I Do Solemnly Swear (31 page)

***

“It’s so delightful to see you, President Miles!” The young woman vigorously shook Kate’s hand.

“Thank you for coming,” Kate said.

Kate had never felt so invigorated. The effervescent smiles. The urgency to touch her hand. The enthusiasm and kind words were overwhelming.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Kate said. “Hope you enjoy the evening. Thank you. Thank you.”

She tried to touch as many hands as possible, to make eye contact and say hello. But she could only greet those people seated near the aisle. She turned and looked at McDermott, who was trailing behind the agents. She thought it odd that he was not walking closer to her and partaking in this historic event. He’d been right. She had not yet given her speech, and everyone adored her. Kate expected the crowd to be dominated by faculty and alumni, but the auditorium was jammed with eager young faces. Nothing could please her more than to make a positive impact on the impressionable minds of America.

***

Guenther slowly slipped his hand under the sweatshirt and gripped the Colt. He rested his thumb on the safety. The Secret Service agents, paving the way for the president, were twenty feet away. The tall, lean one, with curly red clown hair, made eye contact with Guenther. His stare was more meddlesome than it should have been.

Guenther released the gun, removed his hand, and began to applaud again. The agent looked away. Guenther had to reevaluate his plan.

He lifted his chin to be certain that the curious agent, now only five feet away, could not possibly see the tattoo. The agent studied Guenther’s face. The moment the agent walked past him, he’d have to yank the Colt from his jeans, click off the safety, and unload as many rounds as possible into the president’s chest. He knew that shots to her head would be fatal, but the agents’
suspicious looks forced Guenther to abandon the original plan. Besides, the president’s jerky movements made her head a difficult target. If he unloaded the entire magazine into her chest, she couldn’t possibly survive. This was the only logical strategy. Because Guenther was holding his chin up, his eyes were drawn to a man sitting in the first row of the balcony. The man looked directly at Guenther with binoculars. Then, as if in a frenzy, the man dropped the binoculars and began speaking into his headset. He pointed Guenther’s way.

The two agents in front of the president were almost perpendicular to Guenther. President Miles was barely ten feet away. Guenther gave the agent in the balcony a quick glance, then looked at one of the agents waiting at the front of the aisle. Suddenly, the agent waved his arms and pointed to Guenther.

One more step, you swine!

Panic stricken, Guenther tore the Colt .45 from his jeans. His thumb fumbled for the safety as he raised his arm and cocked his elbow. He closed one eye and pointed the gun at the president’s chest. Sweat poured off his head, trickled into his opened eye, and blurred his vision. He swiped the sweatshirt sleeve across his face and tried to steady his aim.

***

Charles McDermott spotted the agent frantically waving his arms and pointing to the tall student with the shaved head. He watched the man lift his Georgetown sweatshirt. A spotlight, fifty feet above the man, reflected off a shiny metal object in front of the man’s jeans, and a beam of light flashed into McDermott’s right eye, causing him to squint.

The flash of light lasted for a split second, enough time for McDermott to realize that the young man with the shaven head
was pointing a gun at President Miles. Without forethought, McDermott lunged forward. With outstretched hands, he reached for the top of Kate’s shoulders and firmly grasped her wool blazer. He spun the president around and positioned his body between the gunman and her. He was not thinking about heroism or consciously trying to sacrifice his life for the president; his reaction was involuntary. Seconds after his body shielded Kate, McDermott heard a thunderous explosion. With the force of a sledgehammer, hot lead ripped into McDermott’s left arm, cleaved his triceps, and tore into his rib cage. His chest was ablaze, and the impact from the bullet spun him around like a puppet.

***

Kate, unable to comprehend what was happening, felt whoever was grasping her shoulders release her. She turned and watched Charles McDermott collapse to the floor. As her mind scrambled for a lucid thought, a frantic agent put his arms around her torso, bear hug style, and forced her to the floor. She saw McDermott lying on the floor, his body motionless. Someone had tried to kill her. Thoughts of David Rodgers flooded her mind. Everything seemed so surreal.

***

In a flurry of utter chaos, Guenther did not realize that the president was lying on the floor. He squeezed the trigger a second time. The bullet whizzed by a student’s head, and the panic-stricken woman covered her ears with both hands and screamed wildly. Having no other choice, Guenther aimed at the agent blanketing the president. If he emptied the clip into the agent’s back, one bullet might find its way into the president’s body. What else could he do? Out of the corner of Guenther’s blurry eye, he spotted two frantic agents, their outstretched arms reaching for him.

He hesitated a moment too long.

One agent, his grip like a silverback gorilla’s, grabbed his arm. Guenther swung his right arm and smashed the gun into the agent’s face. The agent’s nose squirted blood, and he fell to the floor with his hands covering his face.

An army of agents sprinted toward Guenther, their pistols drawn, pointed at him. He now realized that he had failed.

Guenther fell to his knees and stuck the barrel of the Colt deep into his mouth. Time seemed to stop. The harried crowd was moving in slow motion, their deafening screams hushed to whispers. A million images flickered in his mind. He saw his mother’s pretty face. His father’s snarl. Ebony and Ivory. But foremost in his mind was his brother Derrick’s sweet smile. For the first time in many years, Guenther Krause’s eyes filled with tears as he pulled the trigger.

Kate was uncertain how she’d gotten into the backseat of the limousine. After the assassination attempt, everything seemed disjointed. It felt as if she’d been in a state of suspended animation. She remembered hearing a chorus of screams, seeing people ducking, crawling, running in every direction, and McDermott lying in a pool of blood; the front of his white shirt was stained with a red spot as big as a dinner plate. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshots, and she felt certain she would throw up. When the agent had knocked Kate to the floor, her right knee hit first, bearing all her weight. The injury hadn’t bothered Kate immediately; delirium and bedlam overshadowed any possibility of feeling pain. But now, as the rush of adrenaline began to lessen, Kate could feel a severe twinge throbbing inside her knee. The rest of her body still felt numb.

Groups of spectators gathered outside Saint Thomas Hall, and a small crowd clustered around Kate’s limousine. Six Secret Service agents kept them at bay. People were talking with their hands, flapping their arms, pointing at her limo. Through the deep-tinted side window, Kate watched in disbelief as two paramedics swiftly wheeled McDermott out of the building. An IV hung from a
long pole attached to the gurney. McDermott’s face was covered with an oxygen mask, and he appeared to be unconscious. As she watched them place McDermott in the ambulance, she opened the door and tried to get out, but a stabbing pain in her injured knee warned her to remain seated. The light bars across the top of the ambulance lit up, the engine roared, and sirens blared as the red-and-white van squealed its tires and sped off.

Albert Cranston opened the rear door and slid next to Kate. “Are you all right, Madam President?”

“I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow. How is Charles?”

“Don’t know yet. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Dear God.” She clutched Cranston’s shoulder, almost piercing his jacket with her fingernails. “Take me to the hospital, Albert.”

“Madam President, Dr. Weinberg has summoned an orthopedic surgeon to the White House. Both are waiting for you. The doctors will check your knee and give you a thorough exam. If they feel it is necessary, I will rush you to the hospital immediately.”

“Albert, take me to the hospital
—now
!”

***

When the president’s limousine pulled under the emergency room carport, a flurry of people flocked around the car like groupies trying to get a look at their favorite rock star. Sixteen Secret Service agents held the crowd back the best they could, but more than one hundred people were pushing and shoving, attempting to see the president. Cranston helped Kate out of the backseat. Journalists were yelling questions and poking microphones in Kate’s face. She delicately put weight on her right leg, but her knee buckled. Cameras flashed in Kate’s eyes, and she shielded them with her forearm. She felt like a notorious criminal.
Cranston waved his arms like a traffic cop, and a young Asian man in a green surgical outfit jogged toward them pushing a wheelchair. Kate was rushed past the gauntlet of people, through the automatic doors, and into a private examination room. While the agents remained outside, managing the curious onlookers, Cranston spoke briefly with the receptionist. Kate understood why Cranston had tried to discourage her from coming to the hospital. She knew the scene would be a media frenzy. But at this particular moment, McDermott’s welfare took precedent over everything.

Kate tried to stand, but a spasm of pain forced her to remain seated. She grabbed her knee and gently rubbed it. Cranston helped her up, and she carefully lifted her body onto the examination table in the center of the room.

“He saved my life, Albert.”

“I know.”

“Please see what you can find out.”

“I’d rather not leave you.”

“I’m fine.”

Cranston instructed two agents to stay with Kate and reluctantly left the room.

“Is there anything we can do for you, Madam President?” Tom Walsh asked.

“Say a prayer for Charles McDermott.”

Walsh eyed the other agent and they both bowed their heads as if they were honoring the president’s request.

Wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope draped around his neck, a baby-faced man, almost pretty, entered the examination room. He looked too young to be a doctor, Kate thought. He adjusted his tortoise-shell glasses and smiled.

“I’m Dr. Hawkins, President Miles.” He looked to be a head taller than Kate. “I am terribly sorry that we’re meeting under such unfortunate circumstances. How are you feeling?”

She did a half sit-up and supported her torso with her elbows. “What can you tell me about Charles McDermott?”

“As I understand it, several physicians are treating him in Trauma Two. He’s been stabilized, but I am unable to comment on his current condition.”

“Listen to me very carefully, Dr. Hawkins. With all due respect, I don’t want any first-year residents anywhere near him. Who must I speak with to ensure that the doctors who treat Mr. McDermott are absolutely top-notch?”

“I assure you, Madam President, he’s being treated by extremely competent physicians.”

“Competent is not good enough, Doctor. I want the best people on staff. The best people in the country. Doctors who can walk on water.”

“Madam President, four physicians—including the chief of surgery—are attending to Mr. McDermott right now. He could not be in better hands.”

“If I seem a little pushy, Doctor, it’s because Mr. McDermott’s well-being is very important to me. I must be certain that he’s receiving uncompromising care.”

“I fully understand your position, Madam President, and I promise, Mr. McDermott is surrounded by highly qualified medical professionals. Arguably the best in the world. Now, may I examine your knee?”

***

When Victor Ellenwood entered his office, Carl Kramer was sitting on the leather chair waiting for him.

“Dammit, Carl, you scared the shit out of me.”

Kramer stood up and stalked over to the DCI. His face was inches away from Ellenwood’s. Kramer peered into his eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Ellenwood turned his back on Kramer, slipped off his topcoat, neatly placed it on a wooden hanger, and hung it on the coat tree.

“You look like a man with a mission, Mr. Kramer. If this is going to be another grand inquisition, save your breath.”

“Let’s talk about Jack Mueller.”

Ellenwood glared at the deputy director in a way Kramer had never seen. He wasn’t sure if he saw terror, anger, or defeat in Ellenwood’s bloodshot eyes. The DCI’s long silver hair, ordinarily well groomed, looked like he’d been in a windstorm. Ellenwood lumbered to his desk and sat down, almost falling into the chair. He slouched forward. “So you know about Mueller?”

“Enough to end your career.”

“My letter of resignation will be on the president’s desk in the morning—assuming that my fucking car doesn’t explode.”

“What the hell is going on, Victor?”

“I’ve been complicit in Rodgers’s assassination. But that shouldn’t be news to you, Carl. Your head’s been wedged up my ass for a couple of weeks.”

“I’d like to hear your side of it.”