Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(48)

Specially trained military personnel are the president’s aide-de-camp, on hand 24/7 to take care of every need. All to say, there are plenty of brass stars and lots of camouflage to be found in here, and it’s a bit like a train station this morning. People are converging from all directions, carrying paperwork, on their phones and in a hurry.

Some stop to engage in quiet conversations, casually making appointments to speak later. While important-looking guests wait on the formal blue-upholstered sofa and chairs off to the side, almost pushed against the walls to make room for traffic. There’s not much other furniture, just antique brass lamps on tables and the large gilt clock that’s been in the lobby forever.

As has the splendid pre-Revolutionary War breakfront with its rare books and mementos. It’s awe-inspiring to imagine those who have passed through since the early days when President Theodore Roosevelt decided his office should be separate from his living quarters. Nobody is above waiting in plain view of all who come through the same front door Benton and I just did.

It could be a head of state, a princess, a biotech billionaire, a movie star or your average Joe waiting for appointments with high-level officials. That won’t include the president or vice president right now. I have a feeling they’re preoccupied as it’s dawning on me where I’m being taken.

Along a short hallway, pale yellow walls are arranged with poster-size photographs of the president and first lady, the vice president and second gentleman. They’re handing out food, getting vaccinated, meeting with refugee children, with the victims of violence and natural disasters. Down three carpeted steps, and we’re on the lowest level, where I smell fried chicken.

The Mess Hall is on our left, another big gold presidential seal, this one next to the takeout window where I’ve grabbed to-go sandwiches on occasion. As we walk past, I glance in at the familiar sea of blue carpet and wooden paneling hung with maritime paintings, several waiters in black suits ready with water and other beverages.

The small but elegant dining facility is run by the Navy, the gold damask-covered tables set with fresh flowers, fine linens, and White House china. The military ensures the fare is excellent while safe enough for the government’s highest officials. Hopefully, there’s no threat of E. coli or tampering that could bring down the government, and the list of things to guard against these days is endless.

At almost eleven, there are but a handful of people seated inside. The U.S. Surgeon General is having coffee with a junior congressman from Michigan who’s been all over the news. The White House chief of staff is talking to the Catholic cardinal from the Washington, D.C., diocese, and the press secretary is tucked in a corner with Lesley Stahl of 60 Minutes.

But what snags my attention is the man sitting with his back to the door. Recognizing the narrow shoulders, the protruding ears, the Gorbachev-like port-wine stain birthmark on the back of the bald head, and I can’t believe it. Fortunately, Elvin Reddy doesn’t see me.

He’s too engrossed in a conversation with the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), and I glance at Benton. He meets my eyes, shrugging a little.

“Do we know what Virginia’s recently appointed health commissioner is doing here?” I ask Tron. “Talking to the head of the CDC?” I add, having no doubt my ambitious predecessor is angling for the next big position.

Maybe a presidential appointment, and dear God don’t let him be the next Dr. Fauci. I can’t imagine anything more depressing or less helpful than having the likes of Elvin Reddy deciding what’s best for the health of the nation. I’m reminded of what Marino’s always saying about crap floating to the top.

“No, I honestly don’t have any idea,” Tron replies. “Only that the two of them are on the list of visitors, and scheduled to meet later with the Secretary of Health and Human Services.”

We follow another short hallway. This one ends with a red phone on the wall next to an unmarked wooden door. She scans open the lock, and we walk inside the Situation Room, the reception area an open space leading to a suite of private chambers where top secret meetings are in session.

We stop at the secretary’s mahogany desk, this one L-shaped with multiple displays like a cockpit. Our gatekeeper is smartly dressed with reading glasses on, reminding me of Maggie except not the least bit imperious. She smiles at me when Tron announces our names.

KEYS CLICK AS THE secretary checks, and there’s no scanner to walk through, and no one pats us down. My briefcase isn’t searched again because it’s not necessary.

In addition to ubiquitous cameras and microphones, I’m sure there are spectrum analyzers we can’t see. No doubt they’re sweeping constantly, searching for rogue electronic signals from illegal surveillance devices that might evade detection otherwise.

No food or water is allowed beyond this point, and I can see why after what happened to me last night. But the pervasive threat is espionage, and that lands my thoughts on Gwen Hainey again. Maybe I’m here because of her spying. But I can’t imagine what I might have to offer that requires my physical presence before some Mount Olympian gathering.

“You’re in the JFK Room.” The secretary tells us where we’re going as I look around at a series of shut doors with red lights indicating meetings are in session.

“We got here as fast as we could,” I apologize.

“The traffic’s always a nightmare, and now especially with all the barricades and everything.” What she says has nothing to do with why I’ve been in slow motion this morning, my molecules not gathering fast enough.