“I see.” Now it was her turn to look Kevin Martindale over. The young former president of the United States had been a force on the American political scene for many years. He was portrayed as everything President Thomas Thorn was not: brash, headstrong, opinionated, hard-charging, and forceful. It was almost as if the American people, anxious and maybe even fearful of the future emerging because of Thorn’s laissez-faire attitude toward foreign affairs, were wistfully thinking back to the respect and power as portrayed by the government during the Martindale administration.
But only recently had he become a celebrity personality as well. It helped that Kevin Martindale was young, handsome, wealthy, single, and had at one time been one of the most powerful men on earth. His well-publicized divorce while vice president, and his steady stream of starlet girlfriends during his single term as chief executive, only served to keep him in the public eye. But now that he was back in the political hunt, his name and face appeared in all sorts of media outlets these days, not just the supermarket tabloids.
Maureen gave Martindale his choice of seats in the sitting area of the suite — even the armchair opposite hers, as her equal — but instead he chose the far side of the long sofa. She dismissed the official State Department photographer with a polite nod, then, playing the hostess, gestured at a nearby serving cart. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Coffee for me,” she said, then sat down in the plush armchair at the head of the sitting area in front of the fireplace. She crossed her legs, held the cup in both hands, and took a sip as her guest made himself comfortable.
Martindale reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a Davidoff Double R Churchill. “Do you mind, Miss Deputy Secretary? I know there’s no smoking in the Fairmont these days, but I also know that Mr. Kercheval enjoys a good cigar, so I brought mine and a few for him.”
“Not at all,” she said, quickly and neutrally.
He clipped his cigar, then, as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and withdrew another. “Do you indulge, Miss Deputy Secretary?”
“No,” she said coolly.
He chuckled with a distinct air of superiority. “Thought I’d better ask. Equality for women should extend to things like fine cigars, should it not?”
“It has nothing to do with equality — just taste,” she responded.
He shrugged, uncertain of what she meant by that, and put the second cigar back in his pocket. He withdrew a silver lighter and was about to touch the flame to his cigar when he stopped in surprise — as Hershel pulled her own cigar from her inside breast pocket.
“But it’s not because I don’t like cigars. I just don’t like those cigars. I prefer Lars Tetens to Davidoffs.” She pulled her own clippers and lighter from her pocket. “The Tesshu Deluxe Robusto is my favorite. Made in New York. I was introduced to them by a German vice air marshal. You’d have thought he’d discovered the New World by how much he raved about them. They take some getting used to, but they are worth the effort.” The pungent aroma of the Lars Teten quickly, easily overpowered the Davidoff. Martindale couldn’t help but look on in amazement as the woman puffed away happily on the rich, strong cigar.
“I hope you’re having a pleasant trip out here to the West Coast, Miss Hershel.”
“Fine, thank you, Mr. President.”
“Kevin. Please. Thorn is ‘Mr. President’ now.”
“Thank you, Kevin. And I’m Maureen.”
Martindale nodded. “I thank you for meeting with me.”
“Not at all.” She eased back in her chair, then surprised him again by casually throwing the elbow of her left arm onto the chair back and propping her head on her left thumb, with the cigar between the forefinger and middle finger of the same hand.
“I wanted to discuss a very important matter confronting the United States, Maureen.”
“The situation in Turkmenistan.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You know, of course, about the invasion by those Taliban fighters.”
“Yes.” She turned away from him to take another deep draw from the cigar, and she did not look back at him as she released the smoke from her lips. “The fighters seem to be growing in strength and taking new territory almost at will. I’d say the situation is extremely fluid.”
“ ‘Fluid’? Miss Hershel, the situation is critical out there!” Martindale retorted. “The Taliban insurgents now control three-quarters of the American-built oil and gas pipelines in Turkmenistan!”
“They control three-quarters of the pipelines in the eastern half of the country, approximately eight thousand linear miles, plus eight distribution facilities, sixteen pumping facilities, and two power-production facilities,” Hershel said, still looking away from Martindale, reeling off the information as if she were reading it in the clouds of cigar smoke swirling around her head. “They control all of product distribution to Uzbekistan and Pakistan and about half of the distribution to Iran, Afghanistan, and Kazakhstan.”
“It’s a serious development, Maureen.” Martindale slapped his Davidoff into an ashtray on the table next to him with an angry jab; he couldn’t taste it anyway over the overpowering scent of the Lars Teten. “Many folks around the world consider this conflict to be President Thorn’s first major foreign emergency test, one that directly affects American business interests. I’m impressed that you have such a command of the data, Maureen, but what I’d like to know is, what exactly does the president intend to do about it?”
Hershel finally turned toward her guest, undocking her head from her thumb but staying back in her chair. “The president has made his views clear, Mr. Martindale,” she said. “The Turkmen government hasn’t asked the United States for help.” Martindale was about to speak, but Hershel quickly said, “We know about the Taliban and their moves on the oil and hydroelectric facilities. Even so, the president does not feel that this insurgency is a threat to any vital national interests—”
“Not a threat!” Martindale retorted. “If this doesn’t qualify as a threat, I’m not sure what would.”
“The insurgents haven’t taken anything,” Hershel said calmly. “TransCal is paying the leader of that Taliban group to leave the pipelines alone and functioning — protection money — and that’s exactly what they’re doing. Product is flowing; TransCal is still making money. In fact, with the current spike in oil prices with no corresponding decrease in production, I would say TransCal is enjoying some substantial windfall profits. Their stock has gone up by seventeen percent in the past month, if I’m not mistaken — although why their dividend predictions have gone down so drastically is still a mystery. Less than a dollar a share in dividends from a company making record profits and hasn’t paid below a dollar a share in almost ten years?”
“I would guess that they’re preserving capital to keep their business afloat if those pipelines are destroyed.”
Maureen said nothing, just studied Martindale over her cigar and nodded noncommittally, wondering if he’d gotten that information directly from the horse’s mouth. TransCal may have already spoken to Martindale about supporting his run for the presidency in exchange for his promising more protection for their overseas ventures.
“The point, Maureen, is that our government should be doing more to protect the interests of Americans overseas, including business interests,” Martindale said. “We shouldn’t have to pay ‘protection money’—we should be doing whatever is necessary to ensure that foreign governments and businesses live up to their contracts and promises.”