Читать книгу To Kill the President: The most explosive thriller of the year - Sam Bourne - Страница 18

The Willard Hotel, Washington, DC, Tuesday, 6.53pm

‘And no checking your phone.’

Robert Kassian said nothing. He was checking his phone.

‘Bob!’

His wife couldn’t see him, but she knew. She was in the bathroom, getting ready for tonight’s reception: his second of the evening. He had bidden Jim Bruton goodbye, slipped out of the East Room and come straight here.

As he perched on the end of the bed, waiting for her, he wondered: was the use of this suite a perk of Pamela being a board member, or had it been granted as a gesture towards his needs, as White House Chief of Staff? If the latter, it was considerate. Privacy, space to meet his wife and make the transition from the working day to the evening: it was helpful. Unless – and the thought appalled him – someone in his office had demanded it, treating this tiny not-for-profit as if it were one of the mega-charities the White House was used to. He thought about thumbing out a quick email to his assistant, but thought better of it. What if Pamela poked her head around the bathroom door and caught him in the act?

She was in there adjusting her dress, perfecting her make-up, he didn’t know which. He’d been in there once, to make a judgement on jewellery – earrings or bracelet or both? – and she had seemed almost ready then. But that meant nothing. It was perfectly possible that a choice of necklace had triggered a rethink of the entire ensemble, dress included.