“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.”
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.