The office is crowded with senior White House staffers and two Army colonels and the Marine major with the football. Quinn is on his phone and everyone save him looks at him, then looks away.
And in a second, bigger shock, Quinn remains on the phone.
Does not disconnect the call.
Doesn’t even give notice to Barrett.
Intolerable.
Quinn finally hangs up the phone and says, “Yes? May I help you, sir?”
There is something seriously wrong with Quinn’s voice, and it takes a moment for Barrett to realize what’s going on.
The voice is even, calm, not weak or servile.
“Yes,” Barrett says. “I want you to confirm that Marine One will be taking me to Mount Weather sometime after noon.”
Heavy and uneasy silence in the room. Another phone starts ringing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Quinn says. “That’s not happening.”
“The hell it isn’t,” Barrett snaps back. “I ordered it this morning.”
“Yes, you may have, sir, but Marine One is reserved for the president’s use only.”
Barrett feels heat rising along his face and hands. Quinn adds, “I saw your personally signed resignation letter a few minutes ago. Sir, you’re no longer president. You can’t take Marine One anywhere.”
Barrett says, “Quinn, you’d better get off your ass and call—”
Quinn picks up his ringing phone, and with a stronger voice, says, “Sir, with all due respect, I have a lot of work to do. Please leave.”
Barrett feels a wave of humiliation break over him. Voice firm and hard, he says, “Quinn, whatever you might have seen was a fake, a piece of theater, something to get Hannah Abrams out of my office. She was deranged, I fired her, and to make her leave, I wrote that note. I hereby disavow it. I’m still the president of the United States, Quinn, and you will treat me as such.”
Quinn shakes his head.
Barrett says, “Quinn Lawrence, I am ordering you, as my chief of staff, to follow my orders and to ensure that Marine One is ready to transport me to Mount Weather within the hour.”
Another phone starts to ring.
His chief of staff picks it up, and in a low and steady voice says, “Events are moving rapidly. Decisions need to be made. And you need to leave, sir.”
Barrett starts to speak but Quinn cuts him off.
“Now, sir.”
CHAPTER 144
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams unbuckles her seat harness even before the battered Suburban arrives at the main entrance to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, and when it screeches to a halt, she grabs Noa’s hand and steps out.
Less than twenty minutes to noon.
The exterior of Heaton Pavilion is made of exposed concrete and brick. She walks briskly to the lobby, holding Noa’s hand, and scans the interior, finds the lobby desk, where a male Army sergeant and two privates are manning the desk.
She flashes her ID to the sergeant. “Hannah Abrams, CIA director. I need to see the vice president, Suite 71, immediately.”
The Army sergeant seems stunned.
“Ah, may I see your ID again?”