“Oh?” The prosecutor turned his head slowly. “How very interesting, Dr. Arnault.” He laid a firm hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Then why don’t we go to my office and discuss exactly what else and who else you are beginning to remember?”
Erin McKenna sat in the antechamber outside the Oval Office. Unable to stop herself, she checked her watch again, wishing she weren’t so nervous. Still, how many people in the United States were ever invited to a private meeting with the President? She glanced to her right, comforted by the sight of Alex Banich sitting at her side. He smiled back.
Despite their best intentions, they hadn’t had much time together since returning from Moscow. Len Kutner, appalled by the risks they’d run and elated by their success, had shipped them back to Washington as soon as he safely could. Since then, Erin and Alex had both been kept hopping — briefing what seemed like every section head and file clerk in the CIA on the situation inside Russia. But, under explicit orders from the director of Central Intelligence himself, never, never, never mentioning their own role in Marshal Kaminov’s assassination.
“Ms. McKenna? Mr. Banich?”
They looked up.
A secretary motioned them toward the door. “The President can see you now.”
Heart pounding, Erin rose and followed Alex into the Oval Office.
The President himself was waiting for them, standing alone by the windows overlooking the White House Rose Garden. He smiled broadly when they came in and stepped forward to greet them both with a firm, friendly handshake. “Ms. McKenna and Mr. Banich! I’m very glad to finally meet you.”
He looked older than he did on television, but also more human. She could see real warmth in his eyes. The next few moments passed in a whirl of polite conversation.
Suddenly the President’s manner became far more formal. He gathered two small boxes off his desk and flipped them open. Each contained a medal and a length of ribbon to hold it. “Erin McKenna and Alexander Banich, it is my great privilege to award you each with the Medal of Freedom — the highest civilian honor a grateful nation can bestow.”
Blushing now, Erin and Alex bent their heads one after the other, allowing him to slip the medals over their necks.
Then, amazingly enough, the President seemed embarrassed himself. “Of course, I have to ask for them back before you leave.” He grinned, shamefaced. “Since we don’t exactly want the whole world to know just how that old bastard Kaminov met his very timely end, your awards are classified Top Secret!”
Erin couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. Giving you a medal you couldn’t talk about or show off was just so typical of the way the government worked.
The President laughed with her. He stopped her when she tried to apologize. “No need for that, Ms. McKenna! You’re absolutely right. I only hope you’ll let me offer you something more concrete. Not exactly a reward, though. Just another chance to do more hard work for your country.”
She nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“Good. I’d like to send you to Great Britain. To work as a senior staffer on the U.S. delegation to the London Conference.” He sounded pleased. “Ross Huntington needs a trade expert — especially someone skilled at stripping away phony numbers and deceptive claims.”
The President arched a skeptical eyebrow. “The world may be singing songs of goodwill and fellowship right now, but neither Ross nor I believe we’ve reached the Millennium. There are still going to be people and countries out there who bear close watching.”
Erin and Alex both nodded. There was plenty of proof of that everywhere you looked. Still, progress was being made. Right now, for example, the newspapers and television news programs were full of revelations from Paris. Even killing Desaix to shut him up hadn’t saved the hard-line elements of the French secret services. If anything, his murder seemed to have energized the Sixth Republic’s investigations. Every passing day saw new details of the old French government’s unsavory, often illegal, doings come to light. Dozens of high-and middle-ranking DGSE officials were either under arrest or in forced retirement. For the first time in decades, it appeared that France might actually gain control over its shadowy “government within a government.”
The President looked toward Alex. “As for you, Mr. Banich, I think we’d both agree that your days as a field agent are numbered.”
The CIA officer nodded slowly. He’d known that ever since Soloviev penetrated his cover, but it was still hard to accept that he’d been locked out of the covert game forever.
The President watched him carefully. “How would you like a posting as a chief of station?”
Erin’s heart sank. She knew this was a big step for Alex — one he richly deserved. But it also meant he would soon be stationed at another embassy far away from her and far too busy for close contact. Slowly, inexorably, they would drift apart over time — each consumed by his or her own work. She turned away, unwilling to influence his decision by letting him see her sadness. She didn’t really have a claim on him — not yet.
Then the President went on with just the faintest suggestion of a twinkle in his eyes. “I understand you’re a skilled linguist, Mr. Banich. That you’re fluent in Russian, Ukrainian, and several other languages?”
“Yes, sir.”
The President nodded. “Thought so. That’s why I think it’s high time you polished up your English skills.” He grinned. “Walt Quinn and I want you to take over the London Station at the end of this month. I hope you’ll accept.”
Banich grinned back. “You can count on it, Mr. President!”
Erin turned toward him, her own eyes sparkling. London was one of the CIA’s most important and prestigious posts. Better yet, it meant that they would be together, after all.
Jack Ward sighed and looked around his new office. Although his retirement was still three months away, he’d decided to rent an office as soon as he was transferred to shore duty. It had just enough paneling and thick-enough carpets to be comfortable without appearing ostentatious. Compared to the steel bulkheads of a navy warship, it was luxurious.
He sat behind the desk, studying the still-empty walls and empty in-basket. There wasn’t much to do yet, but he enjoyed the idleness. After running the biggest U.S. naval force since World War II and seeing too many men and ships die, he could appreciate a little boredom.
Many of his friends were still surprised that he’d decided to retire. If he’d stayed in the navy, he would have been a shoo-in for the next chief of naval staff, the highest-ranking job in the fleet. But the CNS slot was a thankless task, an administrator’s job with no command function at all.
Ward knew he was an “operator,” and being a wartime fleet commander was as high as he could ever want to rise. It was time to get out while he was still ahead.
There was still a lot to do. There were the obligatory memoirs. Writing those would take a year or two. There was that cabin on the Carolina shore that he’d promised Elizabeth and himself. Navy men spent far too much time away from their families, and now he was going to take some of that time back.
The phone rang, startling him a little. Just installed, few people had the number. Probably his wife.
It rang a second time. Ward picked it up, expecting to hear Elizabeth’s voice.
“Admiral, it’s Ross Huntington. Your wife said I could reach you here.”
“That’s right,” Ward answered, surprised. The admiral was still only vaguely aware of Huntington’s role during the war, except that he was very close to the President. Since the war, though, the papers had been full of stories about the London Conference and its organizer. He was delighted to hear from Huntington, and a little flattered. His friend’s voice was strong and full of energy, which also pleased Ward.