No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (12 page)

Opening the door, he signaled that they were alone and stepped into the kitchen. Max followed, fascinated that two intruders, never mind that one of them had legitimate reasons for being there, had been able to sneak into the most guarded house on the planet.

“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“No, really, Luke, I want to know.”
“The Oval Office. The rest of this place is pretty boring.” Max pushed Luke gingerly aside and looked him straight in the

eyes.
“Listen to me, old muse. I’m not going to have you get shot by
whoever is walking the night shift. I’ll lead.” Max quietly padded up
the stairs to the main floor. They opened the door from the kitchen,
triggering a silent alarm. Nobody went anywhere inside the White
House at night without the Secret Service knowing, and according
to the motion detectors that monitored their movements, they were
unauthorized to be there. There were no residents or guests during
the weeks before the incoming president took office.
“Raise your hands above your heads and turn around.” Max and Luke did as they were told. They faced three black-suited
Secret Service agents, all holding guns directed at their hearts, the
laser red of their sights were an indication of their imminent deaths
if the triggers were pulled.
“Max?”
“Mr. President?”
“Stand down!” The guns were lowered in unison, and they stood
in disbelief at the next President of the United States and an old guy
who looked harmless, although he did look a bit looped. “I’m glad you recognized me before you shot me. A lot of people
would be very disappointed if I left office before I actually took
office,” Max said, pre-empting anything they could conjure up that
resembled a question.
“I came in unannounced to test security, and you are to be
commended for your excellent training and dedication. I would
like you to meet my presidential advisor, Luke Postlewaite. He and
I are to have unlimited access to this building, and no, I will not
inform you of how we entered .”
Still in shock and wondering how they pierced perimeter security without a peep from anyone, the agent in charge announced,
“Computer! Recognize President Max Masterson and presidential
advisor Luke Postlewaite. Scan for future recognition, and clear
them for free access.”
A voice came from nowhere they could discern. “Acknowledged.
Welcome, Mister President.”
“Now, please direct us to the Oval Office and give us some time
alone.” Max was enjoying his unlimited status, and he punched
Luke in the arm when he began giggling.
They were pulling this off.
Once in the Oval Office, Luke began his search for the liquor
cabinet, and Max took his seat, for the first time, in the comfortable
chair behind the Kennedy desk. He stared out at his surroundings,
and spun around to revel in the view. He had arrived.

u

CHAPTER 32

M

ax opened the center drawer of the desk. It was deep and bare, save for one item: a large, gilded, leather book. It bore the Seal of the President of the United State of America, but there were no words on the cover. He knew what it

was, and his heart rate rose.
The Diary of the Presidents.

Many people had speculated about its existence, but few had seen the legendary book with their own eyes. Fewer still knew what it contained. But Max knew, and of all the books that had ever been written, he longed to study this one the most. The book contained the road map of his predecessors, the presidents who came before him, and their intimate thoughts, unvarnished by political rhetoric. He wanted to know their mistakes and fears, their thoughts about how the office should be, but most of all, he wanted to understand the mistakes they had made and their suggestions to their successors about how to avoid similar mistakes in the future.

Max held the gold-trimmed journal in his hands, marveling at the heft of the leather-bound book, perfectly preserved after nearly 300 years. He turned the pages with care. The early ones were parchment and brittle to the touch, and he tenderly gave this irreplaceable piece of history the reverence it deserved. Here was the handwritten wisdom of the ages, an instruction manual to guide incoming presidents away from the mistakes of the past.

More words were written by Jefferson and Lincoln than all of the others combined, owing to their genius and their prolific writings throughout their lives. Others were much more concise, some just a few paragraphs. All of the entries were heart-felt and non-political, intended to rise above the tawdry world of politics. He read further, smiling at one particular entry halfway through the book.

“I didn’t think I was better than anyone else. I just knew I had a higher destiny than selling men’s clothing,”
wrote Harry Truman.

He thumbed through the pages, from back to front as left-handers are known to do, pausing randomly to read the words.
Abraham Lincoln:
“America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”
Calvin Coolidge:
“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan “press on” has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.”
Theodore Roosevelt:
“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”

NO CORNER TO HIDE

Max recognized the words. They came from a speech Roosevelt made in Paris in 1910.
Thomas Jefferson:
“The same prudence which in private life would forbid our paying our own money for unexplained projects, forbids it in the dispensation of the public moneys.”
It appeared that Jefferson, a hero to Max for his genius and ideas that had shaped the early days of the United States, and Lincoln, who had endured the impending breakup of his country, were by far the most prolific of the contributors to the diary, and he looked forward to being able to sit quietly and absorb their wisdom. He was certain that he would benefit from a cover-tocover reading. To think he was holding in his hands the collected wisdom of the presidents, written in their own hand, was beyond inspiring.
“Luke, I had heard rumors about this. This is what you brought me here to see.”
“I thought I would never see the day,” Luke answered.
He was sitting in a comfortable chair, cradling a snifter of brandy that he had pilfered from the liquor cabinet. He had been watching Max’s total absorption into reading the diary, and he was beaming with pride. This man, who he had treated like a son after the death of his friend, John Masterson, was the President of the United States of America, and he was sitting, for the first time, at the desk where he belonged.
“You know,” Luke continued, “I have sat in this room on several occasions, and years ago, I had the experience of spending the night in this haunted place. Saw a ghost, too…at least I think it was a ghost…” Luke paused, waiting for Max to absorb the meaning of his words. “But right now, I think I’ll try to find the president’s bathroom,” he said, standing on unsteady feet.
Max didn’t respond, absorbed in the pages of the journal he held in his hands.
“Max, we need to have an exact copy made, and convert it to digital, too. I want you to be able to access it any time you need guidance, except… I don’t know if I want you to dwell on the collected wisdom of guys like Grover Cleveland or William Henry Harrison.” Luke cackled in his own amusement, and Max realized that their adventure was coming to an end. Luke was crocked.
“Come on, let’s get you home. This time, let’s take the presidential limo.”
During the hastily-assembled motorcade ride back to Fairlane, Max realized that Rachel didn’t know he was gone. He had left her sleeping soundly in their bed before Luke had arrived for his typical late evening visit. It was after 2:00 AM when they returned. After he was certain that Luke had made his way to a guest bedroom at the far side of the house, Max crept quietly into the bedroom.
“Where have you been?” exclaimed Rachel, eyes wide open and sitting erect in the expansive bed, her shapely legs bare. It was obvious that she had been waiting for him to come back for hours, and judging from the half-empty champagne bottle in a bucket of melted ice and her state of relative undress, she had made plans for romance. He had unknowingly stood her up, and she was not pleased.
“Don’t get in a swivet, my sweet. I just rode over to the White House with Luke, and we took an unannounced tour,” he said in a level tone.
“Then come to bed, My Darling President,” she said with a smile.

CHAPTER 33

T

he next morning, Max took a run on the trails along the Potomac. The river was waking to the sun as the mist of morning swirled above the water in wispy clouds. It was his time to think and to work out the cobwebs in his mind caused by the

previous night’s drinking with Luke. If he had been sipping brandy instead of beer, he would still be lying in bed feeling very creaky at this time of day. Max knew that he would be exercised, showered, changed, and done with breakfast before Luke would show his face in the kitchen, looking like he had slept in a tent next to the highway.

What normally would have been a solitary ten-mile, out-andback loop through the woods was now a group activity, the cost of being protected. Four Secret service agents had been assigned to accompany him, and they were in better shape than Max from years of training on a daily basis. They had to be, to maintain a steady seven minute mile pace while carrying water bottles, Power Bars, sidearms, and communicators. They could call in support at any point, and it would arrive in seconds. A Blackhawk helicopter maintained a constant visual on Max from above, its stealth rotors barely audible above the sounds of morning.

Max insisted on taking the lead so that he could come upon the familiar sights of wildlife that he loved to encounter along the trail. The animals were used to his occasional runs, but the sight of his heavily armed security team would have startled them into hiding, and he would have been deprived of this simple pleasure.

At mile five, the trail wound around a granite knob and began a meandering course back to Fairlane. Max gestured for a break, and asked for water and a Power Bar. The mylar wrapper proved to be impossible to open, a fault of modern packaging that seals and vacuum packs food from the outside world. He struggled to open it for more than a minute, embarrassed by his inability to perform this simple task.

“I’ll get it,” said one of his companions. Before Max could react, the Power Bar was snatched from his hands, tossed in the air, and shot. It fluttered into the hands of another agent, the top of the mylar sheath neatly sheared from its berry-flavored contents.

“You guys are good,” said Max, trying to contain his shocked amusement. “I suppose next you’ll try swatting mosquitoes with a hand grenade.”

They all laughed at the mental picture, and Max scanned each of his four fellow runners. They hadn’t broken a sweat.
I could still do that, if I had more time to workout,
thought Max, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
Maybe I’ll make them run twice as far next time.

CHAPTER 34

W

hen Max had returned from his most interesting run in memory, he showered and changed into casual clothes. He entered the kitchen, ravenously anticipating a hearty breakfast. Rachel sat at the table, still in her bathing suit, fresh from

a morning swim. She sipped green tea from a large, flowered mug that she had claimed as hers.
“You missed a good swim,” she exclaimed, smiling.
She looked stunning, her tanned skin complementing her yellow bikini. She felt comfortable there, not choosing to cover up her trim figure from admiring eyes, especially Max’s unapologetic gaze. She stood to give him a kiss, and returned to the news report she was viewing from Glenda Reasoner, who had made her career by tracking Max’s every move. The report of the day dealt with his early years after the senator’s death, and the seemingly endless stream of women that accompanied him at social events. A different woman for each event, it seemed, and Glenda took particular delight at pointing that out at every opportunity.
Max ignored the report of his escapades, deep in thought about the previous night. He had failed to inform Rachel of his newfound ability to go to work underground. He kept that secret to himself. He felt guilty about his nondisclosure.
She will learn in good time. I know she’ll be delighted. I need to remind myself that she will need to be cleared with security. She wouldn’t be able to enter unannounced without the Secret Service knowing that she holds the special status as the president’s girlfriend. They are funny about those sorts of things. In the meantime, Fairlane is my base of operations. I prefer it that way.

uuu

Rachel had moved from Glenda Reasoner’s report, but the subject was fresh in her mind.
Why does he keep me? Where does his devotion start and end? I see how women react to him. They all want him, and he could have his pick any time he wanted
. She stared at a photo of Max that accompanied a feature article posted by all of the major news agencies, which had become gossip and rumor agencies, too. She was learning to filter out speculation from fact. To do otherwise would have plunged her into selfdoubt and insecurity, and she knew that the press created most of the reports about Max’s love life from thin air. Slow news days were the worst.