Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear by Ellsworth John

Author:Ellsworth, John [Ellsworth, John]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Crime | Thriller | Mystery | Suspense
Published: 2017-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

T he call had come fifteen minutes ago: four CIA CyWar spies gunned down. At an IHOP, of all places. Anatoly Palatov had struck. The president snorted and turned away from the toilet, confident the drip-drip-drip of the urethra was played out and his boxers would remain acceptably dry. Washing his hands in the sink, he studied the face staring back at him. White, Anglo-Saxon but not Protestant. Not anything, for that matter, though he had tried many times to convert to something—anything—and to remain committed. The mandatory Sunday morning shot of the president and family leaving their place of worship. But, alas, none of it had taken and now Sinclair was an unabashed agnostic. He had lots of answers, sure, as any president must. But answers about God—that's where he disembarked the answer train. For he had none and didn't like to guess. Guessing about the fate of his soul was better left to the religious and, increasingly, the quantum mechanists. "You don't even know about sixty minutes from now, much less your prospects for eternity," he chided his reflection in the mirror. "Better to say nothing and appear a fool than to speak up about such things and prove it," he said with his campaign smile, the smile that had wooed voters over his thirty year career in politics. The Colgate smile.

He returned to his bedroom, where Harald Stennis, his personal assistant, had yet another dark blue suit ready and waiting, with yet another white shirt and yet another red necktie. "Some things never change," he muttered at Harald, whose usual practice was to simply nod that he had heard such comments, which he did now. The president dressed quickly and expertly, all tucks and pleats in place, then departed his bedroom, picking up his first Secret Service bodyguard of the day. He entered the North Hall, where he took a right and passed by his own reading room, then the Yellow Oval Hall, to the elevators and stairwell. Today he chose the stairwell—all the better to steal even a hint of exercise in hopes of keeping the fool doctors at bay. He two-stepped downstairs and the agent followed in kind. At the bottom, another two agents joined the party and off the foursome headed for the Oval Office. Past the Office of the National Security Advisor, down several doors and to the right into the presidential lobby, ending up in the Oval Office. President Sinclair sank into his desk chair, swiveled around and stared out at the Rose Garden, then reined himself in and turned back around to focus on the day ahead.

It was 8:30 a.m. and the President's personal secretary, Andrea Gomirivi, was waiting. She took him over the day's schedule. He remained impassive while she stepped through his meetings and calls and photo ops and appearances. He then attended the daily handshake sessions—the first and second of six—and then met with his legislative advisers. Throughout, he was anxious to address the CIA killings, but

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