Primary Target. Джек Марс

was her father, always talking about “positives.” Was it even a real word? He said words and phrases like that all the time—there were always positives, and takeaways, and we were always moving forward, and climbing the ladder, and building something great. She had begun to suspect that he wasn’t nearly as optimistic as he talked. The whole act was a fake, a fraud. He just said these things because he knew that in his life, there was always someone listening.

      She hated that part of it. She hated the security detail from the Secret Service that hovered nearby twenty-four hours a day. She liked some of the agents themselves, but she hated the fact of it, that it was necessary, that her life was stilted and thwarted at every turn because of it. They were listening to this phone call, of course, and they were never far away—a man stood out in the hall all night while she slept.

      “I don’t know, Dad,” she said. “I just don’t know. I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

      “Well, you got to go skiing in the Swiss Alps, right? You met people from all over the world.”

      “I liked our Colorado trips better when I was a kid,” she said. “And the people I met? Yeah, great. Kids from Russia whose dads are the gangsters that stole all the industries when the Soviet Union collapsed. Kids from Saudi Arabia and Dubai whose dads are all princes or whatever. Is everybody in Saudi Arabia a prince? I think that’s the big takeaway, Dad. Everybody in Saudi Arabia belongs to the royal family.”

      Her dad the President laughed. It made her smile. She hadn’t heard that from him in a long, long while. And it made her think about how things used to be, back when her dad worked in the family oil business and co-owned a pro football team. He had been a fun dad, once upon a time.

      When they used to have family barbecues, he would wear a chef’s apron that said World’s Funnest Dad on it. That seemed like a long time ago now.

      “Well, honey,” he said, “I’m pretty sure not everybody in Saudi Arabia is in the royal family.”

      “I know,” she said. “Some people are servants and slaves.”

      “Elizabeth!” he said, but he wasn’t angry. He was having fun with her. She was always the one to say the outrageous things, even when she was young.

      “The truth hurts, Dad.”

      “Elizabeth? That’s very funny. But I’ve got to run. Do this for me, will you? You’ve got just a week left to go there. Try to make the best of it. Take advantage of the opportunities presented, and do something that excites you, okay?”

      “I don’t know what that would be,” she said, except now she was lying to him. “But I’ll do my best.”

      “Good. You’re beautiful, hon. Your mom and I love you. Grandpa and Grandma send their love. And call your sister, will you?”

      “Okay,” Elizabeth said. “I love you too, Dad.”

      She hung up the telephone. In her mind, she imagined all the people who were hanging up at the same time. Her dad certainly, probably in the Oval Office. But also Secret Service people listening on other phones in the Oval Office—two or three of them, hanging up as one. Also, people sitting at computer screens in the CIA building, or the FBI headquarters. Also, her personal bodyguard standing out in the hall, with the wire going to his ear. Was he on the phone call? She bet he was.

      Also, the Russian and Chinese spy agencies. You knew they were listening. And the billionaire Russian gangsters who sent their uncouth lout children to this expensive school. Were they listening? Probably.