Project Maigo(64)

I grin. I respect a man who can curse creatively. I’m also glad he didn’t outright ask if we were here because of a Kaiju-related danger. I wouldn’t have enjoyed lying to him. Though he’s bound to ask—if he gets a chance, that is.

“Lead the way.”

We’re watched by a cadre of hawk-like Secret Service agents, but they stay cool, maintaining their posts. They know who we are, that the government that pays their bills pays mine, and the company that pays the President is represented by Endo. We’re just not supposed to be here. Sure, maybe hacking the guest registry is a federal crime, but that was Watson, not me.

After a two minute silent stroll, we reach the West Wing, which is the business end of the White House, where the Oval Office is located. I’ve never been here before, though I’m familiar with the layout, and not just from watching the TV show The West Wing. We studied schematics of the President’s home, just in case things got hairy while we were visiting. But the functions of many of the rooms on this side of the building are classified, especially those below the West Wing, which is where we’re headed. We take the stairs down to the second floor. The only two rooms I even know exist down here are the Situation Room and the Navy Mess, which is actually quite proper looking. Despite the covert nature of the rooms we pass, they’re all quite resplendent—all dark, stained, hard wood, polished to pristine perfection. Paintings hang on the walls. Fresh flowers here and there. The rug beneath our feet feels cushy and new. It’s like a 1950s gentlemen’s club, without the cigarette smoke.

Dunne stops by a door and slides his keycard through a lock. The indicator light turns green, and Dunne opens the door.

More stairs. Leading down. Now this is new to me. After our previous tours of the White House, you’d have thought we’d seen everything, or at least the occasional glimpse of what went on behind the scenes. But there’s not even a hint that something less than regal might exist in or around the building. As I step down the concrete utilitarian stairs, I feel like I’ve stepped into a different world. A dark, scary cave hidden beneath the enchanted forest. The door at the bottom of the stairs is opened for us. We’re expected.

“Keep going,” Dunne says, when I slow down.

The hallway beyond is mostly white and devoid of decoration. We’re led past several closed doors, which I suspect house the White House’s security elements. This is where the Secret Service does the dirty work. Monitoring visitors. Running background checks. Detaining—perhaps interrogating—people who aren’t supposed to be here. Like us.

My suspicions are confirmed when we’re led into a classic interrogation room. One desk. Two chairs. A mirrored wall. I motion to the desk and raise an eyebrow at Dunne. “Really?”

“Protocol,” Dunne says, reaching out his hands. “Going to need your phones.”

Before handing my phone over, I say, “I have the President on speed dial. I could—”

“Last I heard,” Dunne said, “President Beck had put you on the ‘do not answer’ list.”

“He’s just upset that I didn’t put out last time he bought me dinner.”

I’m relieved some when Dunne cracks a smile. It also makes me feel bad for what’s coming next.

Dunne takes my phone, makes sure it’s shut off and turns to Endo, who already has his phone held out. As Dunne begins to take the phone, Endo drops it. Dunne reaches out to catch it, reacting instinctually. As the agent dips forward, Endo slaps his wrist—and the watch that isn’t a watch—against the man’s head, stabbing the neural implant into Dunne’s temple. The small device, once attached, takes on the color of the victim’s skin, making it invisible to anyone that isn’t up close and personal.

Endo holds out his hand. Dunne gives him the caught phone.

“Come inside and close the door,” Endo says, the transmitter embedded in his skull allowing him to control anyone wearing the implant. Dunne dutifully obeys.

“Is there anyone in the room next door?” Endo asks, glancing at the two way mirror.

“Shouldn’t be.”

Endo pulls out a chair and sits down like he owns the place. He crosses one leg over the other, smiles and says, “Good. Now here’s what I need you to do.”





33



Water dripped from General Lance Gordon’s heavy eyebrows, temporarily obscuring his vision as he slipped his head up out of the Potomac River. He could see the Washington Monument rising out of the National Mall like a beacon. It wasn’t just the tallest structure in Washington, D.C.; at 555 feet it was the tallest obelisk in the world. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the White House and President Beck would be a straight shot north.