Project Maigo(63)

“Can anyone tell me why the China room color theme is red?” Mindy asks.

A little girl raises her hand, eager. “Cause it’s pretty?”

“Good guess,” Mindy says.

Consumed by boredom, I open my mouth. “It matches First Lady Grace Coolidge’s dress. The one in her portrait.”

All heads turn toward me. Mindy looks impressed. Endo, who’s disguised as an aging college professor, complete with a tweed jacket, bland slacks and streaks of gray in his hair, stares at me indifferently. He’s trying not to show any kind of reaction to me at all, but his lack of outward reaction means he’s trying to hide his true reaction, which is probably annoyance. I shouldn’t have spoken at all.

“That’s...right,” Mindy says. “Not many people know that.”

Not many people have toured the White House four times this week, I think. I’m disguised as a middle-aged man with nothing better to do than tour Washington, D.C. solo. I’ve got a fake pot belly beneath my God-awful sweater. A thick gray mustache that looks eerily similar to Woodstock’s, matches my messy head of gray hair. I wasn’t sure I could stand a wig, but it fits like my beanie cap, so I’ve barely noticed it.

“And do you know who else is in that portrait?” Mindy asks. She’s got a slight edge to her voice, like I’ve challenged her historical authority and it’s now time for a trivia smackdown.

I know the answer. It’s Rob Roy, her dog. But getting into a mental showdown with Mindy isn’t going to help my cover. We’ve already been in this room a minute longer than usual, and the Secret Service tends to notice things like that. “Uhh, Roy Rogers. Her cat.”

Mindy snickers. “Close. It was her dog, Rob Roy.”

“Riiight,” I say. “I ate at Roy Rogers last night.”

Satisfied with her trivial dominance, Mindy waves the tour to follow her out of the room and into the hall, where we’ll turn into the Vermeil Room and learn all about the collection of silver-gilded boredom. As we enter the hallway, I notice that Endo is hanging back a bit, waiting for me, no doubt about to give me a whispered rebuke.

We come shoulder to shoulder, casually, looking in different directions. When we bump, we turn to each other, like we’re apologizing.

“I know,” I start, “I shouldn’t have—”

“We’ve been made,” he says.

“Because I spoke?” This is a ridiculous idea. My mustache fluffs outward as I blow between my teeth, which is how today’s character laughs.

“Before that,” he says. “I don’t know what tipped them off, but if we don’t get out now, we’re going to—”

A pair of hands land on our shoulders. “You’re going to what?”

We turn to find a pair of Secret Service agents staring at us. These guys look like a sense of humor was beat out of them in the womb. They’re relaxed, though, and haven’t drawn their weapons. Endo and I went through security. They know we’re not armed. Doesn’t mean we couldn’t put up a fight, I guess. That’s when I notice the army of black suits acting casual, but keeping an eye on the situation.

The taller of the two men, whose crow’s feet and confident glare mark him as the man in charge, gives us a subtle grin. “Gentlemen, my name is Agent Dunne.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Endo asks in a scholarly British accent.

“The problem,” says the taller of the two agents, “is this mustache.” He takes hold of my phony facial hair and yanks. It tears away from my face, bikini waxing my upper lip in the process.

My hands slap over my mouth. “Oww!”

Dunne turns to Endo. “And your gray hair is running.”

I glance at Endo, and sure enough, a drip of white is sliding down his cheek.

“So, Director Hudson, I would appreciate it if you’d come with me.”

I stand rooted in place. The surprise on my face must be obvious, because Dunne says, “We ID’d you on your way in today. Mr. Endo was harder because he’s not a government employee, but we’re aware of his presidential order to work with you.”

I glance back at the tour, moving off down the hall. Mindy was never this interesting, but I very much preferred her peppy presence to the cold, knowledgeable stare of this agent.

“Look,” Dunne says, a crack in his calm demeanor showing as his eyebrows descend, “I haven’t tased, cuffed or kicked you shitless out of professional courtesy. But I don’t care if you’re the damn Speaker of the House. If you are here, in this house, covertly, you are my bitch. Understood? You will come without incident, right now, or your day is going to get fugly in a hurry.”