White: A Novel by Christopher Whitcomb Page A

shooter.”
    Venable led them into the Oval Office. Workmen had brought in couches and were wrestling with an electric pump organ the president had insisted be brought down from the governor’s mansion in Connecticut. He had spent many an introspective moment at its dual-level keyboards and expected to need it in the nation’s corner office.
    “You be careful with that!” he barked at the workmen. “That’s an 1890 Estey reed harmonium my great-grandmother bought new in Brattleboro, Vermont.” The president walked over to show them a thing or two, then remembered himself and turned back to his staff. “That’s a family heirloom.”
    “We need to consider courses of action,” his chief of staff said, once the workmen had departed.
    “What are we supposed to do, put guards on every building?” Venable’s voice trailed off as he wandered over to his podium. “I mean, there are only so many things you
can
do in a free society. We’ve already got guards inside the planes. Really—what are we supposed to do?”
    “You’re right, sir,” Noah said. “I think the American people understand that. They want to know we’re going after the people behind these attacks. They’re not interested in details.”
    Havelock seemed to puff up, empowered by the press secretary’s validation of his “spy crap” theory.
    “Who’s interrogating this suspect?” Venable asked.
    “Defense Department people,” Beechum said, hoping he wouldn’t ask for more detail. There would always be things the president didn’t need to know. “We’re holding him as a material witness, which means we don’t have to divulge his location, file charges, or even acknowledge that we have him.”
    Alred seemed fine with this, which surprised the president.
    “Why would the Defense Department have a criminal suspect? Doesn’t the FBI want him for prosecution?” Venable asked.
    “Not at this time, sir,” Alred said, looking at Beechum for guidance. This was a new president. A Democrat. How would he react to fundamental changes in judicial process that had been ushered in by a Republican predecessor?
    “The FBI has to abide by the rule of law,” Beechum said. She walked to the window and looked out into the snow. Windows seemed to draw her. “That means Miranda warnings, booking procedures, court hearings, public disclosure. It means civil rights scrutiny.”
    “Civil rights . . .” Venable trailed off. He seemed to get her meaning. “Yes, well this is war, right? I guess I don’t need to know the details.”
    His lack of a desk seemed to confuse the others in the room, who didn’t know exactly where to stand.
    Havelock stepped toward the podium.
    “If I may, sir,” he said, “we have a matter that we need to address before we go much further. This country maintains what is known as the ‘continuity of government plan.’ You probably haven’t been briefed yet, but . . .”—he waited for the president to interrupt. “FEMA administers a set of crisis response protocols. They provide for a smooth transition of power should something happen . . . frankly, if something should happen to you, sir.”
    “This involves that secure location they always talk about on the news?” said Venable.
    “Yes, sir. We need to consider moving the vice president out of NACAP—excuse me, sir . . . that stands for national capital region—along with a number of congressional leaders, cabinet secretaries, and members of the judiciary. They will have full communication with the White House, of course, but will be protected in the event of further attacks.”
    “Right,” was all the president said. He looked questioningly at Beechum, then asked, “When?”
    “As soon as possible.” He turned toward the vice president, as if her experience in these matters might enforce his authority.
    “My place is here,” she said. “I need to stay.”
    “Why?” Venable asked. He was president, after all; she little more than an insurance