She tossed her hair and gave him a quick smile. “And you’re wonderful,” she lied. He wanted to believe her but knew the truth. She might have shared his bed, but his performance had been strictly platonic. He had gotten a good night’s sleep, though. She concentrated on the omelet.
“How’s things at NSA these days?” he asked, finally coming to the heart of the matter.
Again the toss of the hair. “I thought you’d never ask, not after last time. You seemed so uninterested.” She gave him a concerned look. “I was afraid you’d tell the agency about…well, you know.”
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe. “Using NSA to monitor domestic phone calls can be hazardous to your health.” Without a word she padded out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. She was back in a moment and handed him another cassette before she went back to the omelet. “How much for this one?” he asked, dropping it into a pocket. She shook her head as she studied the omelet in the pan. “Why?” he asked.
She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Because Leland’s a bastard.” She flipped the omelet onto a dish and handed it to him.
He took a bite. “This is good.” She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck while he tried to balance the plate in one hand behind her. He felt her tears on his cheek. “Now, what’s this, doll?”
“What’s wrong, Patrick?”
“Not to worry,” he told her. “I’ll be okay.” She held on to him, and he could feel her heartbeat through the thin shirt.
“Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” his secretary said. Shaw grunted his usual answer, not surprised to find her at work so early. The war and impending election had made Sunday just another workday for the White House staff, and the West Wing hummed with quiet but purposeful activity. “Your desk is ready.” He stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee, surprising the woman. “I would have gotten that, Mr. Shaw.” He gave her a little nod and carried the mug through to his office. “Well, I never,” she murmured to herself. Shaw was not his normal dictatorial, demanding self. She decided he must be sick.
Shaw balanced the mug while he inserted the cassette into the recorder he kept in his desk. He hit the play button and listened. The quality of the tape was outstanding, clearer than anything he had ever heard. “Must be the original clip,” he said to himself as he listened to the two very familiar voices of Senator John Leland and Robert Merritt, the secretary of defense.
Merritt: My investigators say the note they found in the DCI’s chair was not his handwriting.
Leland: But it was the Web site for a child-pornography ring?
Merritt: That’s correct.
Leland: And it was written on paper from his notepad?
Merritt: True.
Leland: Then how in the hell did it get there?
Merritt: We have absolutely no idea. But Security monitored a phone call from a public phone in the Pentagon about that Web site — after the DCI’s suicide. This whole thing stinks. I’m telling you, don’t use it.
Leland: Damn. A child-pornography ring in Turner’s administration, and I’ve got to sit on it. (A long pause.) That’s why he blew his brains out, wasn’t it? He was about to be outed. She forced him to it, didn’t she?
Merritt: That won’t wash, Senator. There’s a simpler explanation. We discovered that the DCI was self-medicating for depression and he was under pressure. I’m telling you, don’t go there.
The tape ended. Shaw hit the eject button and dropped the cassette back into his pocket. “Go there, Senator,” he urged. He settled back into his chair and played with ways to make that happen. The headache that would never completely go away surged back, making him sick to his stomach. He tasted the omelet he had for breakfast as he fought the nausea. He reached for the pills in his desk but stopped short. He knew the side effects. An inner clock told him it was time to step aside. “Not yet,” he whispered.
The intercom buzzed. “The election committee is meeting with the president in two minutes,” his secretary reminded him.
A shaky hand punched at the intercom. “Tell Bobbi Jo to start without me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He gave Bobbi Jo Reynolds high marks for the way she was managing the minute-by-minute details of the campaign, and there was no doubt she was ready to step in. At least he had done that right. He breathed deeply, forcing the headache and nausea to yield. But each attack was worse than the one before. He came to his feet and headed for the Oval Office, five minutes late.
All the key players on Turner’s campaign committee were there when Shaw slipped into the room. The president nodded at him as he sat down, and then turned her attention back to Bobbi Jo. “Leland and his boy are scoring unanswered points,” Bobbi Jo said, “and it’s costing us in the polls. We’re down by five-point-six, well outside the margin of error. The media is picking up on his claim that you’re a prisoner of the White House, totally overwhelmed by the war.” She consulted her notes. “Leland knows about the diplomatic initiative to split Iran or Syria off. He also knows it didn’t work. He’s going to hit us with that. It’s only a matter of time.” She paused. “We need to be preemptive — the sooner the better. I’m thinking maybe we challenge him to an unscheduled debate. Only this time on short notice, here in the White House. Say, tomorrow night, so they won’t have time to prepare.”
“Why?” Shaw asked.
“That turkey,” Bobbi Jo said, refusing to call David Grau by his name, “can’t think on his feet. Without his handlers prepping him, he’ll step all over his itty-bitty schwanz.”
Shaw let out a loud guffaw, now certain Bobbi Jo was ready. He liked the idea, but it needed a little fine-tuning. “First, they’ll refuse. When they do, simply point out, very publicly, that if he can’t handle a debate on short notice, how in hell can he cope with the crises he’ll encounter every day in the White House? Second, they won’t do it here, not in the White House. Give in on that point, but make it nearby, maybe at Georgetown University. Third, pass the word to the press corps not to jump on any bandwagons after it’s over. When Leland hears that, he’ll interpret it as a sign of weakness. That might make him more amenable to hold the debate. Finally, it’s all in the timing.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe if I can have a word with you afterward, Madam President?”
Turner nodded, and Shaw waited patiently until the meeting was over. At last, he was alone with Turner and Parrish, her chief of staff. “The debate’s a good idea,” Shaw told them. “Do it twenty-four hours before you open a second front.”
“What’s the downside?” Parrish asked.
“The media might think we deliberately sandbagged them,” Turner answered, looking at Shaw. “That’s why the warning to the press about bandwagons. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Her eyes filled with worry. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Gettin’ by, Mizz President. Gettin’ by.” The headache and nausea were back.
The nondescript SUV turned off the Manassas Bypass and crossed the railroad tracks. The onboard navigation and communications system flashed at the driver, telling her that she was cleared to approach the meeting place. She slowed and turned down a country lane, taking her two passengers to a meeting that all would claim until their dying day never took place. Yet, as in the flow of so many events, it was central to everything that would follow, and would elude historians in their quest for the truth. But for the players the judgment of history would have to take a backseat to a more critical need. It wasn’t that Bernie Butler believed that the ends justified the means — he knew what that could lead to — but that secrecy was critical to success.