-was a Blue Dog Democrat from Connecticut who'd been an All-American lacrosse player at Duke. Although that adopted southern pedigree helped him a bit on Super Tuesday, he never would've captured the general election without his wife.

Rose Montgomery-nee Rose O'Hara-was a former Miss Florida and beloved TV news anchor at WPLG in Miami for five years before meeting Clayton. In other words, before the election she not only had better name recognition in Florida than her husband but also had better name recognition than his Republican challenger.

Oh, and she was also fluent in Spanish and could supposedly play ”Hava Nagila” on the clarinet.

Montgomery won the presidency by twenty-eight electoral votes. The total number of electoral votes he won by taking Florida? Twenty-nine.

”Everyone, I want you to meet FBI agent Sarah Brubaker,” said President Montgomery, who was sitting at the Resolute desk signing a flurry of doc.u.ments. His jawline was even stronger in person than it was on TV. He hadn't even glanced up at her yet. ”Two nights ago, she had drinks with a serial killer who tried to run her over afterward in the parking lot. Isn't that correct, Agent Brubaker?”

”Uh, yes, I guess it is, Mr. President,” she said.

President Montgomery finally looked up and stared right at Sarah for the longest five seconds of her life.

Then he cracked a smile. Just as he did whenever he scored a point against his opponent during the debates. Just as he did when he posed for his campaign poster.

”And I thought I'd had some bad first dates,” he said. ”Take a load off your feet, Sarah.”

Chapter 61

THE BRIEFING ITSELF was actually the easy part. The president listened intently while throwing in the occasional nod. Not once did he interrupt her. Sarah was clear, concise, and in full command of the facts. Not fazed at all. Go figure, she thought. Maybe this man is just easy to talk to, a good listener.

Then came the Q and A.

Sitting in an armchair that was clearly ”his chair,” the president was joined by his chief of staff, Conrad Gilmartin, and his press secretary, Amanda Kyle, who actually-and ironically-looked a bit like C.J. from The West Wing. Given the practiced way in which they both took their seats on the couch to the president's left, these were clearly ”their seats.”

That left the opposite couch. Driesen sat on one end; Jason Hawthorne, the deputy director of the Secret Service, sat on the other. Squeezed in between them with all the comfort of the middle seat on an airplane was Sarah.

Just one big cozy gathering.

The president cleared his throat, firing his first question at Sarah. ”Do you have any reason to believe that my brother-in-law would be a target of this killer?”

”Do you mean, sir, more of a target than anyone else named John O'Hara?” she asked.

”Yes, that's what I mean.”