The Paris Protection by Bryan Devore

replied.
    “She’s already prepped?” John asked in surprise.
    “Yes sir. Agent Reid called it in because of a building fire in the vicinity.”
    “Roger, copy.” He was impressed that Reid had made the call. “Maintain readiness and stand by for further instructions.”
    “Yes sir,” the HMX-1 WHLO replied.
    Flipping back to the wrist microphone, he said, “Command Center, send five CAT agents to the twenty-fifth floor to form an additional perimeter blockade below Firefly. I’ll meet them there in one minute for setup.”
    “We’re sending them up,” a voice replied in his earpiece.
    He shot a serious glance at Stone. “I’ll be back in two or three minutes. You’ve got POTUS.”
    “Yes sir,” Stone replied a little too loudly, as if snapping to attention.
    John walked fast toward the stairwell. So much of protecting the president was about decreasing the odds that something devastating could happen to her. That was why cooks and foods were flown on Air Force One, to prepare all meals for POTUS at travel destinations, even foreign diplomatic dinners. That was why every agent knew “ten-minute” first aid—how to stabilize the president in a medical emergency, until an ambulance could arrive. That was why agents went through monthly weapons training even after years of fieldwork, why the Service sent a hundred-person advance team to the location weeks before a planned trip, why they shut down highways for hours just for a five-minute drive in the motorcade, why they used bulletproof glass in front of podiums during speeches, and why they never let the president remain in one place for very long when in public—always moving POTUS to lessen the odds of an enemy finding an opportunity for an attack. An ever-changing calculus was always running in John’s head, gauging whether changing factors were increasing or decreasing the risk to the president. And when something—even something small—increased the risk, he would try to counter with something that lowered it again. So even though a small but strange blip had registered on the EK-1, he now countered with a temporary increase in the protection force directly around the president.
    Now he would just maintain his slightly elevated internal alert level until he heard back from his men in the basement.

16
     
     
     
     
    REBECCA STOOD BY THE ELEVATORS on the twenty-second floor, staring out the windows at the smoke plume from a small fire blazing a mile away, its flames occasionally reflecting back at her off the long glass-covered tour boats drifting under lighted stone bridges on the Seine. The orange flames stood out in a city lit only in white. Only the bright yellow lights of the Eiffel Tower competed with the liveliness of the distant fire.
    The fire itself no longer concerned her; it was far enough away and wasn’t spreading. There was no wind, and the snow was drifting down heavier now. What did concern her were all the flashing lights of fire trucks and emergency crews around the fire.
    She spoke into her sat phone. “JOC, how many emergency responders were sent to the fire?”
    After a short delay, the voice replied, “All available.”
    “The Paris dispatchers are aware of our requested protocols regarding local law enforcement around the president, correct?”
    “Yes, ma’am. They have been briefed, and we’ve been monitoring their radios to make sure they comply with our requests. No Paris police officers have been pulled away from the outer perimeter of the protection bubble.”
    Rebecca exchanged a nod with her reflection while still trying to make out details around the distant fire. Then she felt a sudden chill. “What about firefighters?” she asked. “How many from the area were dispatched to the fire?”
    Silence roared in her earpiece.
    “How many?” she demanded with more urgency.
    “Hold, please . . .” After ten long seconds, the voice returned. “All fire response from central Paris responded to the fire. I