Cost of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “Hardly disappeared, Agent,” Ari said, setting the tray down and placing a glass in front of Oakes.

  “It’s Oakes, remember?”

  “Yes. Oakes—for Oakley, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Unusual—I like it.” Ari poured them both lemonade. “Besides, now I have an excuse to linger just a little while longer and pretend I’m still on vacation.”

  “Can you do that? Forget about the job, I mean?” Oakes asked.

  Ari smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes. I’m good at compartmentalizing. Briefly, at least. You’re not, I take it?”

  “Huh. Not really big on vacations, I guess. I visit family if I’m off over the holidays, but mostly I put in extra time at the gym or the firing range.”

  “That’s sad,” Ari said good-naturedly, and Oakes grinned.

  “Of course, maybe if I had this view, I might be able to enjoy free time a little more.” Maybe. For some reason, Oakes didn’t want Ari to see her as a work hound and nothing more. Even though she was.

  “The view is a factor, I agree. Here…” Ari passed a tray of sandwiches in Oakes’s direction. “Go ahead. I’m willing to bet you’re starving. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Oakes relented. She wasn’t exactly on duty, after all. She took a sandwich along with one of the small sandwich plates adorned with sailboats from the tray. “You’d win that bet.”

  Ari sat, took half a sandwich, and leaned back in the matching chair beside Oakes’s. “So you’re not usually part of Blair’s detail?”

  “No, Presidential Protective Division. I’m just along to…” Oakes hesitated.

  “Convince me? Assess my desirability for the job?”

  “Not at all. That’s up to the president to decide. I’m just an information source today.”

  “Hmm. All right then.” Ari cut another sandwich square in half and divided it between their plates. “I intend to take advantage of that.”

  Heat coiled between Oakes’s shoulder blades. A trickle of anticipation, and warning. She liked the idea and that had to mean something…something she ought to understand and didn’t. “Are you packed already?”

  Ari gave her a look, as if she’d recognized the deflection. “I don’t really need to do much of that. I have an apartment in the city. So I travel light between places.” Ari paused. “You must know that, right?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Where I live. I’m sure you know a great deal more than that about me. That is the Secret Service’s job, correct? To know about the people who interact with the president?”

  “Our job is to do whatever needs to be done to protect the president,” Oakes said carefully. “But we’re not the FBI or the CIA. The only thing I know about you is vital statistics.”

  “You mean age, weight, and all the things that some might prefer you not know?” Ari rolled her eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t mention that.”

  Oakes chuckled. “I can’t imagine that’s anything you worry about.”

  Ari’s brow lifted. “Oh?”

  Oakes flushed. That was stupid. Veering off topic into the personal with Ari Rostof was careless. Thankfully she’d stopped before she’d blurted out the rest of what she’d been thinking. You’re too attractive, too accomplished, too damn together to be worried about something like age or how other people perceive you. For fuck’s sake. Not having an official role had put her entirely off her game. Sitting out here in the sun, sipping lemonade, eating amazing, undoubtedly locally sourced grilled vegetable and pesto sandwiches, had made her soft. The silence went on until Ari laughed.

  “If we’re going to work together, it would probably be good if we could have a casual conversation. Or,” she added with a tiny hint of sarcasm, “are you all business all the time?”

  “I thought we were,” Oakes said stiffly. She heard the flat tone and so did Ari.

  “Technically,” Ari went on as if Oakes hadn’t just sounded like a socially maladjusted robot, “every appearance the president makes—from big news events like a summit meeting to fund-raisers to a simple trip to the local burger joint—affects his public image and, therefore, his campaign. He’s always campaigning—not just running up to election time, but every time a popularity poll is tallied. That’s my ballpark, agreed?”

  “Yes,” Oakes said. How exactly had Ari taken control of this conversation? And where the hell was she going with it?

  “And everywhere he goes, his protective detail will be part of it. Which means we’ll be working together closely for the foreseeable future.”

  “That’s SOP,” Oakes said, more on familiar ground now. “I don’t foresee any problem there.”

  “No, neither do I,” Ari said, “but since we are more or less each other’s opposite numbers in this scenario, I hope we get to know each other a little bit.”

  “There’s not that much to know,” Oakes said. Ari Rostof was direct, and her directness was both fascinating and uncomfortable. They didn’t need to have a personal relationship to work together. They certainly didn’t need to be friends. She was used to distance in her relationships, even among those she worked with. Evyn and Adam were the exceptions. Now, just Evyn. Her life was too chaotic, too minute to minute, to really care about connections. She liked her colleagues. She depended on them and she trusted them. But their world was circumscribed by their schedules, by the demands of living together sometimes for extended periods, under the most stressful circumstances imaginable. Some used sex and alcohol to deal, and she wasn’t above either one of those things on occasion. But no one really talked, not the way Ari seemed to be suggesting. “And I’m not sure why it matters.”

  “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we,” Ari said quietly, turning her glass on the coaster in front of her. Her fingers were long and slender but, interestingly, did not appear delicate. A scar crossed almost the entire width of the top of her left hand, thin and white. She glanced up and saw Oakes looking at it. “Sailing accident.”

  And just like that, Oakes wanted to know more—not about the job they’d be doing, about her. “Is that your boat down there in the slip?”

  “The Castaway—yes, that’s mine,” Ari said with a note of wistfulness.

  “Do you have one in DC?”

  Ari shook her head. “No, when I’m there, there’s just no time.” She laughed a little wryly. “In fact, when I’m here there’s not much time.”

  “Why did you do it?” Oakes asked before she could catch herself.

  “Take the job?” Ari said, not even bothering to pretend she didn’t know what Oakes was asking.

  Oakes nodded. She wanted to know, even though the knowledge didn’t remotely fall under the umbrella of need-to-know. She wanted to know because she was interested in Ari.

  “I’d be a fool to turn it down,” Ari said, watching Oakes carefully. “This is a career maker. Sharing the national stage with the president, international media coverage, making contacts it would take me a decade to make otherwise? An opportunity like this only comes along once.”

  “Purely professional, then,” Oakes said.

  “Of course,” Ari said, still watching her.

  “Nope.” Oakes shook her head. “I probably would’ve believed that if I hadn’t been in the room when you talked to Blair.”

  “Oh? And what did you get from that?”

  “If your only motivation had been career enhancement, you would’ve said yes instantly. But you didn’t. You hesitated, considering the cost.”

  Ari straightened, her eyes narrowing. Not defensive. Interested. “The cost?”

  Oakes shrugged. “Leaving the senator—which bothers you—breaking that commitment, then putting yourself in the media spotlight in a way that you never have before, and…” She hesitated, wondering whether if she pushed into sensitive areas she’d get shut out. She didn’t want that to happen. “There’s not just you, is there? Everyone you know, colleagues and…family…will be affected. There’s the cost of power to be considered.”
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  “You got all that from the conversation in the sunroom.” Ari’s pulse jumped in her throat. Had she been that transparent, or was Oakley Weaver far more observant than she’d imagined? She should have realized what lay behind that remote, intensely focused regard. She’d let herself think the scrutiny had been personal because she was intrigued, but she might have been wrong. And she couldn’t afford to be—not now and certainly not in the days to come.

  “Like I said, just guessing.”

  Very good guess, Ari thought. Irritated by having been so transparent, she said, “Shouldn’t these be the sort of observations that you keep to yourself and report to someone?”

  “I’m not a spy,” Oakes said. “And you are not a threat target.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Ari said. “But I expect that I’ll come under quite a good deal of scrutiny in the next few weeks. From just about everywhere.”

  “You’re right,” Oakes said. “But you already knew that.”

  “Yes,” Ari said quietly. “The cost of…something, to be sure.”

  The doors behind them opened and Blair Powell stepped out onto the veranda.

  Ari rose. “I just need a moment to get my things.”

  “Actually,” Blair said, “there’s been a change in plans.”

  Ari hesitated. Perhaps when Blair talked to the White House, they’d rescinded the offer. She could hardly complain and, in fact, would understand if they’d found someone who might be less controversial. “I won’t be returning with you?”

  “Oh no,” Blair said, “you most certainly will. But our timetable has changed slightly. The White House needs to make a press release regarding Adam’s death before it breaks in the media.”

  “There’s been a leak,” Ari said, wondering if her father had had a hand in that. Almost anyone could be persuaded to reveal what would soon be public anyhow for the right price.

  “Yes,” Blair said. “The White House must make a statement before the media does.”

  “What’s the timetable?” Ari asked.

  “Within the hour.”

  Ari sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to deal with the media response as quickly as we can when we reach DC. We’ll be playing catch-up, but we’ll handle it.”

  “Lucinda Washburn has another suggestion that you might find preferable,” Blair said.

  “Oh?”

  “She wants us to hold our press conference here, if you agree.”

  “Here.” Ari laughed. “You do understand my father owns a television network with a major news channel. If we go ahead here, he’s going to want his network to have an exclusive.”

  “We can’t give him that, but we can put his lead network reporter as the main interviewer.”

  She nodded. “That would work, if we can get all the moving parts assembled. I doubt we can get Dan Yamamoto here at such short notice. The local reporters will have to do.”

  “Lucinda should be on the line to your father right now to get the go-ahead.”

  “Does anyone ever say no to Ms. Washburn?” Ari asked, only half seriously.

  “Not that I’ve ever noticed,” Blair said with a grin.

  “How much time?”

  “We’re going to coordinate with the White House so we can switch directly from the pressroom to here. Forty minutes.”

  Ari pushed a hand through her hair. Oakes, who stood just behind her, made a sound that perfectly captured her sense of disbelief. Then she set her misgivings aside. Too late for that. “All right, yes. I’m going to go change now. Hopefully, people from the local station will be here soon to do setup, lights, makeup. That sort of thing.”

  She paused when her father walked out, strode directly to Blair, and held out his hand. “Ms. Powell, Nikolai Rostof. I’m delighted to meet you.”

  Blair shook his hand. “Mr. Rostof, I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to speak to you earlier.”

  “Not at all. I understand you’re dealing with some time constraints. I have a helicopter bringing Dan Yamamoto from Providence, where he was on assignment. We are fortunate there—he’s only twenty minutes away.”

  “Excellent,” Blair said.

  He glanced at Ari. “Nalini Foad is on her way to assist you while the network sets up.” He glanced around. “This might be a good location for the interview.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” Blair said. “Might I suggest, Mr. Rostof, that in order to keep the focus directly on Ari, you not take questions today.”

  He smiled. “Actually, Ms. Powell, I wasn’t planning on attending. I am not all that interested in the spotlight.”

  “Then,” Blair said, “I believe everything is covered at this point. And I appreciate your assistance.”

  He inclined his head, almost an old-fashioned bow. “My pleasure to assist the daughter of the president.” He glanced at Ari. “Arianna.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured as he turned and walked back into the house.

  Oakes said quietly, “I’ve just been drafted by the detail. A press conference changes things a little bit.”

  Blair sighed. “I know. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem,” Oakes said. “I’m sure Paula Stark will have things covered.”

  Ari watched Oakes disappear into the house. Their planned briefing would have to wait—possibly indefinitely. The twinge of disappointment was a surprise.

  “Is there anything you need?” Blair asked.

  “Sorry,” Ari said, and quickly added, “oh yes. If you have time, I would appreciate any insights on exactly what direction the White House is taking with this.”

  Blair nodded. “Of course.”

  Ari gestured Blair to the table and they sat down side by side.

  “This reminds me a bit of the old days in an eleventh-hour study group,” Blair said, reaching for a sandwich. “Except you were the one with all the answers then.”

  Ari snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it,” Blair murmured. “We each set out to avoid following in our father’s footsteps and here we are.” She glanced at Ari. “Or am I being presumptuous?”

  Ari laughed quietly and shook her head. “No. You are exactly right.”

  “I’m devastated over Adam,” Blair said, “but I’m glad to have you on our team.”

  “Thanks,” Ari said, hoping none of them came to regret it.

  Chapter Nine

  Philadelphia

  3:50 p.m.

  “Mustard and chili?” the vendor asked from behind his steam cart on the corner in front of University Hospital as he slapped a street dog into a soft, warm roll.

  “Is there any other kind?” Rebecca Frye said. Since she often used the excuse of visiting Catherine at work to indulge in the cart food, he knew her order by heart. Street dogs and cheesesteaks were a staple of police fare.

  “There’s always the kraut dog,” he said seriously as Rebecca passed him the money.

  “Only for the faint of heart,” she said.

  “Not for you, then.” He pointedly looked down at the gold badge clipped to her belt. “You want one to go for the doc?”

  “That’s a good thought. Thanks.” She munched on her dog while holding the bag with the extra, one eye on the broad expanse of double doors leading to the main lobby of the Silverstein Pavilion. Dozens of people entered and exited, but she was only interested in one person. She checked the time—3:52—any moment now she would…

  Rebecca straightened, popped the last bite into her mouth, and wiped her hands on a paper napkin as she crossed the sidewalk, her gaze on her wife. Today Catherine wore a pale linen jacket and pants with a light green shirt that caught the color of her eyes. Catherine spotted her almost immediately, as if her attention had been drawn through the moving mass of people directly to her. The smile that blossomed on Catherine’s face sent a jolt right to her heart. It always did.

  Rebecca bounded up the steps and met Catherine halfway down. Catherine put her palm against her chest and kissed her. A few peo
ple passing gave them a fleeting glance, but for Rebecca, they might have been standing alone on the steps. Catherine had that effect on her, drawing her away from the tension and frustration that flavored many of her days to a place of quiet contentment.

  “Thank you,” Catherine murmured, taking the lunch bag Rebecca held out to her. “Hard day?”

  “Not really, that’s part of the problem.” Rebecca turned to walk down the stairs to the sidewalk and slid a hand under Catherine’s elbow. Just that light connection settled the indefinable unease that had plagued her all day.

  Catherine shot her a look. “You’re bored.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Riding a desk has its own kind of hardships.”

  “I know, especially for you,” Catherine murmured. “And I don’t even feel guilty for not feeling sorry for you. I can’t help being pleased that you’re not always out in front of everyone else when there’s trouble.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Rebecca said.

  Catherine didn’t comment, because they both knew that wasn’t really true.

  “Since you’ve been on that desk a while now, what else is bothering you?” Catherine asked. “Besides not having any bad guys to chase around the streets.”

  “Knowing that they’re out there and not being able to find them.”

  “Ah. Is it more than that? More than just the generic bad people who will always do bad things? Has something happened?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve got this feeling. Or rather, Sloan has a feeling,” Rebecca said. “And you can make book on her feelings.”

  “I know. You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Catherine asked. “Whenever what’s coming arrives?”

  “I always am.” Rebecca slid her arm around Catherine’s waist, tugging her just a little closer for an instant before releasing her. Being careful and being safe were different things, and they both knew it. Sure, she wasn’t a street cop any longer, but her squad was small and they all pulled their time in the field when needed. “Are you done for the day?”

  “No, I’ve got a load of paperwork to do back at the office,” Catherine said as they walked west on Spruce to the big old Victorian that had been converted into offices for some of the faculty. “What about you?”