Huntington shook his head at that. At least Americans could still put food on their family tables. That made them fortunate compared to most of the world’s population. Africa and both Central and South America lay mired in unpaid debts, deadly disease, utter poverty, and political upheaval. Asia, except for Japan, South Korea, and a few others, wasn’t in much better shape. Even Europe’s proud, industrialized nations teetered on the brink of economic collapse, kept afloat only by frantic government spending, subsidized production, and wishful thinking.
A jarring bounce and the sudden roar of reversed engines interrupted his own depressing thoughts. They were down.
Overhead speakers crackled to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Washington’s Dulles International Airport. On behalf of the captain and your entire flight crew…”
Huntington tuned out the standard announcement he’d heard several hundred times before, waiting patiently while the 747 taxied off the runway toward the soaring steel and glass terminal building that was the airport’s trademark. Patience was a virtue he’d been forced to acquire in late middle age, and he still found his willingness to sit calmly somewhat surprising.
Certainly none of his former employees or shareholders would have described him as a patient man. Far from it. They’d have said he was hard-charging, aggressive, and often painfully blunt. And they would have been right.
Business Week had once called him “the CEO with a linebacker’s body, a first-rate mind, and a sailor’s mouth.” Those characteristics had helped him transform his family’s aging, tradition-riddled machine-tools firm into one of the country’s most profitable small corporations. They’d also nearly killed him.
At forty-nine, he’d been a driving, dynamic businessman. But he’d celebrated his fiftieth birthday in intensive care, felled by a massive heart attack brought on by stress and overwork. His recovery had been slow and painful, and his doctors hadn’t given him many choices. Retire immediately or face a likely sudden death. The frightened look on his wife’s face left him with only one real alternative. He’d turned the CEO slot over to his oldest daughter and settled into what he considered slower, quieter pursuits.
Other men in his position played golf or bridge or took up painting. Ross Huntington had other interests. Political interests.
He was one of the first passengers out the jumbo jet’s forward cabin door. Flying first-class had its compensations, and beating the mad rush through carry-on-bag-choked aisles was the one he prized most. That and the extra legroom it offered. At six feet two inches tall, Huntington believed coach seats could only have been designed with midgets and screaming children in mind. Personal wealth let him indulge his height.
As he left the jetway and headed for customs, a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit intercepted him.
“Mr. Huntington?”
“That’s right.” He slowed his pace, looking down at the man out the corner of his eye. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”
“Rawlins, sir. Secret Service.” The man fished a wallet-shaped identity card out of his jacket, flipped it open, and showed it to him.
Huntington stopped in the middle of the hallway, standing still while other travelers flowed past him like water around a well-worn rock.
The card showed Rawlins’ picture and looked real enough. He handed it back. “Well?”
The Secret Service agent nodded toward an unmarked exit. “No need to go through customs, sir. We’ve already cleared you. And there’s a car waiting downstairs.”
They wanted him in a hurry, then. Damn. He’d been looking forward to a nap and hot shower at his hotel first. Twenty hours of practically nonstop traveling left their mark on anyone. “What about my bags?”
“All arranged, sir. Our people will deliver them for you.” Rawlins paused. “Was there anything in them you need this afternoon?”
Huntington shook his head. Everything he’d need for this meeting was already crammed into his overtired brain or his scuffed leather briefcase. Unfortunately. He’d left for Europe with high hopes and expectations. And he was coming back with a fat lot of nothing.
The sour knowledge of failure stayed with him all the way to the waiting official car and the White House.
The antechamber outside the Oval Office looked oddly empty. The room was usually crowded — packed with important political contributors, a championship sports team, or a scouting troop waiting their turn for a quick picture with the nation’s chief executive. Now it contained only the President’s personal secretary, busy behind her desk, and his military aide, stiff and formal in full uniform. It took Huntington several seconds to realize what that meant. The President must have cleared his normal afternoon schedule just to hear what he had to say.
Wonderful.
He squared his shoulders and walked straight through the door. Old friend or not, these next few moments weren’t likely to be pleasant.
The President looked up from a mass of paperwork. Two years into his first term, the optimistic, “can do” attitude that had first attracted the American electorate was still there, but it was beginning to look a little frayed around the edges. And the broad shoulders and thick, muscled neck that had served him well as a younger man on the football field were hunched now — bowed down by the weight of constant battles with the same isolationist special interests that had wrecked the economy and sent his predecessor packing. The United States had already had two one-term presidents in this decade. If things didn’t improve soon, he would be the third. Despite that, an easy smile formed on a square-jawed face that still looked boyish beneath his gray hair. “Ross! How was your flight?”
“Long.” Huntington dropped into a chair in front of the desk.
“Yeah. Sorry about the rush. But you may have guessed that I’m kinda curious to hear how things went.” The President stabbed a button on his phone. “Maria? Would you call State for me and ask Thurman to step around later this evening? Nothing formal. Just for a drink or two. Tell him Ross Huntington’s back in town. He’ll know what I mean.”
Huntington eyed him curiously. “You sure that’s wise?”
Harris Thurman, the Secretary of State, was a stickler for protocol and established diplomatic procedure. He hadn’t liked anything about the President’s plan to use a longtime family friend as an unofficial, off-the-record envoy. In fact, Huntington remembered one memo that opened with the phrase “ill-considered” and ended with the dire prediction that “amateur meddling will only make matters worse.”
Straight white teeth flashed as the President grinned. “My esteemed Secretary of State has long since seen the error of his ways. He’s one of your biggest fans now.”
“Oh?”
The President nodded. “I showed him copies of the letters I sent with you. Took the starch right out of him.”
Huntington could understand that. Communications between heads of state were usually wrapped in gauzy, vague phrases of mutual respect and warm admiration. The handwritten note to the French President hadn’t contained anything remotely resembling diplomatic language. Neither had the missive addressed to Germany’s Chancellor. Thurman, undoubtedly horrified by their tone, was probably grateful that they’d been delivered outside official channels and without his sanction.