by John Ringo
The aide nodded to them as soon as they were through the security screen.
"Mr. Ford," the man said, smiling and shaking Mike's hand. "Miss Rakovich? I'm Thomas Johnson. I understand you are in a hurry so I'll show you to your rooms. I'm aware that Mr. Ford has a priority meeting but the First Lady would like to talk to you for a moment before you leave."
"Of course," Mike said. "I'd love a shower, though."
"Not a problem, sir," the man said. "We installed plumbing back in the early 1900s."
* * *
Mike was surprised at the size of the room. He'd only ever stayed in Camp David which was cramped enough, but this room wasn't much bigger than one of the harem girls' rooms at the caravanserai.
But then he had to think that the White House was built back in the days when large rooms weren't made unless they were ballrooms. In summer, big rooms were not much cooler than small and in winter they were impossible to heat. Ballrooms were kept warm in the "season" as much by dancing bodies as by the roaring fires.
The service, though, was first rate. Somehow, the White House staff had managed to get their bags up to their room, unpacked, everything put in drawers or hung up and toiletries in the bathroom, before they'd gotten to the room. And probably every bit of it had been swept by the Service for threats.
"Honey," Mike said, shaking his head, "you need to be taking notes."
"I am," Anastasia said, clearly just as impressed. "I wonder if I can hire anyone away."
"I'm getting in the shower," Mike said, stripping off the clothes he'd been wearing since yesterday.
"I'll do your back if you'll do mine," Anastasia said, unzipping her dress.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Mike said. "But what the hell. Pierson can wait."
"It's not Colonel Pierson I'm worried about," Anastasia said. "You're supposed to meet the First Lady."
"We are going to meet the First Lady," Mike said. "So do your makeup fast."
The shower had, alas, involved a minimum of grab-ass and Anastasia could dress and put on makeup fast when she had to.
So in no more than thirty minutes they were back out of their room, Mike in a suit and carrying a briefcase while Anastasia had changed into a different dress, this one a light blonde color just a shade darker than her hair.
"This way, sir, ma'am," Johnson said. "The First Lady is in the Green Room."
"Amanda," Mike said when they walked in the room.
The Green Drawing Room was originally used by Thomas Jefferson as a small intimate dining room. Sometime in the early 1800s it was restructured and refurbished into a parlor for relaxed, personal meetings and renamed the Green Drawing Room by John Quincy Adams. With walls lined by green silk, beautiful paintings and an Italian marble fireplace, it was one of the most favored rooms of many of the First Ladies over the years.
"Michael," the First Lady said, smiling and shaking his hand then giving him a hug. "It's so good to have you in the House at last. You really shouldn't stay away so much."
"It's Washington, ma'am," Mike said, shaking his head. "I really shouldn't come here at all."
"Nonsense," Amanda said. "And this must be Miss Rakovich."
"Ma'am," Anastasia said, shaking the First Lady's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"And you," the First Lady said. "I know that Michael has to go to an appointment and I won't keep him longer. But you are my guest and I'd like to talk for a bit if you don't mind. I know you've been flying for a while so if you'd prefer to rest . . ."
"I'd love to sit and chat, ma'am," Anastasia said, smiling. "I got some sleep on the plane. Quite a lot, actually."
"Then, Michael, I look forward to seeing you when you get back," the First Lady said.
"Yes, ma'am," Mike said, wondering just how bad this was going to be. The First Lady grilling his harem manager could be very bad indeed. "I look forward to it as well."
"Please," the First Lady said, gesturing for Anastasia to sit in one of the antique chairs.
"Yes, ma'am," Anastasia said, easily. The door opened and a small, thin black lady came in with a tea service.
"I made the assumption that tea would be acceptable," the First Lady said, nodding at the maid in thanks and pouring for both of them.
"Yes, ma'am," Anastasia said.
"Please call me Amanda," the First Lady said, smiling. "Ma'am and First Lady grow tiresome quickly and I consider Michael a friend. Sugar?"
"Then could you call me Anastasia?" Anastasia said. "Or even Stasia if you wish. Two lumps."
"Stasia it shall be," the First Lady said, proffering the cup. "Russian? Or perhaps Ukraine?"
"Russian, Amanda," Anastasia said. "But I hardly remember it. I left when I was twelve."
"And then?" the First Lady said, sipping her tea.
"Uzbekistan," Anastasia said, picking up her own.
"You waited until I took the first sip," the First Lady said, smiling. "Where did you train?"
Anastasia paused and then set down her cup.
"In a hareem," she replied. "I was married, an arranged marriage, to a sheik in Uzbekistan at the age of twelve."
She had expected at least mild shock. The First Lady just nodded and took another sip.
"Not exactly what I'd expected, but close," she said. "I would say something like 'I'm sorry' but that doesn't quite cover it, does it?"
"It's not really that bad," Anastasia admitted, picking up her tea again. "I was raised on a small and very poor farm. Given the conditions, then, and my looks, I would probably have ended up as a prostitute if I hadn't been noticed by one of the sheik's scouts."
"But far outside my own experience, and therefore fascinating," the First Lady said. "For one thing I had not expected that harems trained quite so precisely in manners."
"I was, among other things, Sheik Otryad's hareem manager," Anastasia said. "I was given advanced training. But there is a good bit of what can be called 'manners' to being in a well-run hareem. It is not all about . . . that. It is about creating a quiet and comfortable place for the sheik to retreat to."
"Now that I can understand," the First Lady said. "One reason that it's wise for presidents to have a really good spouse is to create that refuge."
"Yes, for Presidents that would be vital," Anastasia said, nodding vigorously. "The pressures of such a position are very nearly killing. They need that one place where there is no pressure, where they know that they are accepted just as they are. That is the true purpose of the hareem and I have the hardest time explaining that to anyone. It sometimes drives me nearly to distraction, yes?"
"I believe I touched a nerve there, Stasia, sorry," the First Lady said, grinning. "But I think you are good for Michael as well. He has some of the same problems, I think."
"Yes, he does," Anastasia said, calming. "In a way he has no one that tells him what to do but there are so many politics, yes? He has to keep his Keldara on his side. He must deal with the Georgians and the Americans and the Russians, friend to all but never so close that any own him. I try to give him that quiet place. But even there he puts so many pressures on himself sometimes I want to tear my hair out. He is so . . . American."
"That he is," the First Lady said.
"I am sorry to be so strong," Anastasia said, shaking her head. "I am not normally like this."
"I tend to cause people to talk," the First Lady said. "It is one of my talents. Very useful in politics, I might add."
"Where is your place?" Anastasia asked. "Where do you go for comfort?"
"Oh, books," the First Lady replied. "And David. We are very good for each other. And I think you are good for Michael. Michael Ford this time. It's always so cloak-and-dagger."
"I think that the idea is that if his normal name ever comes up in connection with something, no one will connect it to the White House."
"That is to be hoped," the First Lady said. "But I've wanted him to come to the House for some time. We had him at Camp David, of course, but he's never made it to th
e House. Of course, officially, I don't know why he was at Camp David. Or why my husband thinks that he walks on water. But it was rather easy to determine, given the timing."
"I would not know," Anastasia said. "I have only known him as the Kildar. The years before . . . ? I know he is American. I surmise, from his friendship with Master Chief Adams, that he was in the Navy commandoes, the SEALs. Other than that I know very little. I know not to ask."
"Smart girl," the First Lady said, leaning forward and patting her on the leg.
"And that explains," Anastasia said, smiling.
"Yes, it does," the First Lady said. "That was why I made sure someone passed the word that I wanted to meet Michael's 'assistant.' But I'll say that that is no longer the reason. I like you, Stasia. I like you very much. Mi casa es su casa as we say in Texas."
"Gracias, Señora," Anastasia replied, smiling. "Usted es bien amable."
"¿Usted habla español?" the First Lady said, smiling back.
"Sí," Anastasia said. "Dominé en español. También Deutsche, Russkiya, Arabi, Français y Uzbek."
"And English," the First Lady said.
Anastasia just shrugged and held up one hand, palm up.
"I'm glad we've met," the First Lady said. "David holds him in such high esteem, I felt it was vital that he, and you, come to visit."
"I'm just his assistant," Anastasia pointed out.
"If you were just his assistant, Stasia, the protocol recommendation would have suggested two rooms," the First Lady said. "But I am glad to meet you. I wanted to know who the woman was in his life." The First Lady paused then smiled. "Or should that be 'women'?"
"Oh, most definitely 'women,'–" Anastasia replied. "But for the purposes that you mean, the woman that he looks to for most such things, that would be me."
"There are arrangements into which, I have learned, it is unwise to pry," the First Lady said, smiling disarmingly. "Has coming out of the harem been difficult? Do you find it hard to deal with cities and people?"
"Very," Anastasia admitted. "I can attend a formal function with ease. But put me on the street of even a small town, much less a city, totally on my own and I am at a loss. I am to do shopping while we are here. The Kildar has given me a credit card with . . . too much money available on it. What I did not wish to tell him is . . . I have never used a credit card except online. I can barely haggle with the merchants in the small town near where we live. It is all very confusing. A new world. One I want to enter, to enjoy, to understand, but, yes, it is hard. Even frightening."
"When were you planning on going shopping?" the First Lady said.
"I'd hoped to do so this afternoon," Anastasia said. "I had hoped that Michael would be back but he has another appointment this afternoon, after his meeting. We are definitely committed to spending the night, but given the urgency with which he was summoned, I doubt we will have more time. So I think I'll need to go out on my own."
"Not to be borne," the First Lady said, firmly. "Amelia Weston."
"Pardon me?" Anastasia said.
"Even if Michael was available, men rarely enjoy shopping," the First Lady said. "And they're never good at it unless they are gay. So. Amelia Weston is the wife of General Weston, commander of the Military District of Washington. Which should mean, frankly, that she is the compleat bitch. But she's not, she's a very gracious lady of the old Southern school. Hard as nails, mind you, but very gracious as long as no one is trying to stick a knife in her or General Weston's back. I will call her, we've become friends, and ask her to take another friend shopping. She knows just where to go."
"Thank you, ma . . . Amanda," Anastasia said, blinking.
"You are most welcome, Stasia."
Chapter Nine
"Mr. Jenkins?" the major said as Mike got out. Mike was carrying the only the briefcase he'd ever owned. He kept it just for such occasions. The calf-leather case had come from the same haberdasher's as the suit and said "I'm a rich and powerful asshole" in full operatic splendor.
"What day is it?" Mike asked, pulling out his passports, checking them to find the right one and handing it to the MP.
The MP smiled slightly as he checked the name against his roster and nodded as he checked it off.
"You're cleared, Mr. 'Jenkins,'–" the MP said, handing over a visitor's badge with his name and a very bad picture already on it.
"Major Pauley," the officer said, sticking out his hand.
"I read it on your nametag," Mike said, shaking his hand. "Sorry I'm so grumpy; I hate visiting this place."
"You ought to try working here," the major said. "You don't know what hate is until you've been stuck here for a couple of years. But we'll try to make you feel at home. This way, sir."
One of the reasons Mike hated the Pentagon was that it was one of the few buildings that could cause him to lose his spatial awareness. It was like the place was some sort of intentional puzzle, designed to get people lost. And it happened to him again; they'd only been walking the corridors—which were literally infinite if you considered they were concentric pentagons—for five minutes and he was totally lost.
Finally, though, they arrived at another MP post, the fourth they'd had to clear, beyond which was a small door marked "Office of Special Operations Liaison."
Mike had never actually visited the office that "controlled" him, to the extent that he was controlled at all. He'd spoken to various officers besides Pierson over the years, but he'd only ever met Pierson.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it. The main room was filled with cubicles, most of them overflowing with papers, most of which had "Top Secret" cover sheets, and all manned by officers. With the exception of the MPs outside and a couple of very senior NCOs who appeared to be pushing even more paper than the officers, the place was staffed with nothing but O types, and major was the lowest rank Mike saw.
To a former petty officer it was a wonder the place worked at all.
Pauley led him past the ranks of cubicles to the far end of the room where there were three offices and a small conference room. Mike wondered how they had staff meetings; there was no way to fit everyone in this room. He also wondered how secure the damned area was; there were none of the trappings of secure rooms about either the office or this conference room. It appeared to be very standard construction. He'd seen more secure rooms in a battalion headquarters.
Mike sat down at the conference table and cooled his heels for a couple of minutes, internally grousing. Right about now . . . he'd probably be taking one of the girls to bed come to think of it. Depending on what time it was in . . . Yep.
"Sorry to make you wait, Mike," Pierson said, opening the door and sticking his head in. "Wander with me?"
"Sure," Mike said, getting up and following Pierson back down the line of cubicles.
"I'd have met you outside but it's the usual clusterfuck," Pierson said. "We just got tasked with briefing the OMB on SOCOM budgeting and procurement. Since that's as far out of our usual line as you can get, we're all hopping around like fleas on a skillet. And then we got this dropped in our laps."
"I guess I get to wait to find out what this is?" Mike said.
"Yep," Pierson said, grinning as he turned into the main corridor.
They walked down the corridor a short distance and turned inward, as far as Mike could tell.
"The deal around here used to be 'who's closer to the E-ring?'–" Pierson said, making another couple of turns. "These days, being on the E-ring makes you important. But after that it's 'how deep are you?' Which means, how close are you to the Tank and the other really secure rooms?"
"So, how deep are we?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.
"In just a second," Pierson said as they made their way through another checkpoint and entered a stairwell, "we're going to be about as deep as you can get. Of course, it's in bullshit. But even deep enough bullshit has an allure."
"I can tell I'm going to love the fuck out of this," Mike said. "Aren't I?"
>
"Absolutely," Pierson said, grinning evilly.
The stairs opened onto a very short corridor and another damned checkpoint at which Mike had to fish out his, totally false, passport in addition to his visitor's pass. But on the other side of the checkpoint they entered a shield room. It was the real deal, full Faraday cage, soundproofed, no electronics in or out, with hard-eyed guards with wands to ensure same.
Three men were already waiting in the room and Mike could tell that, yes, he was going to love the fuck out of this mission. All three were in suits, but unlike Mike they wore theirs as if they were daily clothing. Including the guy who looked like a tennis pro that Mike pegged as Agency. And not the covert-ops side, this guy was "old agency," the group that gave the OSS the moniker "Oh, So Social." Northeastern liberal WASP, one each. Bred with a silver spoon in his mouth, which was why he had to keep his teeth clamped all the time. The other two were pure "GS": civil servants. They could have been anything from Agency to NSA to . . . Office of Management and Budget. A bureaucrat was a bureaucrat was a bureaucrat.
