The Innocent

Robie pulled his jacket more tightly around him. The waiter’s uniform they had gotten him was for a bigger man. Robie had insisted on this. He couldn’t allow a gun bump that someone could spot. He had two pistols, one in his holster, one hidden under the cloth covering the coffee cart. He was also wearing body armor, although at least some of the agents would fire into his head if they thought he was a threat to the president.

The agents inside had been told that the danger was over but to still maintain the wall around the president. The crown prince and his staff were standing in a corner diagonally across from the president, surrounded by other agents. The thirty-odd White House staffers and other guests were in the middle of the room between the prince and the president.

The door opened and Robie wheeled the cart into the room. He had no earwig. Had no means of communication with anyone. The force right outside the door was standing by to rush in after him. The director had his walkie-talkie ready to order his agents not to fire at Robie if he pulled his gun. Yet he knew that would be an impossible order to follow. As far as the director was concerned, Robie was a dead man from the moment he walked into the room.

The door was shut behind Robie and he continued to push the cart along. He gridded the room without seeming to do so.

The Family Dining Room had been established by James Madison and was where many first families ate until Jackie Kennedy created a dining room upstairs in the family quarters. The room was about twenty-eight feet by twenty feet in size. A blue-and-white oriental rug covered much of the floor. There was a blue-and-white marble fireplace surrounded with wall candelabras on either side of the mantel. Above that was a portrait of a woman in nineteenth-century garb. The long dining table that was usually in the center of the room had been shifted to one side, the accompanying chairs lined in front of it. A cabinet blocked off one door. A mirror hung over a Chippendale-style chest. A crystal chandelier anchored the middle of the ceiling. The walls were painted yellow.

Although the VIPs and staffers had not been told of any threat, it seemed, from their anxious features, that some of them realized that the move to this room was out of the ordinary.

Robie thoughts went back to the overheard conversation at the plane hangar.

Not a westerner.

Decades in the making.

That obviously couldn’t be George Van Beuren. He should have realized there had to be a second person.

Robie saw the crown prince hovering nervously in one corner. There was a wall of security around him and his staff. Robie quickly sized up each of the staff members. Some, like the prince, were wearing traditional robes. Others were in suits. The crown prince looked like his black-sheep cousin, Talal. Both fat and both too rich. A lot of damage one could do with all that money, thought Robie. The world would be safer if people didn’t have so much damn wealth.

His gaze next swept to the other side of the room.

He could see the president in the middle of the wall of agents. He had possessed dark hair when winning the White House. Now, after three years in office, a good deal of it had turned white. Maybe that was the real reason why the place was called the White House, thought Robie. It quickly aged all the occupants.

There were six agents forming the hard wall around the president. But even with that there were clean shooting lines right to the man if one was close enough. Each agent was looking outward, at possible threats. Robie looked for any agent who was not doing this, who was looking at the president or at other agents. Even if they believed the threat to be over, their vigilance should never relax, for in truth, the danger was never over.

All of the agents’ gazes were directed outward. Maybe there was only one shooter. Robie could use a bit of luck right now, and having only one person to deal with would be lucky indeed.

He rolled the cart farther into the room. He checked the crown prince’s corner one more time. If the threat came from there it would be a difficult shot to hit the president.

He turned his attention to the last group.

The staffers and other members of the group sequestered here stood in the middle of the room. They were all formally dressed. Robie saw lots of black. Many of the women wore shawls, jackets, and wraps to cover bare shoulders. Some carried tiny purses, all too small for Van Beuren’s sidearm.

The men huddled together. Tuxes were the rule. Suits with pockets and maybe a stolen nine-millimeter from an unconscious guard in one of them.

Most were Caucasian. The majority of them appeared to be westerners, but of that Robie couldn’t be certain. But there were about a dozen who looked to be from distant places.