by David Poyer
At 1400 the phone rang. Sebold wanted to see him. The staffer who called didn’t say why, and Dan couldn’t think of any reason his former boss would need him. But you didn’t ask a general that. He hung up that evening’s uniform, sheathed in transparent plastic like the immobilized prey of some alien predator, and went down to the colonnade, intending to take the ground-floor corridor across to the West Wing. But when he reached the Residence for some reason climbed upward again, toward cold daylight.
The high immaculate rooms of the state floor echoed to the whispers of their unending stream of visitants. He paced slowly, hands behind him. The State Dining Room, with Healy’s quizzical Lincoln above the mantel. The Red Room, intimate in mauve and gold, with the portrait of Angelica Van Buren that Dan thought was the most human touch in the whole Residence. The Blue Room, its great gilt-and-blue oval looking out onto the Portico. Its shape reflected, one of the docents’ fluting voices echoed, President Washington’s first levees in New York, and was reflected in its turn by the Oval Office. He left her well-bred murmur for the exquisite, spare Federal furniture of the Green Room. And grandest of all, the parqueted perspective of the East Room, where Stuart’s Washington gazed out, hand outstretched in renunciation or blessing.
With De Bari back the corridors of the West Wing were filled again with bright-eyed youngsters. The contempt and distance of the political staff didn’t bother him now. Nor the shell games to cover up how much of the staff and budget were actually supplied from across the Potomac. Like so much else about this building, this government, about his country, he was beginning to suspect, it was blue smoke and mirrors.
Across West Executive, his shoes crunching in an inch of fresh snowfall. The corridors of the OEOB felt as chilly as the outdoors. The old heating system just wasn’t keeping up, and the cold radiated up off the stone flooring.
Sebold was standing at his window when Dan knocked. An electric heater whined. Music seeped from a CD player. Sweeping, melodic strains … a waltz. The senior director for defense was wearing what looked like the same gray suit and scuffed wingtips as when Dan had met him a year before. The white bristle cut was the same, but now he wore plastic-framed glasses. “Dan. Sit down. How’s it working out in the East Wing?”
Dan said all right. Sebold asked about his workload, whether he was getting any time off.
Finally he said, “I understand, hear, you’ve been having some … marital problems. Blair, by the way, is one of my closest friends. Since we worked together on the cheating scandal. That was a while back. But we’ve stayed in touch.”
Dan lifted his head. Despite everything, he wanted to see her again. It didn’t make sense, but there it was. “Has she asked you about me?”
“No. No. I just wanted to … see if there was anything I could do. Since I was the one who brought you here in the first place. And we hadn’t talked since you went over to the far side.” Sebold was up again and pacing, whirling the glasses between thumb and forefinger like a propeller.
“Well, sir, no, there isn’t.”
The general hesitated. “This is a tricky issue to bring up. And it might not be any of my business. I’m talking about rumors I’ve heard.”
Dan said tightly, “What rumors?”
“About your wife and the president.”
He couldn’t believe the man would call him in and say something like that. “I haven’t heard anything like that, sorry,” Dan told him.
“Well, I have. Not only that. I’ve heard an even nastier one. That you know about it, but put up with it.”
“Put up with it.” His voice rose. “Jesus Christ. Why would I put up with it?”
“Exactly; I spoke out at once that it was impossible, unthinkable.”
“What are they saying? I let him fuck her?”
“Clearly that’s not what was meant—”
Dan said, so furious his voice shook, “Clearly it is what was meant, and clearly it’s malevolent bullshit. Targeted at her. The assholes who never accepted a woman at Defense. As far as our marriage goes, that is our own damned business, General.”
“Of course it is. Only I—”
“It’s our business, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do. Or has any reason discussing.”
“I was afraid you’d take it that way. But I had to ask. Same as you’d feel if one of your men, on your ship, say, was having problems.”
“Yes, sir,” Dan told him, but he didn’t buy it. It wasn’t the son of a bitch’s place even to mention it. That was all.
Sebold paced, letting a pause establish distance from the last topic. Dan tried to compose himself.
“I heard some things about your naval service that were pretty impressive. Things I hadn’t realized before. I knew about the congressional, but I hadn’t heard about the rest. You strike me as a patriot.”
“A patriot, sir?” Where the hell was he going with that?
“In the old sense. You’ve put your butt on the line for this country. More than once.”
“I’ve tried to do the best I can.”
Sebold was looking out the window now, hands locked behind him. Talking to Dan, but at the same time, it seemed, to himself as well. “Somehow that flag means more to you once you’ve seen combat. Or sent good men out. Telling them to take an objective, knowing they won’t all come back. That’s the hardest thing.”
Dan nodded. He’d sent troops back as rear guard in a firefight in Iraq. Sent teams out onto a deck contaminated with radioactivity, down into a flooding, burning engine room.
Sebold peered out. The snow was falling again. “Have you given any thought to where you want to go next? Whether you want to stay in government? A lot of people who’ve served here as junior officers find they have a taste for it. Scowcroft. Powell. Haig.”
Dan was astonished. “Sir, what is this? The last time we talked, you were getting me reassigned. You said I’d only be there till they could come up with somebody else.”
“I had to fight Brent Gelzinis to get you another chance. But I did.”
“Well, I have to say, I truly wish you hadn’t. I thought my reassignment was being worked.”
“So you don’t care to stay.”
“No, sir. I don’t have much taste for politics.”
“Probably a wise decision. Sometimes I doubt I have, myself.”
“You’ve got as good a rep around here as anyone I know,” Dan told him, not as a compliment, just as a fact. But it seemed to make Sebold uncomfortable. He looked away, prodded his lips with his glasses.
“Anyway … you’ve done a good job, both here and then over in the East Wing,” the general said. “I just wanted to say that.”
The guy still wasn’t meeting his eyes. Dan thought this was all very curious. As if Sebold were cleaning out his desk to leave, or Dan himself were being let go.
The general didn’t seem to have anything else to say, though. He cleared his throat again and said that would be all, thanks for stopping by. When Dan rose, Sebold put out his hand. Dan hesitated, then took it. The director’s grip, as they parted, was very firm.
* * *
As long as he was in the Old Executive, he stopped by counterdrug. Ouderkirk looked surprised to see him, then angry. Dan almost asked the sergeant what was going on, then didn’t. Just nodded and slid past.
His former assistant, Meilhamer, looked up from a littered desk. “Commander Lenson,” he said, with what sounded like gloating. “Back to the old stand?”
“Just wondered what’s going on. Anything?”
“Just the usual. Everybody’s out on travel but Bloom. Want to see him?”
“In a minute.” Dan couldn’t help glancing at his old desk. Empty and clean.
“Nobody yet,” Meilhamer said. “I’m signing as acting director.”
Bloom put his head in. “Hey, Dan. Thought I heard you out here. On our Colombian friend? The trail went cold after El Salvador. But one interesting thing. You might have seen it in the papers. The Baptist
put out a contract.”
“On who?”
“Actually a bunch of contracts. He’s always been a fan of economic incentives.” The DEA agent slipped a newspaper clipping from his wallet and pointed to the bottom. “That’s in pesos, but it works out to twenty million dollars U.S. for De Bari. Ten million for Tejeiro. A million for a major drug enforcement official of either president. Doubt that includes us—he probably means cabinet level—but there it is.”
Dan shook his head. Putting a price on two presidents’ heads … “Well, we put out a reward on him. Didn’t we?”
“Hell yeah. Turnabout’s fair play.” Bloom grinned. “I’m just trying to figure out how I can collect.”
Dan asked Meilhamer, “How’s the Threat Cell idea going, Bry?”
The civil servant turned over a piece of paper. Past him Dan saw Ouderkirk talking on the phone. He glanced toward Dan, and their eyes met. The sergeant looked away as Meilhamer echoed blandly, “Threat Cell?”
“You remember. Trying to outguess the terrorists. I was pulling the money together to staff that. I thought maybe, after Louisville, Mrs. Clayton might think it was worth pushing.”
“Oh yes, Commander. I always thought that was a wonderful idea. Very far-seeing. Though I wasn’t sure this was the desk to implement it from.” His former assistant smiled. “You know how things work around here. If somebody stops pushing a project, there are always other fires to put out. Other priorities.”
Dan said between clenched teeth: “Yeah. I know.”
* * *
A glittering blacksnake slithered out the South Gate, past the demonstrators—their numbers had grown, he noted, and they shook their signs angrily from behind police barricades—and turned its nose east. Up front was a District patrol car, followed by a comm van. Then two identical heavily armored limousines, one of which carried the president and Mrs. De Bari. Next came the CAT truck, one of those he’d looked down on so often from his office in the Old Executive, with its heavily armed team hidden inside. The black control van the mil aides rode in was next. Then came the press van, and last another set of District wheels, to guard against surprises from the rear.
He was riding with three of the protective detail guys; another security type, apparently from the Capitol; and Dr. Yoshida. McKoy rode across from him again, knee to knee.
Dan knew all the Secret Service guys now. They looked bulky because of their protective vests. They didn’t play cards. They didn’t talk unless he spoke first. Just now they’d taken their sunglasses off to see out the tinted windows. Well, maybe they thought as much or as little of him, in brushed dress blues, cap on his lap, the omnipresent satchel between his shining Corfams. All of them, agents, aides, doctors, acolytes at the altar of power.
McKoy’s eyes went distant, as if listening to God. He brought his arm up and spoke into the sleeve mike. Dan waited, then leaned forward. “Ever think about putting the mil aides on that net?”
The dark eyes turned his way. “On the Motorolas?”
“Maybe just listen-only. You know—‘Mustang and Tinkerbell are proceeding to Trail Breaker.’ Just to give us the picture.”
“I don’t know if the director would go for that.”
One of the other agents said he’d heard it had come up before, but didn’t know how it had turned out. Obviously it hadn’t been approved.
Then silence rode with them again, interrupted only by the hiss of the tires.
* * *
The motorcade rolled down Pennsylvania and turned at the ring road around Capitol Hill. The glass walls of the Conservatory slid past shining in the night like a cathedral of ice. Then they were climbing, the lawns, covered with patches of snow, sliding by.
Elderly men in dark suits waited under the portico of the House wing. They greeted De Bari with handshakes. The protective detail was out in a ring, none farther than ten feet from their charge. Around them strolled uniformed Capitol cops. Dan and the personal assistant, Nosler, tagged behind De Bari, outside the inner and inside the outer circle, as they moved through a crowd of Capitol Hill workers, staffers, and the press. Eyes moved past him, then slid down to the black burden on his security cuff.
The Capitol felt icy and cavernous. The presidential party trailed out down a long ground-floor corridor. The floors were glossy slick. Occasional words floated back, echoed off marble. Then a door closed. McKoy and his boys halted and faced out. Dan looked around for a seat, but didn’t see any. He checked his watch. Eight forty, with the address scheduled to begin at nine. At least they wouldn’t have long to wait.
He stood wondering where he was supposed to be during the address itself. Finally he went over to a solemn older gentleman in old-fashioned tails, who bowed gravely as Dan approached. “May I be of service, sir?”
He introduced himself, and asked. Said he needed to stay close, but not necessarily up front.
The old man said gravely, “In this House, sir, the president does not make the rules. You will remain on the House floor, standing, during the address. Behind the dais and out of sight of the television cameras.”
* * *
He felt like a Christian entering the Colosseum. First the narrow corridor. Then a portal, and waves of sound like the crashing sea. Gold-and-blue carpet, polished mahogany, an expanse of warm air. The audience were already on their feet. Party stalwarts. The Senate and House leadership. The Joint Chiefs, standing in the front well. Behind them stood rank after rank of the Senate, the women members’ suit dresses like flowers amid the dark tones of the male majority. The galleries rippled with the flutter of clapping hands.
Light ignited. He blinked as blurs of lambent fire pulsed across his vision. Thirty feet ahead De Bari beamed, lifting both arms in his trademark missing-fingered salute. Then followed the Speaker up the multitiered ziggurat of the podium.
Dan found a place where he could watch both the exit and the president. He unsnapped the security bracelet and went to parade rest.
De Bari’s opening words rolled out over the waiting faces.
“We meet here tonight at a time of challenge … and opportunity.
“America is great because it is free. It is strong because it desires not domination, but peace.
“For the first time since World War II, a president can report to Congress on the state of a Union that is threatened by, and threatens, no other nation of the world. Because of this breathing space after great exertions, we have a historic opportunity. A chance, given only once in two or three generations, to shape the century to come.”
Dan tuned out the next few minutes. For some reason this chamber seemed even more august and solemn than the Oval Office. Maybe he’d spent so much time around Bob De Bari, knew him so well by now, that neither the man nor the office impressed him anymore.
But here was the sovereign the founding fathers had envisioned, rooted in storefront offices and Rotary dinners and voting booths across a continent. Maybe it wasn’t as wise as they’d hoped. Not as farsighted. But was anything human perfect?
His thoughts were broken by applause. But not the storm that had greeted the president’s entrance. This sounded doubtful, half voiced. And some were not applauding at all.
He began to listen again.
“America is safer, more prosperous today, with more opportunity for more of its people, than ever before in our history.
“But we cannot remain at peace while a third of the world—disadvantaged, famine-stricken, largely illiterate—is a breeding ground for war.
We must extend the helping hand of America to those peoples who have been left out of our century’s progress toward development and democracy. Nations and regions unable to cope with drought, disease, famine, civil war—the Four Horsemen of the oncoming Apocalypse. I call it Plan 21—America’s plan for the twenty-first century.”
Dan felt a prickle run up his spine. De Bari was flinging the words past his murmuring audience, into the cameras.
“There are two types of states in the dev
eloping world. One, though not wealthy yet by our standards, is on the road to democracy and development. These nations act responsibly in the world community. The others lag behind, cursed by capricious dictatorships, lack of human rights, but above all, by poverty and ecological stress. These are the havens for terror. They will be the source of war and unrest in the century to come. For strangely enough, it is when human beings have nothing … that they act as if they have nothing to lose.
“We can react to crisis after crisis, piecemeal and without making real progress—or we can take a giant stride.
“We must work with other nations to forgive the debt that asphyxiates development in so much of the Third World.
“We must strengthen the capacity of local governments to provide basic social, medical, and economic infrastructure, and build a robust international effort to address such growing risks as drug-resistant malaria, tuberculosis, and HIV.
“We must address the impending disaster of global warming, with its concomitants of drought, rising sea levels, and weather disturbances. This gradually accelerating catastrophe will first destroy those peoples already on the brink. But make no mistake: Unaddressed, it will reduce us all to a desperate struggle for shrinking resources. Till our children’s children, heirs to all our greed, wander starving under a burning sun, and curse us for what we took from them forever.”
Now Dan saw the puzzlement on the faces before him turning to something else. In some, to delight; in far more, to open anger. But De Bari kept on.
“As part of Plan 21, we must also resolve that dispute that has for a long time now been the most dangerous reality in the Mideast: the conflict between Israeli and Palestinian over the land both claim, both with justice, as their birthright.
“The time has come to permanently settle the problem. To this end, I have acceded to requests from both sides to post American troops as a peacekeeping force between Israel and the new Palestinian state. This will be followed by a level of aid aimed at bringing the Palestinian people to a standard of education and living fully equal to their Israeli neighbors.”
