“Yeah, what is it?” Grazio asked. He was still skeptical.
“Bondage of the Will.”
“Never heard of it. Any good?”
“Yeah, it is. Martin Luther.”
“Civil rights guy. I loved his speech … I have a dream—”
“Wrong … that’s Martin Luther King, Jr.”
“Oh, Martin Luther, the German guy. Reformation.”
“Exactly.” Dillon got up from behind his desk and reached for his coat.
“Really old stuff.”
“Only books worth reading are the old ones.”
“We going to work with this Pendleton guy or what? We got a lot to do.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll start in on the stuff I’ve got tomorrow.”
“All right. Stay cool,” Grazio said.
“See you,” Dillon said. As he started to close the office door, he changed his mind.
He came back into the room and threw his coat on his chair. Picking up the phone, he dialed Molly’s number. When she answered he said, “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said, recognizing his voice. “What’s up?”
“Let’s go somewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gotta get out of here. I need to talk to you.”
“You mean now?”
“Yeah,” he said with emphasis. “Now.”
“I can’t, I’m working.”
“I need to talk to you,” he insisted.
“Are you having a crisis or something?”
“Yeah.”
Grazio stared at Dillon as he talked on the phone. “Where?”
Dillon thought for a minute. “Let’s be tourists. The Air and Space Museum.”
“A museum? You going to slip me some microfiche?”
Dillon grinned. “Yeah, the secrets of the world on microfiche. I’ll deliver them.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Right in front of that picture of the astronaut holding the flag. On the moon.”
“See you in half an hour.”
“See you then.”
He hung up the phone and turned to Grazio, who was still staring at him.
Grazio spoke quietly. “You’re not going to drive off a cliff on me, are you?”
“Not the usual kind,” Dillon said, as he picked up his coat again and exited.
“They got it, Admiral,” Beth said excitedly.
“Got what?” Blazer replied, as he continued to watch the flight deck operations. He sat in his high leather chair on the admiral’s bridge. The men working several stories below him on the flight deck wore the same things they wore when it was forty degrees. Dungarees, a long-sleeved shirt—color-coded so everyone else on the flight deck would know what they did—and an inflatable vest. Not to mention the helmet and goggles, and even gloves for some. The sailors were perspiring so much he could see the sweat stains through their flotation vests. Blazer watched them with pride and envy. The pride of being the one in charge of the entire battle group, and the envy of knowing the flying was for the young and he wasn’t young anymore. He didn’t want to listen to Beth and whatever she was excited about. He wanted to watch the jets and those who were making the launch happen. He never tired of watching them. “What?” he said, realizing she was still talking.
“The ES-3 got another strobe. It’s the same radio.”
“They got reckless.”
“Something like that. Whatever it was, we got another good strobe.”
“Did you get a good posit?”
“Yes, sir. We’re working it, sir, but they’re optimistic.”
“Keep at it. I want it down to one island. Just one.”
Dillon was standing in front of the enormous picture of the astronaut on the wall. He studied the helmet and the mirrored face-glass of the moon suit. What really impressed him was the American flag the astronaut was holding. He wondered if the astronaut was Neil Armstrong, the only astronaut he could name. First guy on the moon, he was pretty sure.
“You look deep in thought,” Molly said directly behind him.
He turned around quickly. “Thanks for coming.”
“So, do you want to tell me what’s got you so worked up or did you come here to look at airplanes?”
“Let’s go down to the cafeteria and grab a cup of coffee. I can see some planes on the way.”
“Okay,” she said, walking next to him.
He loved the Air and Space Museum. He felt comfortable there, surrounded by an unrelenting history of American success.
They stood in the short line of the cafeteria behind a school group that was particularly unruly. Molly smiled at them and glanced at Dillon, but his face showed no amusement. “Coffee?” he asked her.
“Sure,” she replied. “Can I share your muffin?”
“Sure,” he said, paying for two coffees and a muffin. They sat in the large glassed-in cafeteria, watching the sleet that had begun to fall outside. “Glad I took the Metro,” he said.
“Me too,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the deteriorating weather. “So what’s up?”
“What are you working on at the White House?” he asked, stalling.
“Nothing very interesting.”
“No big crisis you’ll have to hurry back for?”
“Yeah, that was kind of odd. Nothing ever came of that. Maybe it was such a short fuse it was over when I got back.”
“Yeah, but saying ‘never mind’ when you got back was—”
“It doesn’t matter. I think they got my message, and I’ve certainly got theirs.” Molly’s face clouded.
“What?” Dillon asked.
She didn’t answer.
“What? What’s up?”
“I don’t know, I’ve had this growing feeling that I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” Dillon asked.
“During the Letter of Reprisal thing. I was pretty smug. I accused you of a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like you were unethical. That you’d sold out. Just being political. I’d lost faith in you.” She wasn’t sure what to say next.
Dillon couldn’t remember the last time she had avoided eye contact.
She took her cup in her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Dillon said, trying to make it easy on her.
“For some of the things I said. I also did some things you don’t know about.”
Dillon frowned. “Like what?”
Molly smiled ironically. “Oh, I don’t know. But at the critical time, I called Bobby at the Supreme Court just to say hi. At least that’s what I said, but really I called so if he was working on the Letter of Reprisal and he was going to rule against the President he would think of me, and that he was going to rule against me too.” Bobby was a clerk to the Chief Justice. The three of them were best friends and had gone to the University of Virginia Law School together.
Dillon squirmed slightly. “So did I,” Dillon confessed. That stopped Molly’s train of thought. “You did what?”
“The same thing.”
“You called Bobby?”
Dillon nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“Just to say hi?” she asked with the barest hint of a smile.
“Yes … and I think that’s why when you said I was unethical, it hit home. That was pretty close to the truth.”
“I didn’t handle it well and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You were just doing your job.”
Molly wanted to accept that but she couldn’t. “No, it was more than that. I was trying to win.”
Dillon met her eyes. “So was I.”
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Of course. What brought all this on? I thought this was supposed to be my crisis.”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Something—or maybe someone—has made me see it all differently. Maybe it’s the Chief of Staff. He’s out to get you and the Speaker. He’s calling in all the chips he has. He’s been on the phone al
l day.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“It’s not scary, it’s sickening.”
Dillon inclined his head knowingly.
“When we got back from skiing,” she said, “all my significant work had been reassigned. They don’t want me near anything having to do with the impeachment. They think I’m slipping information to you.”
He was about to disagree and then changed his mind. “It’s reasonable,” he said.
“Maybe if it was someone else. But I’d never do anything like that,” she said, offended.
“You think they know you that well? What about the rest of the people in Washington? You think they’d even hesitate if it gave them a political advantage?”
“Probably not,” she said.
“That’s what’s bugging me,” he said.
“What is?”
He sipped the hot coffee carefully from the paper cup. “Ethics, morals, call it whatever you want. The only reason people are in politics in Washington is to get power, and keep it.”
Molly sat back in her chair slightly. “Why are we surprised?”
“I haven’t been here that long, really. Seeing how everything played out—people here always do things for their own advantage. We can’t really do anything. Especially not by ourselves. Even if we mean it for good, someone else, some parasite, will mean it for personal advantage.”
“You can still try to do what’s right. That’s all we can ever do really, isn’t it?” she asked.
“The system’s corrosive. It wears you down. If I stay long enough, pretty soon I’ll be ground down completely. Nothing left but Dillon dust.”
“What brought this on?”
He saw her worried look. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stand the dishonesty. Say one thing, mean another. All the time.”
She waited for him to go on, then knew he wasn’t going to. “Did the Speaker say something?”
“He’s just going to—I don’t know. I’m not sure what I think.”
“What’re you going to do?” she asked.
Dillon sighed deeply and then exhaled. “I’m going to quit.”
Molly squinted. “Quit what?”
“Quit my job.”
“And do what?”
“I’m going to Honolulu.”
“What for?”
“To help defend Admiral Billings,” he said.
“As his attorney?”
“As whatever he’ll let me do. Attorney, research clerk, bag carrier, whatever.”
“Has he asked you?”
“He doesn’t even know.”
“Is he going to pay you?”
“No. Even if he offered, I wouldn’t let him. This is on me.
She was taken completely by surprise.
“I want you to come with me.”
Molly was even more surprised. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“There’s just no way, Jim.”
“Do you really like what you’re doing?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about now? Do you enjoy working for Manchester now? Right now?”
“Not really. But I can’t just walk away—”
“Why not? What’s the draw? It’s just the power, isn’t it?”
“No! It’s the chance to do something meaningful…”
Dillon didn’t say anything. He knew she didn’t believe that. Not anymore. “I wanted you to know that I’d like you to come with me. It would be the chance we need to spend some time with each other without Washington between us.”
“That’s a nice thought, but I just can’t walk away.”
“I didn’t really figure you would. I just wanted to give you the chance.”
They sat quietly. Neither wanted to say the next thing. Any new idea could lead in a direction that would pull them apart.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“This afternoon.”
“It won’t be the same here.”
“No. It won’t.”
Chapter Eleven
Now what is it?” the Speaker asked Dillon.
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Speaker, but I just had to see you personally.” Dillon looked around the Speaker’s office, noticing things he hadn’t paid attention to in a long time, wondering if he would ever see them again. The red carpet, the view out the window down the Mall toward the Washington Monument, the balcony and its metal furniture. He saw the anti-terrorist/bird/climber net across the face of the Capitol over the balcony with its zippered hole for television cameras to pan down the Mall during the appropriate ceremonies. In spite of himself, he realized he was going to miss it. He liked the Speaker, at least most of the time. He liked the other staffers. But more than that, he liked being at the center of the United States, the center of power, decision making, and information. For a moment he thought about changing his mind, taking a couple more days off and thinking about it instead of doing something rash.
“Why? Pendleton—”
“No, sir, it’s got nothing to do with him. I just wanted to tell you in person. I’m going … I’m going to Hawaii to help Admiral Billings.”
Stanbridge was confused. “Help him do what?”
“Help him in his trial.”
“There’s no way, Jim. I can’t spare you now, not at a time like this. What are you thinking?”
“Not on loan. I’m going out there to represent him, or do whatever I can. I’m leaving my position as special assistant.”
“Leaving? You mean you’re quitting?”
“Well, yeah. Yes.”
“You can’t do that! I need you here! Didn’t you hear what I said yesterday? You may have your pick of jobs in the White House, Jim. Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe. I just know I have to help Admiral Billings.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you. This is the choicest job in the country.” He was clearly displeased. “You’re going to just walk away from it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stanbridge’s voice took on a new tone. “If you do, there’s no coming back.”
“I understand that.”
“Good luck,” Stanbridge said, not meaning it. He turned to his desk and started picking up papers.
Commander Beth Louwsma stepped into the SSES—the Ship’s Signals Exploitation Space—and scanned the small room quickly looking for the senior chief in charge of cryptologists, the ones who capture electronic signals and try to make sense of them. He was standing behind a seaman who was learning to use one of the innumerable pieces of mystifyingly complex equipment. She stood next to him a moment to make sure she wasn’t interrupting anything. The senior chief was watching the seaman carefully. They were standing directly under the air-conditioning vent that was pouring air into the space at twice the rate of its possible escape. It made it windy and cold.
“Yes, ma’am,” the senior chief said, not taking his eyes off the seaman.
“Senior Chief, that signal from the island, the second encrypted UHF. Did you forward it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Took a digital copy of the whole signal and forwarded it by JATACS to NSA and RSOC.” Beth Louwsma never ceased to be amazed by cryptologists. They lived in their own world, more comfortable sending digital electronic signals around the globe than they were eating lunch.
“How long?”
The senior chief pursed his lips, thinking. “Hard to tell,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t think too long.”
“Would you follow that up with a message? Tell them absolute top priority. Admiral sends.”
The senior chief understood. “Yes, ma’am. You think they’re our boys?”
“I do. And we need a head start.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll get them.”
Dillon wished he had saved more money. He was young, had a good job, and hadn’t needed to accumulate a pile of money in the bank. He knew if he wanted a job in the government, there would always be one there for him. Unless you were a political appo
intee, a government job was permanent employment, as long as you didn’t kill someone. He’d never expected to be out of a job, never expected to quit one of the choicest jobs in the country. The Speaker hadn’t understood at all. He’d searched Dillon’s face for that fanatical jump-off-the-cliff look. The one that says, “He’s lost it.”
Even Grazio was speechless. He felt as if he had been betrayed.
Dillon had parked his BMW in the parking garage under his Georgetown apartment building and paid two months rent in advance, which he couldn’t afford. He didn’t want to be evicted while he was in Hawaii. He dragged his two wheeled suitcases to the curb and hailed a cab. “Reagan Airport,” he said loudly to the cabdriver, who glanced at him in the mirror.
Through the cab’s dirty window, Dillon watched the monuments and government buildings go by. He could feel Washington slipping away, but he had a nagging sense it wasn’t going to be easy to leave the sinkhole Washington was becoming for him.
Carolyn Billings’s call had chewed him up. She hadn’t phoned to ask anything from him. She had called because her husband was at risk. He could go to jail for a very long time. And whether or not he was convicted, the career of one of the finest officers in the Navy was probably over. But she hadn’t blamed Dillon.
She should have, he thought, as he stared gloomily at the ugly, swollen, brown Potomac River. Actually, no one blamed him. If anyone was to blame it was the Speaker for pushing the Letter of Reprisal. But it had been Dillon’s idea. He had discovered it and pushed it, and carried the letter to the South Pacific to make sure the Navy did what they were instructed to do. And now the admiral who had done exactly what Dillon had hoped was facing prison. And he needed help.
Dillon stepped off the airplane into the Honolulu terminal and was disappointed to find it air conditioned and comfortable. He’d expected tropical and exotic, less predictable than an airport on the East Coast. He found it oddly disconcerting that it resembled so many other airports.
He retrieved his rolling suitcases and walked through the terminal. Shortly he found himself on an exposed walkway. Tropical. Finally. Balmy Hawaiian air greeted him and lifted his spirits. His spirits needed lifting. On the long flight over the Pacific he had begun to doubt himself. He was now unemployed. He was overextended financially. He could barely manage his car payments when he was working. It wasn’t hard to imagine himself penniless in three months. He had put the airplane ticket on a credit card—a one-way ticket that cost more than a round trip if he’d booked the flight far enough in advance. Now he had to find a place to stay.
The Price Of Power Page 13
