by Bentley, Don
A less experienced political hand would have paused for a second at the laugh line, but here, as in most things political, Beverly was too much of a veteran to make a mistake. Instead of celebrating her dig against Thompson, she continued with her explanation as if the man hadn’t spoken, further diminishing him in the process.
Good didn’t even begin to describe Beverly Castle’s political instincts.
“It was the bodies that caught our attention,” Beverly said. As she spoke, the wall-length TV screen at the far side of the room came to life, cycling through a series of images. A dim hallway flanked by sealed doors followed by a view of several chambers. Bodies were clustered around what looked like a showerhead sprouting from the exposed piping on the ceiling.
The similarities to a Nazi-era concentration camp were striking.
The images changed, now showing close-ups of the corpses. Here again, Peter forced himself to absorb every revolting detail as faces paraded past the screen in no apparent order—men, women, even children. For a second, he thought that Beverly was using the images solely for their shock value.
Then, in a moment of clarity, he realized what the bodies symbolized.
“What are we seeing?” Jeremy Thompson said, apparently not sharing Peter’s enlightenment.
“A sample group,” Peter said, the image of a pudgy toddler dragging the words from his lips.
“Correct,” Beverly said. “This is part of the reason for my urgency. The victims in each chamber do not appear to have been chosen at random. Each group was composed of eight individuals: two women, two men, and four children. The ages vary from group to group, but the demographic makeup remains the same. As Peter guessed, our analysts believe the victims were sorted into test groups.”
“They’re lab rats,” the President said, the horror in his voice unmistakable.
“That’s right, Mr. President,” Beverly said. “The terrorists used these people to test the effectiveness of their new chemical weapon. While this is a horrific revelation, it is not the piece of bad news I mentioned at the beginning of this meeting.”
“What else?” the President said.
Beverly paused and Peter felt his ulcer rage to life. This was why she’d insisted on sharing the meeting with the Joint Chiefs. The big reveal was about to happen. She was going to guarantee action by releasing the news in front of a larger audience. Amazing.
For an instant, Peter caught a flash of what might have been. With her formidable intellect and uncanny political skills, Beverly could have been a Director that history remembered. If she’d only been content to lay aside her political ambition for the duration of her single four-year term, what she could have accomplished with Peter’s help would have been incalculable.
But that was not to be. In the same manner in which the terrorists currently butchering innocents in Syria would never be able to see the error of their ways, Beverly would never be able to rise above her baser nature. She was a politician to her core, and at the end of the day, politicians cared about one thing and one thing above all else—themselves.
“In my update this morning,” Beverly said, “I briefed that four members of my paramilitary assault team had been killed. This was erroneous. We’ve now learned that one of the reported casualties is very much alive.”
“Well, that’s cause for celebration, then, isn’t it?” Jeremy Thompson said.
“No,” Beverly said. “He’s alive, but he’s been captured by the same splinter cell that manufactured the chemical weapon.”
“Are you certain?” the President said, his question almost a whisper.
“Yes. His captors have begun posting videos to various jihadi websites. Videos of his torture.”
A series of indrawn breathes greeted Beverly’s announcement, but the President continued.
“Were you able to confirm the video’s authenticity?”
“Yes, sir,” Beverly said. “We used facial recognition and several other sophisticated analytical methods to identify the captured paramilitary officer, John Shaw. But the terrorists apparently didn’t want to leave anything to chance. In addition to the video, they provided us with forensic evidence.”
“What?” Jorge said. “Fingerprints? DNA?”
The President’s question was innocent enough, but something about the way Beverly had guided him into asking it raised Peter’s hackles. He had the sneaking suspicion that, somehow, the game was about to change once again. And when it did, Peter would be one move behind the CIA Director.
“Not DNA, Mr. President,” Beverly said, her voice catching. “They sent us something more definitive. They sent us Shaw’s right ear.”
ELEVEN
Ladies and gentlemen?” Peter said, his voice cutting through the numerous sidebar conversations. “Ladies and gentlemen?”
Peter slapped the table. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
The background chatter ceased as nine pairs of eyes found his.
This wasn’t his style. One of the reasons Peter had never seriously entertained the idea of running for office was because he knew that he was better behind the scenes. Still, this was too much. Left to their own devices, the well-meaning people in this room, Peter had no doubt, would spin up battle plans to rescue Beverly’s hapless operator. Battle plans that would undoubtedly result in the loss of more American lives, and the President, as he always did when bum-rushed by his generals, would go along for the ride.
Peter could not allow this to happen. Not when the days before the election numbered in single digits.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Peter said again, his voice less forceful, but his tone leaving no doubt who was in charge. “The content of this meeting has just been classified at the code-word level. Mr. President, might I suggest that you and I take a moment to meet privately with Director Castle?”
“I hardly think this is the time for political posturing,” Jeremy Thompson said, wrathful indignation coloring his voice. “Those barbarians have one of our boys. I don’t think we should be sitting around discussing poll numbers until they mail us another body part.”
New whispers started from the Joint Chiefs at the opposite end of the table. Whispers that Peter knew would lead to an outright mutiny if he didn’t act quickly.
“Mr. Thompson,” Peter said, resting his forearms on the table, “did you know about Beverly’s captured operator prior to this meeting?”
“No, but—”
“Did you authorize the CIA raid?”
“No, I—”
“Were you even briefed that this operation was a potential course of action?”
“No.”
The DNI’s face grew redder with each admission as even he could now see where the line of questioning was going.
“Forgive me, Mr. Thompson, but you are in fact the Director of National Intelligence, correct?”
“Yes, I am.”
Jeremy Thompson almost spit back the answer, shooting a sidelong glance at Beverly as he spoke. For once, Peter knew that he was not the only one thinking murderous thoughts about the CIA Director. But now that he’d shown Jeremy the stick, it was time for a little carrot.
“So, as the Director of National Intelligence, you were not aware that the CIA had launched an operation in Syria. Is that correct?”
From the corner of his eye, Peter could see Beverly shift in her chair. She was smart enough to know that this line of questioning didn’t exactly leave her in the best of light. On the other hand, one of the fundamental rules of politics was never to step into the line of fire when your opponent was the target. In Beverly’s case, everyone was her opponent.
“That’s correct,” Jeremy said, his face now a mass of mottled red. Here was the moment when he expected to be handed his walking papers. To be asked to resign in a fit of disgrace in front of the very people he was nominally charged with leading.
&nb
sp; Except that the DNI’s resignation was the furthest thing from Peter’s mind.
“And the reason this is correct,” Peter said, his voice softer, almost consoling, “is because Beverly was acting on the President’s expressed wishes. The operation was deemed too sensitive to be included in a cabinet-wide update.”
“This is highly irregular.”
The comment came from General Johnny Etzel, the first Army aviator to rise to the level of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“I couldn’t agree more, General,” Peter said, “which is why I’m asking everyone to leave. The President, Director Castle, and I need a few moments to huddle, after which we will continue this briefing. Until then, please give us the room.”
To his credit, the DNI was the first one out of his chair. A political savant the man might not be, but the Director of National Intelligence could recognize a lifeline when he saw one. Pushing his considerable bulk to his feet, Jeremy stood and adjusted his suit. “I’ll be outside.” He gave Peter a brief nod before lumbering out of the room.
Peter kept his face impassive, but he felt an ember of hope flare to life. A successful political operative was often likened to a mobster’s bookie. A large part of Peter’s job encompassed keeping track of political debts, and the DNI now owed him a staggering one.
Like the good military men and women they were, the Joint Chiefs followed suit, hustling for the door in a flash of creased uniforms and polished shoes. They might not like what had just happened, but they knew an order when they heard one.
The Secretaries of Defense and State followed. Neither man looked happy, but both shared enough history with Peter to know what would happen should they attempt to assert their independence at this pivotal moment. Also like a mobster, Peter understood the necessity of a good hit job.
All too soon, the conference room door closed with an ominous thud. Then there were three: the President, Beverly, and Peter.
“What was that?” Peter said, eyes boring into Beverly.
“Peter,” Jorge began, “is that—”
“Mr. President,” Peter said, holding up his hand as his gaze remained locked on Beverly, “how long have we known each other?”
Jorge paused as if Peter’s question had thrown him off course. “Almost twenty years.”
“And in twenty years, have I ever asked you to sit still and not say a word?”
“Well, no.”
“Mr. President, I’m asking now. I need to sort some things out with Ms. Castle. If the conversation makes you uncomfortable, I apologize in advance, but I’d like you to remain silent. After the discussion is over, I’ll tender my resignation if you feel that I’ve crossed the line or represented you poorly. For now, I respectfully ask that you let me speak.”
The resulting silence stretched far longer than he would have liked, but Peter realized that he didn’t care. History turned on the smallest of events. Things that seemed of little consequence at the time often ended up shaping the world. Case in point, Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s driver took a wrong turn and World War I resulted.
Peter was certain that this was one such moment.
“Okay, Peter,” the President said, “the floor is yours.”
Peter nodded, took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then turned to face the would-be destroyer of his destiny.
This would have to be done deftly. The President’s apparent indulgence aside, Peter knew that, to pull their backsides from the fire, he would have to say things that could never be unsaid. Things that, in all likelihood, would permanently alter his relationship with the President. Peter was willing to shoulder this burden if it resulted in a second Gonzales administration. But that would happen only if he first crushed the head of the serpent that had slithered into their camp.
Taking a breath, Peter locked gazes with Beverly. As always, she looked lovely. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders in perfect waves and her slight makeup accentuated her angular features, making her blue eyes seem that much deeper.
Not for the first time, Peter wondered what had led this woman to a career in public service. Beverly was well-spoken and highly intelligent, and the cameras loved her. With that combination, she could have given Harris Faulkner a run for her money. Why settle for a civil servant’s meager wages when there were millions of dollars per year to be made voicing the lone liberal viewpoint on Fox News?
Then, in a moment of clarity, Peter understood. As a talking head, Beverly would have been just another pretty face. Only life as a politician led to true power, and power was what she desired above all else. Accordingly, only the threat of losing that power stood a chance of putting her unbridled ambition in check.
“I’m going to cut through the bullshit,” Peter said, “because I no longer have time to spar with you.”
He’d deliberately chosen the vulgar word despite Jorge’s tenet against profanity. If experience were any guide, this conversation would get worse before it got better, and the President needed to know what lay ahead.
“Please do,” Beverly said, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Bullshit doesn’t become you.”
With a start, Peter realized that she thought that she’d won. That the news of the newly developed chemical weapon, paired with her captured operator, would force the administration down the foreign policy path for which she’d so strenuously advocated. That the President would have to topple the Assad government through military intervention.
Peter had spent many a sleepless night asking himself why Beverly constantly pushed the President toward such a risky confrontation. Today, he knew the answer—her pending resignation.
Beverly’s position as CIA Director had been an olive branch. The appointment was more an attempt at reconciliation than recognition of her foreign policy chops, and Peter had treated her as such. Her presence during cabinet meetings had been minimized, and Peter had often relied on Charles to supply him with the Agency’s official assessment on a particular issue.
This was Beverly’s attempt to turn the tables, to force her way into the President’s inner circle. This wasn’t meant to ingratiate her with the President; her resignation date had already been set for the week after Jorge’s inauguration. Neither was this about revenge—Beverly was too good for that. No, this ploy was all about setting the stage for her final act—ascendance to the Presidency.
“You think you have this figured out,” Peter said, putting his thoughts into words, “but you’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry?” Beverly said.
“No, you’re not. What you are is a self-centered, conniving snake.”
“I won’t be talked to in this manner.”
“You will if you ever hope to set foot in this office again. I’m not as smart as you, Beverly. Few people are. But I’ve finally figured out what you’ve done. I might be too late to stop you, but I’ll be damned if I stand by and do nothing.”
“Are you insane?” Beverly said.
“My mistake was in thinking that you wanted us to succeed. That a second Gonzales term would be the best political platform for you to launch your own Presidential bid. But that isn’t the case, is it?”
For once, Beverly was silent. Her full lips pressed into thin lines, and her eyes glittered like shards of glass.
“What do you mean?”
The question came from the President. Peter turned slightly to answer, never taking his eyes from Beverly as he spoke. This was the sort of moment when ambitions were exposed and empires rose or fell. Only a fool would turn his back on his opponent now.
“Syria, sir,” Peter said, Beverly’s twisted logic coming into focus as he spoke. “It’s always been about Syria. By pushing you to topple Assad, she was hoping to cement her legacy. Think about it—if we’re successful and stop the war, she’s seen as prescient and bipartisan. The Joint Chiefs love her, she brings peace to Syria, and a few we
ll-placed leaks to friends at the Times or the Post frame her as the one who advocated for a more robust U.S. intervention.”
“And if we fail?” Jorge said.
“Even better. We know she’s about to resign, but the rest of the country doesn’t. Picture it—we invade Syria and quagmire ensues. A week later, the CIA Director resigns. Why? She doesn’t say, but journalists still put two and two together and arrive at sixty-four. She must have resigned out of protest to our Syria plan. Maybe it even costs us the election, which means that the Price administration now has to fight a war in Syria that they didn’t start. This leaves Beverly perfectly positioned to run as the voice of moderation in four years’ time. In essence, Syria has become her magical coin—heads, she wins; tails, we lose. The CIA raid was no accident. In fact, I’d wager that her operations folks advised against it. Then again, she had nothing to lose, did she?”
Peter’s words battered the President like physical blows. He leaned back in his chair, recoiling from the conversation. For a time, he sat in silence as if what Peter had said was simply too terrible to acknowledge.
But acknowledge it he did. Jorge Gonzales might be known for his sunny disposition and boundless optimism, but he was no fool. Twenty years in politics had given him an up-close-and-personal view of the best and the worst of what humanity had to offer. This wasn’t his first betrayal, and it wouldn’t be his last.
“Is this true?”
The President directed the question at Beverly. Peter thought he could hear the faintest trace of Jorge’s Hispanic heritage beneath the words. His even-tempered friend was rarely upset, but when he became truly angry, he channeled the fiery-tongued Mexican women who’d raised him.
To her credit, Beverly didn’t seem upset in the least. She didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, she edged away from the conference table and crossed her impossibly long legs as if she were the one granting the President an audience.
