Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

But only recently had he become a celebrity personality as well. It helped that Kevin Martindale was young, handsome, wealthy, single, and had at one time been one of the most powerful men on earth. His well-publicized divorce while vice president, and his steady stream of starlet girlfriends during his single term as chief executive, only served to keep him in the public eye. But now that he was back in the political hunt, his name and face appeared in all sorts of media outlets these days, not just the supermarket tabloids.

  Maureen gave Martindale his choice of seats in the sitting area of the suite—even the armchair opposite hers, as her equal—but instead he chose the far side of the long sofa. She dismissed the official State Department photographer with a polite nod, then, playing the hostess, gestured at a nearby serving cart. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee for me,” she said, then sat down in the plush armchair at the head of the sitting area in front of the fireplace. She crossed her legs, held the cup in both hands, and took a sip as her guest made himself comfortable.

  Martindale reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a Davidoff Double R Churchill. “Do you mind, Miss Deputy Secretary? I know there’s no smoking in the Fairmont these days, but I also know that Mr. Kercheval enjoys a good cigar, so I brought mine and a few for him.”

  “Not at all,” she said, quickly and neutrally.

  He clipped his cigar, then, as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and withdrew another. “Do you indulge, Miss Deputy Secretary?”

  “No,” she said coolly.

  He chuckled with a distinct air of superiority. “Thought I’d better ask. Equality for women should extend to things like fine cigars, should it not?”

  “It has nothing to do with equality—just taste,” she responded.

  He shrugged, uncertain of what she meant by that, and put the second cigar back in his pocket. He withdrew a silver lighter and was about to touch the flame to his cigar when he stopped in surprise—as Hershel pulled her own cigar from her inside breast pocket.

  “But it’s not because I don’t like cigars. I just don’t like those cigars. I prefer Lars Tetens to Davidoffs.” She pulled her own clippers and lighter from her pocket. “The Tesshu Deluxe Robusto is my favorite. Made in New York. I was introduced to them by a German vice air marshal. You’d have thought he’d discovered the New World by how much he raved about them. They take some getting used to, but they are worth the effort.” The pungent aroma of the Lars Teten quickly, easily overpowered the Davidoff. Martindale couldn’t help but look on in amazement as the woman puffed away happily on the rich, strong cigar.

  “I hope you’re having a pleasant trip out here to the West Coast, Miss Hershel.”

  “Fine, thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Kevin. Please. Thorn is ‘Mr. President’ now.”

  “Thank you, Kevin. And I’m Maureen.”

  Martindale nodded. “I thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Not at all.” She eased back in her chair, then surprised him again by casually throwing the elbow of her left arm onto the chair back and propping her head on her left thumb, with the cigar between the forefinger and middle finger of the same hand.

  “I wanted to discuss a very important matter confronting the United States, Maureen.”

  “The situation in Turkmenistan.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “You know, of course, about the invasion by those Taliban fighters.”

  “Yes.” She turned away from him to take another deep draw from the cigar, and she did not look back at him as she released the smoke from her lips. “The fighters seem to be growing in strength and taking new territory almost at will. I’d say the situation is extremely fluid.”

  “ ‘Fluid’? Miss Hershel, the situation is critical out there!” Martindale retorted. “The Taliban insurgents now control three-quarters of the American-built oil and gas pipelines in Turkmenistan!”

  “They control three-quarters of the pipelines in the eastern half of the country, approximately eight thousand linear miles, plus eight distribution facilities, sixteen pumping facilities, and two power-production facilities,” Hershel said, still looking away from Martindale, reeling off the information as if she were reading it in the clouds of cigar smoke swirling around her head. “They control all of product distribution to Uzbekistan and Pakistan and about half of the distribution to Iran, Afghanistan, and Kazakhstan.”

  “It’s a serious development, Maureen.” Martindale slapped his Davidoff into an ashtray on the table next to him with an angry jab; he couldn’t taste it anyway over the overpowering scent of the Lars Teten. “Many folks around the world consider this conflict to be President Thorn’s first major foreign emergency test, one that directly affects American business interests. I’m impressed that you have such a command of the data, Maureen, but what I’d like to know is, what exactly does the president intend to do about it?”

  Hershel finally turned toward her guest, undocking her head from her thumb but staying back in her chair. “The president has made his views clear, Mr. Martindale,” she said. “The Turkmen government hasn’t asked the United States for help.” Martindale was about to speak, but Hershel quickly said, “We know about the Taliban and their moves on the oil and hydroelectric facilities. Even so, the president does not feel that this insurgency is a threat to any vital national interests—”

  “Not a threat!” Martindale retorted. “If this doesn’t qualify as a threat, I’m not sure what would.”

  “The insurgents haven’t taken anything,” Hershel said calmly. “TransCal is paying the leader of that Taliban group to leave the pipelines alone and functioning—protection money—and that’s exactly what they’re doing. Product is flowing; TransCal is still making money. In fact, with the current spike in oil prices with no corresponding decrease in production, I would say TransCal is enjoying some substantial windfall profits. Their stock has gone up by seventeen percent in the past month, if I’m not mistaken—although why their dividend predictions have gone down so drastically is still a mystery. Less than a dollar a share in dividends from a company making record profits and hasn’t paid below a dollar a share in almost ten years?”

  “I would guess that they’re preserving capital to keep their business afloat if those pipelines are destroyed.”

  Maureen said nothing, just studied Martindale over her cigar and nodded noncommittally, wondering if he’d gotten that information directly from the horse’s mouth. TransCal may have already spoken to Martindale about supporting his run for the presidency in exchange for his promising more protection for their overseas ventures.

  “The point, Maureen, is that our government should be doing more to protect the interests of Americans overseas, including business interests,” Martindale said. “We shouldn’t have to pay ‘protection money’—we should be doing whatever is necessary to ensure that foreign governments and businesses live up to their contracts and promises.”

  “Mr. Martindale,” Hershel said, letting the pungent smoke stream out of her mouth slowly and seductively, “the president feels, and I agree, that if we tried to enter this conflict with military might, the insurgents would destroy the pipelines, just as the Iraqis did as they were forced to withdraw from Kuwait.” She put down the cigar after taking another long draw. “But in any case, even if the United States was able to wipe out all the insurgents without causing any damage to the pipelines, what then? The Turkmen government is obviously not strong enough to protect the pipelines. If another group of Taliban came in, we’d be faced with the same dilemma. Do you suggest the United States set up a permanent presence in Turkmenistan to protect the pipelines?”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes!”

  “Mr. President . . . Kevin, you should realize that’s not possible,” Hershel said calmly. The more wound up Martindale got, the calmer and more introspective Maureen made herself. “The United States is not in the business of providing mercenary services for the benefit of private companie
s.”

  “No one is asking the United States to supply mercenaries,” Martindale argued. “The United States should use its military power and influence to restrain other outside powers from disrupting the business of the legitimate government. We had a deal with President Niyazov. TransCal spent almost eight billion dollars to build those pipelines and infrastructure—”

  “Kurban Gurizev is in power now.”

  “Gurizev is a Russian stooge,” Martindale said acidly. “He was against the TransCal deal right from the start. He wants to increase his own wealth and prestige by getting the Russians back into Turkmenistan so they’ll back him as president. Then TransCal will be forced to renegotiate the contract with the Turkmen government.”

  “That sounds very likely,” Hershel said matter-of-factly.

  Martindale stared wide-eyed at the deputy secretary of state. “I’m glad you find favor in my analysis,” he said sarcastically. “Does that sound fair to you, Maureen?”

  “From TransCal’s point of view, I shouldn’t think so,” she replied. “From Gurizev’s perspective it sounds like a perfectly reasonable and rational idea.” She could see Martindale getting angrier by the second. “Kevin, I’m sure TransCal knew what they were getting into when they made this deal. I’m sure they knew that Turkmenistan was and still is a virtual dictatorship. TransCal knew about Gurizev and all his close ties to the Russian government, they knew that the Russians still extracted huge amounts of oil and gas from the country, and they knew that the Russian army still had a large presence there. They knew the risk—as did your government, sir. Yet you met with President Niyazov and brokered this deal for TransCal.”

  Hershel’s staff had definitely done their homework before this meeting. He wondered if Maureen Hershel had even touched cigars until this meeting was set up.

  “Why isn’t the CIA keeping you better informed on what’s happening out there?” he asked, hoping to change the subject quickly.

  “We have assets everywhere, as you know,” Hershel said, “but we can’t see everything. However, I’m sure TransCal was briefed and fully understood the risks when they signed the deal with President Niyazov.”

  “Frankly, Maureen, we were able to sign a deal back then because my government made it very clear that it would enforce the law, no matter where in the world it was violated,” Martindale said acidly. “If Thorn showed even a fraction of the backbone my government had, we probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “Well, I can, and that’s how I see it.” Martindale paused for a moment, then sat back, picked up his cigar and puffed it to life again. “Tell me, Miss Hershel,” he asked, “what happened to Secretary Kercheval?”

  “Nothing has happened to Secretary Kercheval,” she replied.

  “There’s a rumor around that he’s taking medication for Parkinson’s disease.”

  “He was given a completely clean bill of health in his last physical. He hasn’t told us a thing about Parkinson’s.”

  “There’s also a rumor that he’s extremely displeased with President Thorn’s overall handling of foreign affairs and that he may retire rather than continue to serve in this administration.”

  “I’ve heard nothing of the kind.”

  “There seem to be an awful lot of ugly rumors circulating around all of a sudden, Miss Hershel—and they correspond closely to your frequent appearances at the White House recently. How do all these rumors get started, Maureen?”

  “You should know, Kevin.” She shifted slightly, an amused glimmer in her eyes. “You talked about it on Crossfire last week, remember?”

  “Will Secretary of State Kercheval resign over the Turkmenistan issue?”

  She retrieved her cigar and sat back in her seat, her eyes riveted on his. She knew he was trying to interrogate her, and she sent up a cloud of cigar smoke as a screen in front of her. “No,” she replied.

  “Are you being considered to replace Kercheval, like it says in the press?”

  “I’ve been asked to spearhead a State Department position paper on Central Asian affairs for Secretary of State Kercheval,” Hershel replied. “I retain my position as deputy secretary of state. Mr. Kercheval is still in charge of the State Department, a valuable member of the administration, and a trusted adviser and friend of the president. That’s all.”

  “Sounds like a carefully scripted talking point—as if you were preparing for the Sunday talk shows,” Martindale said.

  Hershel said nothing, only stared at him through the cloud of pungent smoke.

  “You have been with the State Department for seven years, but the FBI Counterintelligence Operations Office for twelve. Why did you leave that office?”

  “Counterintelligence—like the military, I believe—serves diplomacy,” Maureen replied. “I preferred to be on the policy side of diplomacy rather than on the operations side.”

  “But you were a good spy-catcher, Maureen—one of the best, according to my sources,” Martindale said.

  She did not respond—except with her eyes. Those very blue eyes suddenly adopted what soldiers called the “thousand-yard stare,” as if she were reliving some event triggered by his question, watching the replay as if it were being projected onto the back of Martindale’s skull and she was looking right through him at it. The cloud of Lars Teten smoke only served to heighten the sense of mystery and danger.

  “You miss it, don’t you, Maureen?” Martindale asked in a low, almost seductive voice.

  Again she did not reply—but he could see his response in her eyes.

  “Maureen,” he went on, “what sorts of efforts has the president directed the State Department to pursue on the diplomatic front in regard to Turkmenistan?”

  “My study is one response,” Maureen said. “But the president usually doesn’t direct anyone to do anything. He tells the cabinet what he will support and what he expects, and they go forth and do the job.”

  “The chief of staff doesn’t coordinate efforts between the cabinet members . . . ?”

  “The vice president acts as chief of staff, and, yes, he does have meetings and coordinates activity via e-mail, but the cabinet officers call the shots and then report directly to the president.”

  “I’m curious, Maureen: How does the cabinet know if what they’re doing is what the president wants done?”

  “It’s not that kind of organization, Kevin. The president just lets the cabinet members do their jobs. They listen to the president, he tells them what he’s thinking, and . . . they leave and go back to their offices and do what they think needs to be done.”

  “How does that system work for you?”

  “I’m new at this, but it seems to work just fine, every day.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working fine now, does it?” Martindale commented. “And it didn’t work in Egypt, or Libya, or Kosovo, or Russia. It seems like Thorn’s foreign policy is a hopeless mess.”

  “That’s not an accurate characterization at all.”

  “So I’ll rephrase my question, Maureen: What are you doing about the Turkmen situation?”

  “I’m in daily contact with the foreign minister from Turkmenistan and delegates from the United Nations,” she replied. “We are also in contact with representatives of all the other parties involved, including the Taliban, who are represented by the Saudi Arabian embassy.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re trying to get an official sense of exactly what the different factions have in mind before we issue a policy statement to the American people,” Hershel replied. “The president believes in carefully studying a situation; getting official, nonofficial, and intelligence information; and reaching a consensus with his advisers before making a decision.”

  “Sounds like a fancy way of saying Thorn’s not sure what he wants to do and he’s stalling for time.”

  “Again I disagree with your characterization.” She paused, then asked, “If I may ask, sir, what’s your opinion reg
arding this matter?”

  “I believe the United States is the greatest nation on earth and the protector of liberty, freedom, justice, and democracy for the rest of the world,” Martindale said. “I also believe in concepts as simple as ‘a deal’s a deal.’ If Gurizev thinks he can hand over control of eight billion dollars of American pipe and petroleum infrastructure to the Russians, or if these Taliban insurgents think they can disguise their invasion of Turkmenistan as a fight for freedom and take American pipelines, they’re seriously mistaken.”

  “First of all, Kevin, the Americans don’t own those pipelines—the people of Turkmenistan own them,” Hershel said. She held up a folder that had been sitting on the table beside her. “TransCal takes forty percent of all the income they earn from crude, refined products, flowage, duties, transshipment, storage, and even futures, for the next fifty years, in exchange for the cost of building and maintaining that system. A pretty sweet deal. According to the IRS, they’ve already recouped half their investment in Turkmenistan’s oil industry in just three years, and by the looks of it they’ll move into the black in less than two years.”

  “And I’d like to make sure they have a chance to make it there,” Martindale said.

  “With the help of the U.S. military,” Hershel said.

  “Like you said, Maureen, the military is an important extension of foreign policy.”

  “May I ask you, Kevin, if the CEO of TransCal Petroleum, William Hitchcock, has decided to spearhead your reelection campaign?”

  “Bill Hitchcock and I are old friends. He’s a successful businessman and strategist, and he’s supported me and the party for years,” Martindale said. “If he offered, I would consider myself lucky to have him in my corner, in a variety of capacities. But I’m not here discussing Turkmenistan because TransCal’s pipelines are in great jeopardy—although they are. I’m here because intervening on their behalf is the right thing to do. The military is supposed to protect the American people.”

  “The people, yes—not their bank accounts.”

  Martindale just stared at Maureen without commenting.