Act of Terror by Marc Cameron Read Free Book Online Page A

the Resolute Desk and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Rose Garden. The first lady had redecorated the Oval Office to be reminiscent of Theodore Roosevelt’s stint in the White House, with rich, dark evergreens and bright whites. The painting of the former president on horseback had been moved from the Roosevelt Room to a spot of honor to the right of his desk above the Remington roughrider bronze.
    Palmer sat to the right of the president in a matching chair. Apart from advising on matters of national security, his self-appointed secondary duty was to sit nearest the president when anyone else was in the Oval Office—including most members of the cabinet. The directors of the FBI and CIA sat across from one another, each on an opposing couch. DCIA Virginia Ross smoothed her dark skirt and sat to the president’s right. On the heavy side, she constantly tugged and adjusted her clothing.
    A Navy steward brought a silver tray of coffee and set it on the oval cherrywood table in the center of the furniture. The cups were already poured and made to the specifications of each guest.
    Clark took his mug—bone white with the presidential seal—and nodded toward the door that led to his secretary’s office. “Eric,” he said. “Please ask Mrs. Humphrey to show in our guest.”
    â€œOf course, Mr. President.” The steward shut the door on his way out.
    The president put the cup to his lips, then set it back on the table without drinking. A stab of dark emotion creased his normally smiling face.
    â€œI’m not sure who we can trust,” he said, glaring at both directors. “Frankly, I’m not at all certain I want to bring either of you in on this.”
    Both Bodington and Ross tugged at their collars.
    There was a confident knock at the door. The matronly Mrs. Humphrey entered, leading an attractive Hispanic woman with broad shoulders and the athletic, corn-fed look of a college softball player. Her dark hair was pulled up in a wooden comb, giving her a slightly disheveled look. She wore the navy-blue slacks of a CIA security officer and a pressed white polo shirt that highlighted her maple complexion. She wore no sidearm, but the outline of her Kevlar ballistic vest was visible under her polo shirt. Her arms swung slightly away from her body like someone who wore a gun belt for a living. Brown eyes, holding a glint of sparkle, even in abject fatigue, flicked around the room, taking it all in. The distinctive Green A identification badge of one who was allowed into the West Wing hung around her neck.
    Palmer caught a glimpse of movement outside the door—Secret Service personnel who’d moved even closer than normal to the president over the last eight hours. A trained observer in his own right, the new national security advisor noticed the distinct outline of submachine guns under the loose coats of agents who normally carried only a pistol. Interior White House posts, particularly those outside whatever door the president happened to be behind at the moment, had double the number of usual agents.
    Jack Blackmore, the agent in charge of the presidential detail, appeared at the threshold. He looked like a male model from a hunting magazine with his chiseled features and splash of gray at his temples.
    â€œWe can be relatively certain about Ms. Garcia, Jack,” Clark said with a smiling nod.
    â€œVery well, Mr. President,” Blackmore said, shutting the door with what Palmer knew was the anxiety of one who safeguards the life of another.
    Clark stood, as did Palmer and Bodington. “Please have a seat, Ms. Garcia.”
    Palmer studied the young woman as she thanked the commander in chief politely, then perched herself at the edge of the couch, nearest Virginia Ross. Since the other woman was technically her boss, Garcia undoubtedly saw her as an ally. For the time being, Palmer was sure Ross cared little one way or the other about her valiant