Page 121 of Cross Down
“I know and I appreciate that, Lieutenant,” Ned says, “but it’s vital that we pass through your checkpoint.”
Caine says, “I need another form of identification, not the one you’re showing me.”
I’m feeling hemmed in, trapped in the kind of bad dream when you’re running from danger through sticky taffy. Out of all the supervisors in the Metro Police, I have to deal with this one.
What to do? Plead, beg, threaten?
Ned’s voice is calm and steady when he says, “I know the ID you’re looking for. Oversize, gold-threaded, and embossed, with my photo, signature, and thumbprint, and orders underneath that I have the authorization of the president to go anywhere and seize anything I need for the good of the nation. Right?”
A reluctant nod from Caine. “Right. And where’s yours?”
“Stuck in a filing cabinet somewhere. I really don’t know, Lieutenant,” Ned says. “Some clerk is busy right now trying to find it. But you see I know what kind of ID is required for us to pass through. This response is called Operation Wrangler, correct?”
“Agent Mahoney, I—”
Ned steps closer—trying to build a face-to-face bond, I think—and says, “Lieutenant, this response package was developed when Ike was president. More than seventy years ago! It’s to be used in only the most extreme emergencies, and I need to get to the White House right now. ID or no ID. That’s how desperate the situation is.”
I sense Caine is wavering. Ned says, “I take full responsibility. It’s all on me.”
Caine looks at me, then back at Ned.
I want to check to see how much time is left but I don’t dare move.
“Why the hell is John Sampson with you?”
Ned laughs. “The asshole said he could pass us through any police lines in less than thirty seconds. Guess I was wrong to trust him, huh?”
Caine laughs in response, steps back, and waves to two officers to move the blue and white sawhorses out of the way. “You guess right, Agent Mahoney, and I’ll hold you to what you just said about taking responsibility. And I got witnesses to back me up.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant, and if it goes wrong, I’ll cheerfully toss John Sampson under the nearest bus,” Ned says.
He goes back to his Impala, red and blue lights still flashing in the grille and windshield. I get in and as we pass through the checkpoint, he says, “Sorry for calling you an asshole, John.”
Now I check my watch.
Just seven minutes left.
“It worked,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”
Chapter
151
In a highlyrestricted and obscure dusty subbasement of the White House, Eliza DeVos, deputy head of the Secret Service presidential detail, impatiently waits for two burly White House maintenance men to undo the last bolt from a thick manhole-cover-type lid and drag it away. The floor is brick, and the solitary light overhead is flickering off and on.
Trent Woodson, head of the protective detail, says to the two workers, “Safety harnesses and belts, as soon as you can. At least a half a dozen.”
The workers exit through a small door leading to a smooth concrete corridor. Eliza uses her flashlight to check out the shelves crowded with cardboard boxes, some with scribbled dates going back to 1967.
Trent uses his own flashlight to peer down the opening. His light illuminates the top rung of a ladder and fades out into the depths.
“How deep?” he asks.
“Six stories,” Eliza answers. “That’s about seventy feet.”
“Jesus,” he says, leaning over more. “That’s one long climb.”
“Yeah, and it’d be worse if a Russian nuke hit DC and collapsed the White House over our heads. This is plan D or E for getting POTUS out of the White House in case of nuclear strike.”
