“Oh, yeah. I know ’bout that. Big controversy down there with those jet boats,” Bush said.
The motors were already idling, getting warmed up. Bush made sure that Betsy was properly squared away with her life jacket, then eased the boat away from the pier and ran the throttle up. The boat shot out and started pounding through a light chop. The water was rougher than Hell’s Canyon, the ride much wilder. Betsy shrieked as the spray slapped her in the face, and found it difficult to get her breath back, such was the speed of the boat. The President spent a few minutes trying to hit every large wave that came within range, trying to get the nose of the boat pointed as close to vertical as he could make it. Betsy spent half the time genuinely terrified and cried out more than once.
Then he cut the throttle and let them drift.
“Good work, Betsy. I know about all the nonsense you’ve been going through. Keep plugging away.”
Betsy was still catching her breath. She felt relaxed and energized now and suddenly understood that the boat ride wasn’t just a boat ride. It was a tool Bush used to shake visitors out of the daze that came with being in the presence of the most powerful man in the world.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What’s the story on this Iraq bioweapons thing? Been on my mind recently.”
“Dr. Millikan said I should keep it general.”
“I’m the President, not Millikan, and you tell me what you want to.” The President throttled the boat back up, not nearly as fast, and began to run it in long, lazy figure eights.
Betsy laid out the whole thing from her first discoveries in 1989, trying to concentrate on the facts and not stray into whining about how the system had failed, how Millikan had treated her. The President said nothing, merely frowned. Finally he said, “Don’t you just wish that we could simply go after the bad guys? But all of this stuff is like a bad tumor, with millions of tentacles. We cut out the main tumor, the rest grows back.”
“Well. That’s as may be, Mr. President. But—” She stopped, unable to bring herself to disagree with him.
“Spit it out, Betsy.”
“Well. I’m not supposed to do domestic. You know that.”
“That’s a very important rule, Betsy. Got to take that rule very seriously.”
“But there are some things I’ve become aware of accidentally.”
Bush snickered. “Accidental intelligence is my favorite kind, Betsy. Good stuff.”
“That is, I wasn’t doing domestic intelligence gathering or exceeding my task. I learned of this because of a family member who stumbled across it—or maybe I should say, stumbled into it.”
“Gimme the upshot.”
“Something’s going on at Eastern Iowa University in Wapsipinicon. There are some people there who should be watched.”
Bush nodded. “Got the Wapsipinicon thing covered.”
Betsy was stunned, delighted. “You do?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s covering it, if I may ask?”
“Bureau. Hennessey.”
“Hennessey?”
“Got a man on the ground there.” Bush nodded toward the house. “Bar’s waving at me like mad. Better get back.” He ran up the throttle so fast that Betsy screamed again. “Gonna have a nice dinner,” he shouted. “A nice social thing.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Deputy Clyde Banks stood stolidly in a column of steam that writhed and swirled all about him, wielding a spatula in each hand, stirring through a heap of shredded potatoes as if trying to find a pearl of great price that had somehow fallen into the frying pan. It was a great big industrial frying pan about the size of a satellite dish, and the flame ring underneath it was consuming so much gas that the buckle of Clyde’s belt was beaded with condensed water vapor. The giant industrial-range hood above his head howled like a tornado siren, drowning out the ceaseless catcalls of the prisoners.