“They did indeed, thanks to you,” Callan said. “Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we’ll worry about the bombs and Damari. Come.”
Mike had never imagined herself being here, at Camp David, of all places, in conversation with the vice president and soon enough, the president himself. Her father was going to love it, want every detail about security, and her mom would want to know about everything from food to clothes to who said what to whom, particularly who had admired and praised her daughter. Oh, yes, and what did she wear?
Nicholas said, “You honor us, ma’am. Thank you.” He appreciated the respect they were showing. He committed it all to memory for his mom and Nigel. He sent a prayer heavenward, so grateful the code had worked.
Callan waved for them to follow, began moving toward two waiting golf carts. “We’ll ride to the cabins,” she said. “Hop in.”
Nicholas was looking around, searching the area, alert, not at all relaxed, taking careful measure of exactly where they were, where the Secret Service and military personnel were stationed, points of ingress and egress. It made Mike more alert, too. Something was definitely up with him.
Callan said, “We’ve put you in Dogwood, where we’re headed right now. It has a storied history—Brezhnev, Sadat, Medvedev, why, Nixon’s secretary typed up the Watergate notes in the lounge. But no ghosts, so don’t worry about that. I’m over there, in Birch. We’re flaunting protocol, but not too much. It’s a quick walk up to Aspen; Mike, if you’re in heels we can easily leave you the cart, but you’ll have to buzz around to the front entrance, though. Cocktails start in twenty minutes, you have exactly enough time to freshen up. We’re business casual tonight, though whatever you have with you is completely fine.”
Mike said, “Nicholas always has the right clothes. I think I can muster something out of my bag as well. No heels, though.”
The golf cart stopped at a green painted cabin with redwood steps leading up to a porch. To the right of the door, the rustic brown wood placard read DOGWOOD in white lettering. Flowers bloomed, the heady evening scent of night-blooming jasmine was heavy in the air around them. Mike could tell they were meticulously cared for, even in the growing dusk.
The vice president gave them a wave. “I’m sure you’ll have everything you need, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” She got into the cart that had been following them, and buzzed away.
The door was open, and they went inside. It smelled woodsy, like lingering fires and evergreen and the sharp scent of starched sheets. They were very casual here, Mike saw. The whole setup screamed “Kick back and eat chips and dip,” and that suited her perfectly.
The cabin had two bedrooms with updated en-suite baths, a lounge room with tall fireplace, a table with four chairs. Bookshelves lined the walls, with a section near the floor full of cards and poker chips and board games. It was cozy, and the two bedrooms afforded individual privacy. Mike didn’t want to think about what sleeping under the same roof as Nicholas meant, but on the other hand, this cabin had more privacy than some of the hotel rooms they’d shared in Paris and London. Ah, but that was before—no, she wasn’t about to think about that, not now when she would be meeting the president of the United States in fifteen minutes.
“I’ll take left, you take right?” Nicholas said. “Okay with you?”
“Fine. Please don’t tell me you don’t have white tie and tails in your go-bag. If you do, prepare to die.”
“No, not quite tails. Come, now, I know you, you have something black and a little slinky in there, right?”
“Yep. After our last trip to Paris, I thought something showing more leg than bloody, ripped jeans might come in handy.”
“Mike, we need to talk.”
She held up her hand, palm out. “No way. There’s nothing to talk about. How many times do I have to tell you? Forget it, Nicholas, forget everything.”