Final Finesse

by Karna Small Bodman

  “How long before it’s up and pumping again?” Samantha asked, jotting down a few sentences.

  “That’s the thing. They’re telling us it could be a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks?” Samantha asked, her voice rising. “Why so long? I mean, those people are dependent on your gas supplies. Now with the storm and the power outage, what are they supposed to do?”

  “Believe me, I’m with you on this,” Tripp said. We’re extremely concerned. It’s just that the storm is exacerbating the situation. Where that particular line is located, well, it’s hard to divert the supply right now. And getting the right parts, we’ve got that on a fast track, of course, but evidently the damage was quite extensive.”

  “I see,” she said without looking up from her note pad. “What else are you doing to ameliorate the situation?”

  Tripp pulled out a memo and looked down. “I just got word that our central office has sent supplies and generators to hospitals and assisted living centers. Also to some schools. Let’s see. Yes. They’re dispatching buses to transport people to safe locations. There are some large meeting halls and churches that still have power. Others have fireplaces. And we’re sending down space heaters to a whole host of locations.”

  He glanced back at up at Samantha and added, “To be honest, it’s a logistical nightmare, but we’re doing all we can.”

  “That’s good as far as it goes. And I imagine you’re coordinating with local and state authorities.”

  “Oh yeah. Look. I realize we’ve got a big-time problem on our hands, but I didn’t think the White House would …”

  “Get involved?”

  “Well, yes. Is this something you’re now monitoring?”

  “Not exactly monitoring. In fact, we wouldn’t normally contact you at all. It’s just in this particular circumstance, I’ve studied the oil and gas industry and …”

  “Well, yes, you’re in this position.”

  “You see, this is my field. In my directorate, I cover nuclear and energy issues, and ever since those gas lines were blown up by rebel groups in Mexico, I’ve tried to keep close tabs on our own gas and oil pipelines, even though I know that the Departments of Transportation, Energy and Homeland Security also have people on this issue.”

  “So you have a personal interest?” Tripp asked.

  “My father was in the business, and when I saw the report on your gas line, something just didn’t ring true. When does a gas line simply explode on its own?”

  “It doesn’t,” Tripp admitted.

  “So, I’d like to be kept in the loop on anything you find out on this one. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. Be glad to.” He looked at his watch and started to get up. “I’m sorry I have to run, but I don’t want to miss the conference call.”

  Samantha stood up at the same time and walked toward the door. She put out her hand. When he took it, she felt a frisson of electricity pass between them. She looked down as he shook hands again. The grip was firm and smooth. She didn’t want to let go. He looked down into her eyes and smiled.

  “It’s been great seeing you. Again. And yes, I will definitely keep you in the loop.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s my business card. My cell is on there.”

  She took his cue, reached over to a stack of cards on top of her desk and handed him one. “And here’s mine. But let me add my cell. They don’t usually print those on the White House stock.” She scribbled a number and handed him the white card with a gold eagle embossed in the top center.

  He shoved it in his pocket and headed to the door. “Thanks so much for coming by,” she said. “And if there’s anything new on that conference call, I’ll be here until late tonight. I’m usually here kind of late.”

  “I’ll let you know.” And with that, he took his coat from Joan’s outstretched arm and headed down the hall, with Joan leading the way back to the West Wing lobby.

  Samantha stood at the door jam and stared at the tall man in the blue overcoat as he turned a corner. Suddenly, she felt lonely. Here she was surrounded by staffers, clicking computer keyboards and ringing telephones, and yet she felt a sense of loss because he was no longer in her line of sight.

  She hadn’t felt this way since Dexter had left her life. She had told herself that she would be self-sufficient, and she’d buried herself in her work, her research, her passion to play a small part in the defense of her country. All lofty goals. But what about her personal goals? Up to now, they had all been pushed aside.

  Now, in the space of a short meeting, a meeting that brought back old memories, old dreams, old feelings, she felt uneasy, slightly adrift. Could a few minutes with one man rekindle all of that?

  She turned back to her desk and picked up a classified report on nuclear materials that may have been shipped out of North Korea. Now that was an issue that really needed her attention.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY AFTERNOON

  The Secret Service agent saw National Security Advisor Ken Cosgrove hurrying down the hall. He turned and punched a series of numbers into the keypad next to the entrance to the Situation Room complex and held the door open for the senior official. Ken nodded and briskly walked inside.

  He passed through a reception area featuring a lead-lined cabinet where visitors had to deposit their devices and cell phones and noticed one of his NSC staff, Evan Ovich, making a secure phone call in one of the glass-encased booths. He figured Evan was getting a report from one of his contacts in South America. Evan caught his eye, gave the thumbs-up sign and then held up one finger, indicating he’d only be another minute.

  Ken went into the conference room where two other members of the National Security Planning Group were waiting. They were seated in black leather chairs around a long conference table. Behind them, six large screens with split-screen technology showed a series of news programs, now on mute.

  They wouldn’t be needing to use the screens today, nor the cameras or microphones hidden in the ceiling. This was going to be a private National Security Planning Group or NSPG meeting, as they were called, focusing on covert actions to deal with pressing problems escalating in Venezuela and neighboring countries. Problems that Ken was worried could explode into even more demonstrations against the socialist policies that had led to massive food shortages, arrests of protestors and the consolidation of power for the current ruler.

  Evan rushed into the room, notebook in hand, and quickly sat down to join the meeting. “Sorry if I’ve held you up, Ken, but I just got off a call with our station chief in Caracas. Looks like el presidente may finally be calling another snap election soon after Christmas. This is all a big fig leaf, of course, to look like he’s caving into international pressure to hold it when we all know their so-called elections are fixed, and he’s jailed the major opposition candidates anyway. What a sham.”

  “Precisely,” Ken said. “Here you’ve got a country with the biggest oil reserves, and that socialist tyrant has driven his economy into the tank. Did you see the new inflation estimates? 2,000 percent. My God!”

  They all nodded as he went on, “And now that the price of oil and gas has gone down, he’s relying on more of the drug trade, getting cash for harboring terrorist groups and his buddies in Cuba have sent their people down to take charge of the courts. All big problems for us.”

  He turned back to Evan, special assistant to the president for International Communications. The title was a cover for the job Evan was really doing.

  Growing up in a family that had escaped from Yugoslavia in the 50’s when the Soviets were in charge, Evan knew from first-hand family lore all about the heavy hand of dictators, the destruction of property rights and individual liberties and how totalitarian governments completely sap individual initiative and yet enhance the thirst for freedom. Now Evan worked with several opposition groups in countries around the world to undermine other dictators. Right now his focus was on hot spots in South America.


  Though certain US laws precluded a whole list of activities aimed at sitting governments, there were still myriad ways to help groups seeking free speech and fair elections, and Evan had become an expert on methods to secretly support their efforts.

  Ken said, “Evan, give us a quick re-cap on the situation as you see it in Caracas.”

  Evan scanned his note pad. “We all know about the takeover of the radio and TV stations, the crackdown on student protestors, the price controls that have dried up supplies of simple things like bread and milk. They’re now saying that an egg is a delicacy and they can’t even buy toilet paper.”

  He referred to his notes again. “The corruption is rampant, and their president has run out of things to nationalize. He’s already taken over the telecommunications companies, the farms, the utilities, the oil and gas companies … well, most of them anyway … oh, and did you see where he even redesigned the country’s coat of arms? He’s got this white horse pointing left now. Guess that’s supposed to track with his whole agenda.

  “As you said,” Evan continued, in addition to the drug trade, but he’s still getting some revenue from his oil and gas sales. We’re still buying a percentage of our consumption from the tyrant, along with everybody else. And now el presidente is talking about trying to put together some sort of South American gas OPEC.”

  “Yes,” Ken said. “But even worse there’s his support for terrorists like FARC. Even though there are reports of amnesty deals with that crowd from time to time, we also have a recent report that FARC was trying to get hold of some nuclear supplies for the production of dirty bombs.”

  “In addition to all of this,” Evan said, “he’s been cozy with North Korea, Iran, Libya and Algeria for years. “Remember, some time back they inaugurated direct flights between Caracas and Tehran? And the latest addition to his list of big buddies looks to be Russia. He had them all down for a fancy pow-wow, inviting them to help develop the Orinoco River basin.”

  “Right,” said another staffer. “That’s the biggest known oil deposit, at least that we know of. I think they’ve got something over a trillion barrels of extra-heavy crude.”

  “And now he wants the Russians to develop it because he calls our oil companies ‘vampires’,” Evan said. “Then there are the kidnappings for ransom. That’s been going on in Colombia with the FARC cells, and it’s spilling over into Venezuela too. We’ve still got some of our own people down there, and I don’t like the looks of any of this.”

  “What about the snap election?” Ken prompted. “Have you had any contact with that student group that keeps trying to stage rallies and field candidates? The one called Frente Renovadora, the FR.”

  “What does it stand for?” another staffer asked.

  “It means Renewal Front for Freedom,” Evan answered. “Pretty good title. Trouble is, they know if they get too vocal, they’ll be arrested, and their candidates will be disqualified, just like all the rest. On the other hand, if we can get crowds that are large enough, really big, thousands to jam the streets, they can’t jail all of them.”

  “Shades of the work we did with Lech Walesa’s solidarity group in Poland during the Reagan days,” Ken observed.

  “You got it,” Ken said. “So we’ll get our contacts in place down there, supply them with special cell phones, computers, radios to distribute in the countryside. Then we’ll call for international observers to again validate the whole election process. We can get alternative newspapers on the streets, clandestine radio broadcasts beamed in from offshore ships. We’ve got a whole list of priorities.”

  “We need the locals handling most of this, of course,” Ken cautioned. “We can’t allow too many of our people to go down, although, as we said, there are a still a few from our energy sector there as advisors because el presidente needs their expertise. At least they should be safe. For now, anyway.” Ken looked over at Evan. “I know you’re working with the CIA on all of this. I’ve got a meeting lined up with the national intelligence director. I’ll brief him on the plans. Get me a summary and some talking points. The meeting is early tomorrow.”

  “Got it.” Evan made some additional notes. “I still don’t like the FARC connection.”

  “Neither do I,” Ken agreed. He turned to the others in the room. “I want all of you to keep close tabs on this situation. We’ve got tough winter months ahead. Even with increased oil leases and more fracking, we’re still importing too much oil and gas, at least for now. And remember, Evan’s work is classified. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. In this case we have to make a special effort to keep this whole thing under wraps.”

  “Everything we do is classified,” another staffer remarked. “So we never get bragging rights. Talk about hiding your light under a basket.”

  “Yes, but this is a national security basket,” Evan said, “and I’m just praying it doesn’t leak.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WASHINGTON, D.C.–MONDAY AFTERNOON

  “So how did it go at the White House?” Godfrey asked as Tripp breezed through the door, shaking snow from his overcoat and stamping his feet.

  “A big small world-ism.” Tripp replied. “Got any coffee left? I had some over there, but I still can’t get warm. Bloody blizzard out there.”

  “Yeah. I made some fresh a while ago. So tell me what they wanted,” his associate said.

  “Well, first, it wasn’t they, it was she.”

  “She? Who?”

  “Samantha Reid. She’s the deputy over in the White House Homeland Security shop. Turns out I knew her. Well, I sorta knew her.”

  “How? Where?”

  “At Princeton. Can you believe that?” Tripp said, hanging up his coat.

  “Did you remember her?” Godfrey asked.

  “I do remember seeing her around, although I never had anything to do with her on campus. She was a freshman, and I was trying to graduate and head into the Navy. So I didn’t pay much attention. Should have though.”

  “Why? What’s she like.”

  Tripp went into his office and sat down at his desk as Godfrey took up his usual pose leaning against the open door. As Tripp leaned back and put his hands behind his head, he let out a breath and replied, “I gotta say she’s a real piece of work.”

  “In what way? You mean a looker, or what?”

  “Oh yeah! Smart too. She studied geology when I did. We ended up in the same building for classes some of the time. But the thing is, she’s got all this brown hair.”

  “Hair? You get summoned to the White House, and you talk about a staffer’s hair?”

  “Sure. If you’d seen it, you’d know what I mean. And then there were the dark green eyes and the high cheek bones.”

  The lobbyist shook his head and laughed. “So when did you ever see a woman with low cheek bones?”

  “I guess I haven’t. Anyway, she wanted to know all about the gas line problem.”

  “What did you tell her? I mean, what can you tell her? We don’t have a clue what’s going on down there.”

  “I know. I had to vamp. I gave her what we had and said we’d keep in touch.”

  “Looks like you’d like to keep in touch, huh?” Godfrey asked with a slow grin.

  “I wouldn’t mind. And boy, that hair.”

  “At least it sounds like she’s not another one of those fancies you usually take out,” Godfrey ventured.

  “Fancies?” Tripp asked with a quizzical glance.

  “Yeah. FNC’s. Fox News Clones. Those newscasters with the straight blond hair and great legs who all look alike. I can’t tell one from the other. There must be a journalism school someplace that only takes blonds and teaches them to laugh out loud in English.”

  Tripp chuckled. “Guess you have a point there. I don’t seem to have anything fancy around right now.” He turned to a pile of papers on his desk. “But I do have a ton of work to keep me occupied.” He glanced at the clock. “Anything new on the gas line?”

  “Nope. Nothing on t
hat. But we did just get a memo about the situation in Caracas.”

  “Again? It’s bad enough they’ve been nationalizing everything that’s nailed down. What are they up to now?” Tripp asked.

  “More of the same, I’m afraid. Turns out our latest drilling division is on their radar scope again, and they’re talking about confiscating the last of our property for a song.”

  Tripp jumped up from his chair and started pacing his office. “Damn it! We invest billions in that country. We produce oil and gas. They reap record profits, and they just want to take it all. And for what? More of their crazy schemes? You’d think they’d sit up and notice that their guys have no idea how to run those fields. Stuff breaks down. They don’t have the engineers, the expertise. They need us, and they keep trying to throw us out.”

  “We still have a bunch of patents though.”

  “A lot of good those will do us if we’re out of the country.” Tripp ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “So what is headquarters going to do?”

  Godfrey motioned to the papers on Tripp’s desk. “It’s all right there in a memo. Take a look. They’re talking about sending someone down there to negotiate. And you know who our top negotiator is.”

  “Oh Christ!” Tripp said, reaching for the memo.

  “You got it, buddy. That would be you.”

  Tripp quickly read the memo. “So now they’re saying they might send me to Venezuela? We’re coming up on the Christmas season, for cripes sake.”

  “Then again, it would get you out of this weather. I mean, who wants to hang around D.C. in December anyway?” Godfrey said.

  Tripp looked out the window again and saw the wind driven snow sticking to the outside. “Guess you have a point there. At least it’s summer in Caracas. But that could hardly make up for the idea of flying nine hours to meet with a bunch of corrupt bureaucrats who are on the payroll of that sleazebag of a dictator.”