The Echo of the Whip Read Online Free Page A

do and it’s over between us.”
    “Not before I get you on a board out on the Pacific.”
    They’d come to an agreement sports-wise: The deputy director would learn to ice skate; the vice president would learn to surf.
    “A deal’s a deal,” she agreed. Then she frowned. “Although I’ll probably get some grief from the Secret Service about that.”
    “Really?” DeWitt asked.
    “I’m not saying they can stop me. It’s just that …”
    The deputy director understood the need for people is high government posts to keep their secrets, especially when you were just a heartbeat away from the Oval Office. He extended an arm to Jean Morrissey, saying, “If pairs skating won’t ruin your image.”
    “There are agents watching us, you know.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    The Secret Service people were in the stands, at every entrance to the seating bowl and surrounding the exterior of the building.
    “Oh, what the hell,” Jean said. she took his arm.
    Hanging on to her stick with the opposite hand.
    They skated leisurely around the perimeter of the rink.
    DeWitt said, “Not that you have to tell me, but is there any reason the security cocoon will get any more oppressive than it already is?”
    She gave him a look. “The FBI hasn’t heard that the president’s been impeached?”
    The rhetorical question brought DeWitt to an abrupt halt. “The president is going to resign?”
    Having also stopped, Jean said, “What? No. Never, I hope.”
    DeWitt heaved a sigh.
    “Is that the sound of relief?”
    “Yes, I voted for the president twice.”
    They resumed skating. Their relationship had taken on more than a professional dimension after the vice president had asked the deputy director to be her escort at a state dinner. She’d filled in for an absent Patricia Grant and needed a date. DeWitt had obliged.
    He’d been cleared for one of the highest jobs at the FBI, but the Secret Service examined his life all over again. Nothing personal. Just due diligence. That and the guys who labored for the Treasury Department — the Secret Service — didn’t entirely trust the people at the Justice Department — the FBI.
    DeWitt had come out squeaky clean, but the process had turned up one thing Jean Morrissey hadn’t known. So she’d asked her date for the evening, “How do you get away with having a portrait of Chairman Mao on your office wall?”
    “The Bureau is short of linguists. As to having Westerners with at least a partial grip on the culture over there, we are few and far between. Me and a few Mormons who studied for and got turned down on their request to do missionary work in China.”
    Later in their burgeoning relationship, DeWitt had added, “I think the Bureau’s going to lose one of its China specialists.”
    “Who?”
    “Me. I’m burning out. When I wrap up the cases on my desk, I think I’m going home.”
    “California.”
    “Yeah,” DeWitt said with a smile.
    “That’s a damn shame,” Jean told him. “I’ve been thinking of proposing.”
    He’d given her a look. “You mean marriage?”
    “It helps to be married when you run for president.”
    “And Bobby Orr’s not available?” He knew a few of her secrets.
    She’d given him an elbow. Intended for his ribs. As a matter of reflex, DeWitt met it with the palm of his hand.
    “You make me hot when you do that, you know? Protect yourself so casually. Like you were just passing the salt at the dinner table.”
    “Kung-fu parlor trick,” DeWitt said.
    They’d gone on to discuss whether the vice president’s attraction to the deputy director was more than a matter of political convenience. Both allowed that they shared similar social and cultural points of view. Senses of humor as well. As to physical interactions … well, they were certainly physical. And from the way they both took care of themselves it was likely to continue that way for a long time.
    From there, discussions evolved. Was a bicoastal relationship feasible both