by James Phelan
His bedside phone rang.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Bill, I’ve got a quick one,” Mark Rubbo, the MSC, said.
“Go ahead.”
“Just got word that Cooper and our Delta section head were killed in St Petersburg. I’m waiting for definite verification.”
“Shit!” McCorkell pounded his side table. “How solid’s your source?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I have an Alister Gammaldi, US permanent resident with Australian citizenship, in one of my interview rooms here at the embassy. He says he urgently needs visas for a Lachlan F—”
“Mark, whatever the man wants, you organise it for him ASAP, got me?” McCorkell said. “Whatever, wherever, just do it.”
There was a pause on the other end, and McCorkell could sense where this was going.
“You wanna give the CIA a heads-up—”
“Mark, it’s nothing you need to know,” McCorkell said, about to play his infrequently used trump card. “Want me to have the President send you a letter to make you sleep easy about it?”
“No need, Bill, but so you know I’m not gonna wear this in my local budget. We can’t afford to crap around here any more.”
“Well I’ll see what we can do about restarting the Cold War for you kids in Moscow,” McCorkell said, hearing the humour had worked at the other end. “Seriously, send my office the expense details and we’ll work that out, and I’ll inform your Director of this first thing in the morning. In the meantime, keep me posted on what happened to Cooper.”
McCorkell hung up his connection and stared out the window at the glow of the Washington night.
14
RUSSIA
Fox returned to the sleeper cabin with a bottle of Smirnoff and two glasses.
Kate sat facing the window, watching as the clear moonless night sped past. The occasional streetlamp and house lights flashed by, strobing into the cabin. Fox could see her face in the reflection of the windowpane, her cheeks glistening with tears. She had put his suit jacket on over her dress, its sleeves coming down over her hands.
“Please, leave the light off,” she said as Fox latched the door and reached for the switch.
“Okay,” Fox replied. He put two shot glasses on the small side table, and poured out two vodkas. “I needed a drink,” he said. He held a glass out for her. The liquid spilled slightly over the edges of the glass as the carriage rocked rhythmically over the tracks. “Here, it’ll help.”
She got up and wiped her eyes on the jacket sleeve, taking a shot of vodka and downing it in one gulp. She winced, put the glass down and took off the jacket, laying it on the fold-down bed.
“Don’t leave me alone again,” she said, moving into Fox, wrapping her arms around him. She put her head hard against his chest and held him tight, as if he might otherwise disappear.
“I won’t,” Fox assured her. Throwing back his drink, he pursed his lips and blew out a deep breath as the liquid coated his throat with fire. “I’ll be right next to you all the way home. I just rang Al in Moscow. We’ll be met at the border with passports and visas in about an hour. Once we’re in Lithuania, we’ve got a direct flight to New York.”
Kate turned to the fold-down table and poured two more vodkas. She sipped at hers this time.
Fox could see the fright in her eyes, the look that he’d seen on so many young soldiers’ faces in Afghanistan and Iraq. The expression on the faces of civilians, all those orphaned kids and widows who’d seen what no one ever should. A look that accompanied seeing first-hand the messiness and brutality of killing for the first time. Nothing a movie or video game could prepare you for. The gore, the smells, the sounds. A part of you never recovered from that.
“Kate, I don’t know what to say…” he said, watching as she poured herself another. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, to experience that.”
“It’s—” Kate took a sharp breath, swallowing her tears for a moment. “It’s nothing to do with you.” She took a sip and then stared into her drink. The train rocked rhythmically and the clear liquid swilled around in the small confines of glass.
It appeared pure, alluring, toxic.
Fox put a hand on her shoulder, ran it up her neck and steered her face up to meet his.
“I know it’s hard, it’s fucking awful … No one should ever have to see what just happened. No one should know what that’s like.” Fox had a distant look of his own, and Kate put her glass down on the table and wrapped her arms around him again.
“Somehow, sometime, part of it gets easier…” he said, stroking her head, burying his nose in her hair.
They stood there like that, the train rocking, the sad countryside passing by in darkness and silence.
Kate looked up into his eyes. He could see her gaze had softened; there was some comfort there now, a sense of being secure with him so close.
“And part of it gets harder?”
Fox didn’t have to answer her. She could now empathise with him in that regard, could already sense what thinking about it could do to you. It was a new collection of emotions that knew no reasoning, deservedly had no grounding in modern life’s experience.
“Thank you.” She buried herself into his embrace and he rested his chin on her head. “For everything.”
“Thank me when we’re in New York.” Fox smelled the coconut of her hair conditioner, losing himself in the sensory distraction. A few minutes passed and Fox felt they had both relaxed into each other.
Nestling into his chest, a series of tears dropped from Kate’s eyes down his open shirt collar.
Fox loosened his arms and moved them down to her waist. Her black satin dress clung to her figure, and he ran his hands down her waist to where it moved out at her hips. He let go and moved to step back, ashamed to be having such thoughts …
She pulled into him, her nipples hard and brushing against him through their clothes. Her open lips brushed his neck, and followed with soft kisses that slowly marched up and along his jaw line.
“What—”
“Kiss me,” she whispered into his mouth.
Fox took her face in his hands and kissed her slowly. Soon they were moving fast, kissing long and passionately, sucking and biting each other’s lips.
They eased back onto the fold-down bed, Fox first. Kate slipped the straps off her shoulders and the dress shimmered to the floor.
She climbed onto him, unbuttoning his shirt and pants.
“Are you sure?”
“Shh…” Kate said, eyes welling with tears that threatened to overflow. She pulled down his underwear and tossed them away. “I need you,” she whispered as she pushed her hips down onto his.
Fox felt her smooth skin goose-bump against his. She moved slowly, leaving her hands on his chest. He felt her tears falling down onto his face, the little warm drops sparkling in the occasional light flashing by the window, a few of them landing in his own eyes.
PART TWO
15
THE WHITE HOUSE
“Good morning, Mr President,” Bill McCorkell said as he entered the Oval Office. As National Security Advisor to the President, McCorkell’s daily 8 am meeting was the first official appointment of the President. He carried a folder marked PDB—President’s Daily Brief. “Morning, Bill,” the President said, without looking up from
his newspaper, skimming the articles in the sports section. “You do a good job of keeping me informed, Bill, but your brief doesn’t cover any sports worth a damn,” he said as he turned the pages. “Well, that depends on what one classifies as sport, I guess, but let’s not get into that this morning.”
McCorkell poured himself a coffee from a trolley by the Resolute Desk, and sat opposite the President. During the wait, McCorkell looked at the man in his third year of power and gave an imperceptible nod.
McCorkell had held his position at the White House before the current Commander in Chief had come to office, an
d it was a testament to the latter man’s judgement that he remained. McCorkell was recognised by both sides of politics as the best in his field, and working for a new administration, under a new leader of the opposite political persuasion, proved this. Simply, McCorkell was an expert on world affairs: from military and intelligence to politics and economics, there was not a person in Washington who could match his foresight on world vision. While many were surprised that he had not been appointed Secretary of State, insiders acknowledged that it was further credence to the man’s solidity in that he did not want to be seen as a mouthpiece for an administration abroad, but as a shaper of policy and direction from within. Indeed, no less than three consecutive Presidents had offered him his choice of job.
The current President surprised McCorkell in how to be adaptive. That, and having the ability to continually exceed all expectations of durability and performance. No matter what crisis or hurdle, this man in the Oval Office gritted his teeth and ploughed through it, each time proving his worth to those around him, and the world. Well, he was a fellow Notre Dame summa cum laude.
“Looks like New England is set for a good year,” said the President. He took off his glasses, set aside the Post and had a sip of coffee. “NFL will be the better for it.”
“The Jets will make a comeback,” McCorkell said. “I feel it in my bones.”
“Just don’t use those same bones to predict any global crises,” the President said in a good-natured jibe. “Seriously, Bill, you’ve been telling me that same Jets cockamamie since I met you, and I’ve yet to see them come close.”
“Thankfully I’m not a betting man, Mr President,” McCorkell said. “That said, I’m still spending the proceeds of that lazy Benjamin I won from you on the ’04 Super Tuesday results.”
“Yeah, yeah, well the joke’s on us both for having public-servant salaries in the first place,” the President said over the steam of his coffee. “So, what’s new in the world outside sport?”
“First up, a car bomb in Basra killed two US security contractors. Literally happened an hour ago, and the Iraqi police have found possible remains of the bomber,” McCorkell said, handing over the PDB folder. Its classification was stamped ‘POTUS Eyes Only’, POTUS being the common-usage acronym for President of the United States.
“Again, with the IEDs,” the President said, putting his glasses back on and skimming the first report. “You’d think they would have gotten the picture when the Brits swept the city last week—have a statement worked into this afternoon’s press con.”
“Yes, Mr President.” McCorkell continued, “We also had a close call with Task Force 145 in Kirkuk, involved in a six-hour fire fight with an al Qaeda safe house in the northern suburbs. The Shadow Wolves outfit tracked down the targets, their first big success since they arrived in the country six months ago.” McCorkell flicked to this second report in his own folder. A condensed version of the major intelligence stories, each IntRep blurb was a pointer to a fuller document available on Intellipedia, the nation’s latest intelligence-community version of the internet.
“Four friendlies wounded, all rangers who routed the enemy in a fire-support role. Eleven enemy combatants taken captive,” McCorkell said. “Big weapons cache was recovered, about a thousand small arms and a hundred RPGs. Tracked as being some of that looted from the Baghdad armoury after the initial invasion.”
“This out with the sharks?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir. It has been leaked to the wire services as those Task Force boys can do with some positive press, so it will come up today in the press-con questions,” McCorkell replied.
“Okay, thanks,” the President said, reading over the brief.
“A couple of commendations coming through on it?”
“I’d say so, they’ve been light in this campaign and it’s an issue that’s still getting coverage,” McCorkell said with a sigh, flipping through his notes. “Next item is that the French have almost their entire surface fleet on station in the South Pacific to conduct live-fire exercises,” McCorkell said. “The Aussies and Kiwis are keeping their eyes and ears on it for us.”
“How long they staying down there?”
“Couple of weeks, no firm date has been communicated.”
“Nice if they could have spared a few more resources in the Middle East, rather than pussyfooting around their Pacific playground.”
“Yeah, well, they’re doing their own thing, as usual. That said, they’ve got quite a few boots on the ground in Africa at the moment.” McCorkell closed his folder. “I’m still prepping for Iraq and Africa for the Security Council agenda later this morning.”
“Quiet day then,” the President said, putting his PDB folder down. “Thanks, Bill.”
McCorkell got up to leave.
“I, ah, had a call early this morning from Moscow Station,” McCorkell said. “John Cooper was murdered over there last night.”
The President looked puzzled for a few seconds and then McCorkell could sense that the image of Cooper came clearly to him.
“Cooper? Advocacy Center Cooper?” he asked.
“Yep. Murdered in St Petersburg while attending the Russian trade conference.”
“What do our guys in Moscow say?”
“Nothing yet, should have some answers in a few hours,” McCorkell replied. “This stuff is fresh, yet to hit the press, as their intel agency, the FSB, are running a tight ship around this trade conference.”
“At times I envy Russia’s power over their press.” The President squinted hard, which was what he did when he was listening hard, taking it all in, kicking the information around. “NSA got anything to say on it yet?”
“Meeting with them right after this, and you can bet they’ll be going ape over translating all traffic in and out of St Petersburg on this one,” McCorkell said. “I was scheduled for a tour of their new cryptography lab.”
The President tapped his pen on the credenza, which displayed a map of the Presidents Cup course. “Shouldn’t affect their schedule?” he queried, getting a cigarette from his top drawer and standing up.
“The quantum cryptography switchover?” McCorkell asked.
The President nodded.
“It can’t, they’re locked in, and Cooper’s murder doesn’t mean there’s a threat to anything NSA are doing.”
“Well, I guess the MO on this is about as broad as it could get,” the President said, fishing around in his pockets for a lighter. “Any obvious threats?”
“In Russia? Anyone with enough cash can do anything. At this stage we’ve got nothing but bodies. The two assassins were also killed in the incident; FSB have communicated that they’ve come up clean, no records at all. Cooper’s DoD bodyguard was killed in the attack as well.” McCorkell checked his watch. “I have a sit-rep with the CIA and FBI this afternoon, linked through to the embassy in Moscow. Should have some news by the end of the day.”
“Okay, we’ll chat about it after today’s Security Council, get my body man to make some time,” the President said, looking through the bullet-resistant glass door at the ever-green White House lawn.
“Will do.”
“And Bill, if you can get me the details on this DoD guy, I’ll write his family a letter.”
“Yes, Mr President, I’m waiting on the Pentagon’s personnel file,” McCorkell said. “Of course, Mr President, for SOCOM operational reasons it cannot list where this Delta soldier was, or what he was doing.”
“I know, no details, hero and all that,” the President replied.
“You ever meet Cooper’s family?”
“Yes, Mr President.” McCorkell crossed his arms against his chest, holding his files in close. “Met his wife at Clinton’s inauguration and one other time, I think it was a Gore fundraiser. Last I heard they divorced about five years ago, never had any kids, she lives down in Florida now.”
“Okay, thanks, Bill,” the President said, nodding to the agent outside
the door who opened it for him. He turned before walking out. “Oh, Bill, what’s your read of France—think the NFP will make much of a show in the run-off?”
McCorkell thought about it. The French political system was two-staged, where the run-off meant the final going to the polls of the two most popular candidates.
“Will they take many seats? I think they will, yeah,” McCorkell replied. “Cassel has the sympathy of many moderates with the assassination of her father, and they are already coming off a high platform from the 2002 election, where they were the first extreme-right party in French history to make it to the second round of a presidential election. Back then it was an accident they made it to the second round. This time, the public have made a statement.”
“But they don’t have a chance of taking power?”
“A chance so slim as to be almost nonexistent. Europe, particularly France, has more trouble than we do with illegal immigrants, and a tough stance on that is the NFP’s and every other right-wing Euro party’s war cry. But it’s not enough to win over Paris, no matter how many students may riot for a decent pay rate—something that could happen if the flood of illegals was slowed to a trickle. If they get more than twenty-five per cent of the vote, I might just put some hard-earned down on the Jets making the Super Bowl after all.”
“Okay, I’ll take your money. Anyhow, come into senior staff tomorrow morning. State is presenting an Old Europe rundown,” the President said, lighting up his cigarette as he walked outside. His chocolate-coloured Labrador, Tenzin, appeared from behind the Resolute Desk and followed him outside.
“Will do. Have a good day, Mr President.”
McCorkell walked down the corridor of the West Wing to his office, a mid-sized room overlooking the Rose Garden. He moved his gym bag off the spare seat and sat down, pouring a tea. Irish Breakfast. He’d gotten the taste from his days in England, first the four postgrad years he’d spent at Oxford, and then a five-year stint a decade later working in the embassy. It was his small gesture of going against the establishment over there.
