President Sid Mahoney lay in bed, wishing for sleep. He had listened to a
fast-moving storm rain torrents on the White House until its gutters gushed.
Now, pale slivers of moonlight peeked around the drawn shades. He counted
every light bulb in the ornate crystal chandelier hanging above the bed, then
checked the time again. Eleven past one in the morning. The digits looked like
neon soldiers. That reminded him of work, and his brain kicked fully into gear.
Careful not to wake his wife, he kissed her cheek, slipped out of bed and
dressed in a navy jogging suit marked with the presidential seal. He crept out of
the room. In the bright lights of the hall outside the president’s suite, he turned
past family photographs and his grandchildren’s framed artwork to ride the waiting
elevator down to the ground floor.
When the ranking Secret Service agent on duty met him, Sid was prepared for
argument, even flat refusal. But to Sid’s surprise, the agent responded to his
request with, “Yes Sir, Mr. President. I’ll prepare your detail.”
Twenty minutes later, the armored limousine drove away from the South Portico. As
the White House disappeared from view, Sid finally began to relax. He joked with the
agents who shared the back seat with him about the latest Hollywood gossip. They left
the limousine at the beginning of the Reflecting Pool and set off at a brisk walk toward
the Lincoln Memorial. Sid’s tennis shoes splashed in puddles, seeping wetness into his
socks. Other than ringing him in a tight circle, the agents paid him no attention and
scanned the surroundings intently, in part for safety, in part to give him some illusion of
privacy.
There was no one in sight.
He took a deep breath of cold air, smelling damp earth and wet, oily asphalt.
In the distance, he could make out Lincoln’s regal pose. He knew Lincoln
watched over the sacred trust of the presidency. He could feel it, especially at
night.
In a heartfelt murmur, he said to Lincoln, “Sir, I’m trapped and I’m screwed.
We passed the point of no return, and the bastards have won. Why aren’t you
helping me? We’re on the same side, for God’s sake!”
Silence. Tonight, Lincoln wasn’t talking.
With a frustrated grunt, Sid threw back his head to look at the vast expanse of
clouds, searching for the moon and her silvery light. Then his gaze felt pulled
right, to the towering elm trees that lined the grass. Their magnificence struck
him, speaking of the force that reigns far beyond human comprehension. A
soothing thought; we are not in this alone. And into that wisdom, he exhaled in
surrender.
Pain, like an ice pick shot through the hollow at the base of his throat. He
heard gunfire, shouting. Hot panic flared in his mind. He couldn't die. Not yet.
He had too much to do. Too much was at stake. He fought frantically against a
sleepy, spreading darkness, desperate to stay awake and alive.
fast-moving storm rain torrents on the White House until its gutters gushed.
Now, pale slivers of moonlight peeked around the drawn shades. He counted
every light bulb in the ornate crystal chandelier hanging above the bed, then
checked the time again. Eleven past one in the morning. The digits looked like
neon soldiers. That reminded him of work, and his brain kicked fully into gear.
Careful not to wake his wife, he kissed her cheek, slipped out of bed and
dressed in a navy jogging suit marked with the presidential seal. He crept out of
the room. In the bright lights of the hall outside the president’s suite, he turned
past family photographs and his grandchildren’s framed artwork to ride the waiting
elevator down to the ground floor.
When the ranking Secret Service agent on duty met him, Sid was prepared for
argument, even flat refusal. But to Sid’s surprise, the agent responded to his
request with, “Yes Sir, Mr. President. I’ll prepare your detail.”
Twenty minutes later, the armored limousine drove away from the South Portico. As
the White House disappeared from view, Sid finally began to relax. He joked with the
agents who shared the back seat with him about the latest Hollywood gossip. They left
the limousine at the beginning of the Reflecting Pool and set off at a brisk walk toward
the Lincoln Memorial. Sid’s tennis shoes splashed in puddles, seeping wetness into his
socks. Other than ringing him in a tight circle, the agents paid him no attention and
scanned the surroundings intently, in part for safety, in part to give him some illusion of
privacy.
There was no one in sight.
He took a deep breath of cold air, smelling damp earth and wet, oily asphalt.
In the distance, he could make out Lincoln’s regal pose. He knew Lincoln
watched over the sacred trust of the presidency. He could feel it, especially at
night.
In a heartfelt murmur, he said to Lincoln, “Sir, I’m trapped and I’m screwed.
We passed the point of no return, and the bastards have won. Why aren’t you
helping me? We’re on the same side, for God’s sake!”
Silence. Tonight, Lincoln wasn’t talking.
With a frustrated grunt, Sid threw back his head to look at the vast expanse of
clouds, searching for the moon and her silvery light. Then his gaze felt pulled
right, to the towering elm trees that lined the grass. Their magnificence struck
him, speaking of the force that reigns far beyond human comprehension. A
soothing thought; we are not in this alone. And into that wisdom, he exhaled in
surrender.
Pain, like an ice pick shot through the hollow at the base of his throat. He
heard gunfire, shouting. Hot panic flared in his mind. He couldn't die. Not yet.
He had too much to do. Too much was at stake. He fought frantically against a
sleepy, spreading darkness, desperate to stay awake and alive.
Prologue: The Thief Of Sacred
Click for Chapter One:
Author's Forward
I began this novel in 1991 because of the first Gulf War
between Iraq and the United States. I wrote it with the intent of
bringing a deeper awareness of how an act of terrorism can be
manipulated to deliberately change the course of history.
As a result of my increasing fear that certain events in this
novel would indeed come to pass, I had a less polished
version copyrighted in 1998. No changes to the plot were
made after the September 11, 2001 tragedy; the original story
stands unaltered by those events.
-Jacqueline Lloyd
between Iraq and the United States. I wrote it with the intent of
bringing a deeper awareness of how an act of terrorism can be
manipulated to deliberately change the course of history.
As a result of my increasing fear that certain events in this
novel would indeed come to pass, I had a less polished
version copyrighted in 1998. No changes to the plot were
made after the September 11, 2001 tragedy; the original story
stands unaltered by those events.
-Jacqueline Lloyd