Part 18 (2/2)
Farther inside the room, five desks sat at right angles along the far wall, evenly s.p.a.ced. Behind them, the wall was lined with metal cabinets of various sizes; some file cabinets, others drawer cabinets for large, flat items, such as maps. The desk closest to the door to the Oval Office was the desk of Ms. Irwin.
”Might as well start at the top and work my way down,” Christina mumbled to herself.
She rounded Stewart's desk. She jumped back with a gasp when she saw a pair of bare feet sticking out from behind Ms. Irwin's desk.
This was a problem. Christina's well-thought-out plan had not factored bare feet into them.
Bare feet. In a dark office. Late at night outside the Oval Office. No matter how you spun it, that couldn't be good.
They were male feet, from the size and shape of them. Whoever they belonged to was reclined on the floor behind Ms. Irwin's desk. Whether the feet were attached to a living person or a dead person, she couldn't tell. They hadn't moved.
Should she call out for help?
The thought of Bruno running to her rescue was enough to make her think twice about that course of action. So far she wasn't in any danger, was she?
She could use a phone on the desk and dial security. But that might wake the feet up . . . if that were possible. If she was going to call for help, what would she say? She knew nothing of the condition of the person who belonged to these feet. She should at least look first, shouldn't she? What if the person needed medical attention?
Her curiosity got the best of her. She took a tentative step forward. Then another. And another. As she drew closer, feet gave way to legs. The legs were wearing pale blue pajama bottoms.
Christina wished she'd turned on the lights, but if she went to do that now, she knew she'd keep going out the door and down the hallway. Since she was already this close, she'd look first, then run.
Two more steps and she saw hands, lying lifeless on each side of the body. Another step and instead of seeing a chest she saw a stack of papers bundled with rubber bands sitting on a chest.
Two more steps and she saw . . .
”Mr. President!”
At the sound of her voice, the president stirred. His eyes blinked open. With effort they focused on her. ”Miss Kraft,” he said. ”I've been expecting you.”
Christina knelt beside him. He lay slumped against the wall in his pajamas. No robe. In this position and in this wardrobe there was nothing presidential about him. He looked old, vulnerable, human. His hair was mussed. His face drawn. But the thing that seemed strangest to Christina, the thing that bothered her most, was that he was barefooted. It just seemed obscene to her to see the most powerful man in the world in bare feet.
”Are you hurt, sir? Can I call someone?”
The president took a deep breath and pulled himself up into a sitting position, his back against the wall. The stack of papers tumbled onto his legs. He appeared groggy, disoriented. He looked around and seemed surprised to find himself on the floor. Grinning sheepishly, he said, ”I was aiming for Ms. Irwin's chair. Guess my aim was off a bit.”
”Mr. President, stay right there. I'm going to call-”
”Miss Kraft, wait,” he said. He patted the bundle on his legs. ”This is what you're looking for. The proofs to Grant's ma.n.u.script.”
Christina stared at him dumbly. How could the president know what she was looking for? How could he be expecting her when less than an hour ago she didn't even know she would be here?
He took another deep breath and blinked his eyes. They were clearer, but he still looked at her as though he was trying to look through the haze of a migraine the size of Texas. ”My question to you, Miss Kraft, is why? Why do you want the proofs to a book that has already been published?”
For a moment, the briefest of moments, Christina considered lying to him, using her cover story, telling him she wasn't here for Grant's proofs, she was here to deliver the environmental report he needed in the morning.
”We think there may be something in them that falsely implicates Grant in a plot, sir. We're attempting to determine who's behind it.”
”We . . . you and Grant?”
”Yes, sir.”
”What kind of plot?” the president asked.
Christina couldn't bring herself to tell him. Instead, she fished in her pocket and produced the scratch-pad page with the cartoon mice linked by a smudged trail of hearts. She handed it to him.
The president pulled a pair of eyegla.s.ses from the front pocket of his pajamas and wrestled them on. He read the note aloud. ” 'When he is suspended between earth and heaven I will kill the president.' ” He removed his gla.s.ses. ”Grant wrote this?”
”No, sir,” Christina said with conviction. ”The message is comprised of thirteen words that appear codelike in your biography. One word in each chapter.”
”The published book?”
”Yes, sir.”
The president cursed. ”But these words are not found in Grant's original ma.n.u.script?”
”No, sir.”
He looked to the stack of pages on his legs. ”Of course, the proofs. The changes were made in the proofs.”
The president seemed in complete control of his faculties now and content to continue with this matter on the floor. He handed the scratch-pad page back to Christina.
”One word at a time,” he said to her, unbundling the proof pages.
He flipped pages. Christina was unclear as to whether she was to read the words one at a time to him, or if he would . . .
”Chapter one . . . When,” he said.
”Yes, sir.”
”Chapter two . . . second word . . . he . . .”
The president continued through all thirteen chapters.
”. . . is . . . suspended . . . between . . . earth . . . and . . . heaven . . . I . . . will . . . kill . . . the . . . president.”
When he was finished he cursed again.
Whose handwriting is he reading? Christina wondered. He's obviously surprised by the changes. And what happens now? Do I just ask for them? Or will he take care of it?
”Where do we go from here, Miss Kraft?” the president asked. Before she could answer, he erupted, ”But why Grant? That's what doesn't make sense. Why Grant? Doc Palmer, maybe. But Grant?”
Christina said, ”Sir, if I may ask-”
With a suddenness that startled her, the president grabbed her by the arm. He pulled her close, nearly pulling her on top of him. ”I like your Mr. Austin,” he said in a whisper. ”And I want you to a.s.sure him I had nothing to do with this . . . nothing! Do you understand?”
”Yes, sir.”
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