The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

Marian at a high-school football game, and she'd loved the spectacle as much as
he ever had. Thirty years of marriage which had begun while both were still in
college, the last three of which had been an ongoing nightmare as the disease
that had manifested itself in her late thirties had in her late forties taken a
dramatic and downward turn and, finally, a death too long in coming but too soon
in arriving, by which time he'd been too exhausted even to shed tears. And then
the years of aloneness.
Well, perhaps that was over.
Thank God for the Secret Service, Fowler thought. In the governor's mansion in
Columbus it would quickly have gotten out. But not here. Outside his door was a
pair of armed agents, and down the hall that Army warrant officer with the
leather briefcase called the Football, an appellation which did not please the
President, but there were things even he could not change. His National Security
Advisor could, in any case, share his bed, and the White House staffers kept the
secret. That, he thought, was rather remarkable.
Fowler looked down at his lover. Elizabeth was undeniably pretty. Her skin was
pale because her work habits denied her sunlight, but he preferred women with
pale, fair skin. The covers were askew because of the previous night's
gyrations, and he could examine her back; the skin was so smooth and soft. He
felt her relaxed breath on his chest, and the way her left arm wrapped around
him. He ran a hand down her back and was rewarded by a hmmmmm and a slight
increase in pressure from the sleeping hug she gave him.
There was a discreet knock at the door. The President pulled the covers up and
coughed. After a five-count, the door opened, and an agent came in with a coffee
tray with some document print-outs before withdrawing. Fowler knew he couldn't
trust one of the ordinary staff that far, but the Secret Service really was the
American version of the Praetorian Guard. The agent never betrayed his emotions,
except for a good-morning nod at The Boss, as the agents referred to him. The
devotion they gave him was almost slavish. Though well educated men and women,
they really did have a simple outlook on things, and Fowler knew that there was
room in the world for such people. Someone, often someone quite skilled, had to
carry out the decisions and orders of his or her superiors. The gun-toting
agents were sworn to protect him, even to interpose their bodies between the
President and any danger – the maneuver was called 'catching the bullet' – and
it amazed Fowler that such bright people could train themselves to do something
so selflessly dumb. But it was to his benefit. As was their discretion. Well,
the joke was that such good help was hard to come by. It was true: you had to be
President to have that kind of servant.
Fowler reached for his coffee and poured a cup onehanded. He drank it black.
After his first sip he used a remote-control to switch on a TV set. It was tuned
to CNN, and the lead story – it was two in the afternoon there – was Rome, of
course.
'Mmmmm.' Elizabeth moved her head, and her hair swept across him. She always
awoke slower than he. Fowler ran a finger down her spine, earning himself a last
cuddle before her eyes opened. Her head came up with a violent start.
'Bob!'
'Yes?'