Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery relaxed as much as anyone could in the small gym inside the White House residence. He stood in front of a Universal machine, doing wimpy sets of triceps extensions and attempted not to look too creepy while watching to make sure President Ryan didn’t fall off the treadmill and break something. The Secret Service customarily waited in the hallway while the President did his workout. The fact that Montgomery was present in the gym at all complicated things. If the President were to drop a weight on his toe or simply trip over his own two feet, it would be viewed by Montgomery’s superiors as something he should have prevented. So far this morning, President Ryan had been walking on the treadmill while he read from a stack of briefing folders he’d brought with him. He was an athletic guy and this was a task he did all the time, but it drove the agent crazy because of the fall hazard. No doubt the boss was coming up with the questions he posed every morning. So far, Montgomery had gotten him trained to engage in philosophical debates only after they were within the relatively safe walls of the White House.
As the SAIC of President Ryan’s Secret Service detail, Montgomery was supposed to be within arm’s reach—but that close proximity forced him to walk a fine line between close enough and too close.
The President asked good questions, and considered the answers as if they’d come from somebody important—no matter who was giving them. Jack Ryan was a nice guy—the kind of man Montgomery liked to have beer with—and therein was the problem. Both of Montgomery’s predecessors had warned him that this president was impossible not to like. It was, they warned, going to be monumentally difficult not to come off as aloof by constantly saying “I’d rather not, sir.” But the hard truth was that to protect another human being you just couldn’t be their buddy. You could be civil, politely answer questions, but the moment you let your guard down and started to look inward, to sit around and bullshit with your new pal, something important slips by and your new best friend gets assassinated.
Relationship creep was insidious, especially with someone who has an easygoing personality like President Ryan. At some point, Montgomery would have to sit down and give the “Mr. President, we can’t be friends” talk. To have that talk too soon would be presumptuous. Too late could prove disastrous.
Montgomery consoled himself by admitting that this was a good problem to have. Sometimes agents just plain didn’t like who they protected. Montgomery had worked on Kealty’s detail when he was vice president. Now, that guy was a real asshat. But Montgomery had done his job without question. In protecting any President or other dignitary under the purview of the Secret Service, he and hundreds of agents like him were protecting not only the person but the system of governance—and the good name of the Service itself.
Ryan just made it easy—in some respects, anyway.
The President stepped off the treadmill and tossed the briefing folder on the weight bench before climbing aboard a Schwinn Airdyne bicycle. There were two of the machines, presumably so Dr. Ryan could exercise next to her husband.
The boss was circumspect this morning, looking forward, staring a thousand yards away while he moved the upright handlebars back and forth in time with the pedals. The big fan where the front wheel should have been began to whir, gaining speed. Rather than ask a question at first, he gestured at the second bike with a little toss of his head.
Montgomery looped the towel over his shoulders and climbed onto the stationary bike beside the President of the United States. He was by no means a newcomer to this world, but even he had to pinch himself once in a while.
Ryan began to pedal faster now that he had apparent competition. “So,” he said, canting his head slightly as he looked at Montgomery. “I’m not going to read some exposé about how I relied on the Secret Service to tape up my injured foot for plantar fasciitis instead of going to a doctor, am I?”
Montgomery gave a slight bow. “The code word is ‘Mum,’ Mr. President.”
“Good to hear,” Ryan said. “So, tell me, Gary, how does the security situation look in Tokyo?”
Montgomery didn’t want to upset the boss with the intricacies of protection. It could make a person as conscientious as Jack Ryan overly worrisome if he took the time to sit down and think about all the moving parts that went into protecting him. Two versions of the presidential Cadillac limo known as The Beast, Air Force One, a spare in the event the primary had mechanical problems, the communications aircraft, three Sikorsky Sea King helicopters from HMX-1, three dozen Secret Service vehicles—and the C-17s and C-5s to transport them. That didn’t even touch on all the hundred or so agents, and more firearms than anyone admitted to the Japanese. Trips like the G20 required three separate advances to make certain the routes were checked, hospitals were located and scouted, deconfliction meetings with local police and the protective details of other countries were complete, and at least three floors of hotel—one below and one above the President’s suite—were procured and the staff cleared and credentialed. Equally important, parking for the Secret Service armada had to be arranged well in advance.
President Ryan had enough to think about without burdening him with the monstrosity that was his protective detail. So Montgomery merely smiled at the question and said, “Stellar, Mr. President.”
Ryan gave him a thoughtful nod, then chuckled. “Are you sure that’s not what you say when you have something to hide? You sound like Jack Junior when he was in high school and I asked him about his English classes. A lot of unanswered questions packed into your few words.”
“Seriously, sir,” Montgomery said. “It’s all set up.”
“Very well,” Ryan said, looking forward, unconvinced. He pedaled for a time in silence, then turned, half leaning on the upright handlebars as he spoke. “Tell me your impression of President Zhao.”
The agent thought about that for a minute. Ryan wanted honest answers, but he didn’t want flippancy.
“I’d say he’s an old-school communist. Hard-line enough to keep the support of most of the party’s old guard. He talks a lot about making some progressive changes, but I’m not sure he’ll do much more than talk. He hasn’t figured you out yet, and that keeps him honest . . .” Montgomery paused, pedaling away on his bike. “At least I’d thought it kept him honest, until this business with the money trail through the Australian telecom.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “That is strange. If Zhao is responsible, he’ll answer for it. But considering what happened to the last couple Chinese leaders who tested our resolve, it’s a dangerous thing to make assumptions—and even more dangerous to cling to them. I’m not saying Zhao would hesitate to kick us in the teeth if he thought it would be good for China, but he didn’t strike me as the haphazard type. With Bitcoin and other cryptocurrency mechanisms for hiding one’s money matters, he has his people run payments through a shell corporation in one of our Five Eyes partners?”
Montgomery opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it.
“Knock it off, Gary,” Ryan said. “Stop holding back. You had another thought.”
“Well,” Montgomery said, “I don’t know if it means anything, but my counterpart running Zhao’s protective detail is a CSB colonel named Huang. We’ve run across each other a time or two over the years on various protective operations involving the U.S. and the PRC. He’s got a stick up his ass to be sure, but he’s a heck of a capable guy. Doesn’t smile very much, but neither do I when I’m working. There’s something about him that I think speaks to Zhao’s character.”
Ryan had stopped pedaling now and sat looking at the agent. “How’s that?”
“Well, a good protective agent will always protect the office, no matter who’s sitting in the chair. But Colonel Huang is protecting the man.”