Then she rubbed up against him and again, her fingers moved down his shirt, almost accidentally dropping lower. As she did, she felt his erection pulse through the fabric and saw a stricken look in his eyes. A premature ejaculation. Mana stood there, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, she hated what she was doing. “Come inside,” she told him. “You can use my bathroom.” She caught a glimpse of Habish watching them through a slightly opened door down the hall.
Time to get rid of the bimbo, Thomas Fraser thought as he watched the young woman go through the motions of making coffee. But, damn, she’s good in the sack. Fraser settled into an elegant wing chair, appreciating the expensive, immaculate apartment. This place is too classy for her, he decided, no reason for me to keep her here.
The President’s chief of staff was a very contented man, enjoying the prerogatives of power and money. A buzz at the door chased any pleasant thoughts away and brought him back to reality.
The woman checked the TV monitoring the hall and gathered her peignoir around her. “It’s your chauffeur,” she said.
“Well, open the goddamn door.” He didn’t care that her wrap was almost transparent. She did as he ordered.
“Mr. Fraser,” his driver said, “I got a call from the office on the car telephone looking for you. They say you haven’t been answering your page and need you immediately.”
“Who called?”
“Don’t know, sir. A woman.”
“Probably Courtney-Smith,” he growled, searching for his pager. He found it under the couch where he had kicked it when the girl had teasingly undressed him the night before. “Goddamn it!” he roared, blaming the young woman. “You stupid bitch, why were you screwing around with my page? Get out and be long gone before I get back.”
Well, he decided as he waddled to the elevator, that solves one problem.
Melissa Courtney-Smith was standing by at her desk holding a neatly assembled file when Fraser burst into his office in the west wing of the White House. It was 7:58 in the morning and he was two minutes early. “What the hell’s happening?” he shouted.
“The President,” Melissa calmly replied, “called for a meeting at eight o’clock in the Situation Room with the National Security Council.”
Fraser grabbed the file and bolted from the office, furious that a meeting had been scheduled without his consent. “Why wasn’t I told?” he snapped.
“We’ve been trying to contact you for an hour,” she said, easily matching his pace down the steps to the basement.
“What shit has hit what fan?” he demanded.
“Sorry, sir,” she lied, “the President doesn’t confide in me.” Melissa had slipped a one-page memo from Bill Carroll into Pontowski’s read file the night before. She had attached a note saying she thought he would be interested and initialed it with her distinctive “M.” The President rose early every morning and read the file while he took his first cup of coffee. At seven o’clock, Zack Pontowski had walked into her office, handed her the memo and ordered the meeting for eight o’clock. She ran the memo through the shredder at her desk.
Fraser was the last person to enter the room and the Marine guard closed the door behind him. Inside the windowless fifteen-by twenty-foot room with the President, Fraser switched to a calm and genial personality. “Sorry, Mr. President, I just heard. Got to give my staff credit for tracking me down so fast.” It was what President Pontowski would have wanted to hear.
“Glad you made it, Tom. Okay, gentlemen, I want to take a hard look at what’s happening in the Middle East. I’m seeing things that disturb me and I don’t want to be caught by something coming at us from out in left field. We may have to work out some new policy initiatives.”
The director of central intelligence exchanged a puzzled look with the national security adviser, the man who headed the National Security Council. Neither of them was aware of any unusual activity in the Middle East. Still, the President had sent them a distinct signal that he was worried. Why else the hastily called meeting? Since the DCI was the overseer and coordinator of all United States intelligence functions, he took the lead. “Sir, we haven’t monitored anything unusual or threatening. Our analysts are on top of it. Perhaps if you could tell us what’s bothering you …”
“I want to know exactly what’s going on between the Syrians and Egyptians,” Pontowski told him. “I suspect there’s more to that mutual assistance treaty … I want to know if Iraq is a player … We’ve worked too hard to create a stable Iraq and deny them any significant military capability … And I would like some answers by this afternoon.”
The secretary of state chimed in. “Our observer at the negotiations reports all is in good order.” Pontowski only looked at him. The secretary got the message. “I’ll cable him to start digging and get his staff in gear.”
Fraser’s jaw was rigidly clamped and he worked not to grind his teeth. Nothing, he raged inwardly, was happening in the Middle East to warrant this much attention. Or was something going on he didn’t know about? Who had gotten to him? What were his sources? Don’t get paranoid, he cautioned himself. Pontowski does read three or four newspapers every morning. Maybe he stumbled onto something there. Rather than betray his irritation, Fraser decided to cool it and let others take the lead until he could control the situation.
Admiral Scovill, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, caught Pontowski’s attention. “Sir, I’ll get the DIA over here and find out what they’ve got. If there’s anything unusual going on, they’ll know.”
“Oh come off it,” the director of central intelligence protested. “The Defense Intelligence Agency gets its information from the CIA and the NSA. What would they have that’s so damn unusual? And if they’ve found something, why haven’t we all seen it?”
“Good question,” the admiral answered. “Let’s shake the tree and see what falls out.” A warning kept tickling at the back of his mind that the Middle East was going to become unhinged again. The admiral had played a key part in the logistics buildup that helped force Iraq out of Kuwait and had later counseled that the drawdown of forces from Saudi Arabia following the successful conclusion of the war, leaving only a small trip-wire force in Kuwait and massive military stockpiles in the Saudi desert, was premature. But the current Iraqi government had sent strong signals through the CIA that they would live in peace with their neighbors. The strength of the CIA’s endorsement suggested that the “boys from up the river” had an insider’s knowledge of what was going on. The United States and the world were all too ready to abandon the shifting political sands of the Middle East deserts for the safe bedrock of domestic politics. Situation normal, Admiral Scovill thought, all fucked up.
Fraser looked up as if he had received a sudden inspiration. “Mr. President, is there some person you’d like to talk to, a recognized expert in the field?” Maybe there’s a clue there, he thought.
Pontowski shook his head and stood up. Every eye was on him as he paced the room, a sure sign that he was upset. “I want peace in the Middle East,” he said, his voice controlled and gentlemanly. “The surest way to bring that about is to create stability and prosperity in the region. That’s why I’m so hopeful about the Syrian-Egyptian moves toward mutual assistance. With stability and prosperity, we can encourage all the parties, and that included Israel and Iraq, to sit down and hammer out a solution to their problems. But until they do sit down and talk, we’ve got to protect any progress that’s been made toward that goal or we’re right back to square one. But I’m not so foolish as to forget that when Syrians and Egyptians got together in 1973 they started the Yom Kippur War. I don’t want that happening again.”
The DCI folded his hands and spoke quietly. “There is a degree of uncertainty that we have to live with when dealing with Arabs, and I might add, the Israelis. I’m referring, of course, to the Israelis’ recent scientific tests in the Kalahari Desert with the South Africans.”
A feeling of relief swept over Fraser—the DCI had just raised a
peripheral issue that should distract Pontowski from cozying up to the current Israeli prime minister.
“Don’t get distracted,” the President said. “We don’t know the exact contours of the relationship between Israel and South Africa or what they’re doing in the Kalahari. For now, focus on Egypt, Syria, and Iraq.”
Fraser didn’t want to let the subject die. “I think the South Africans are using the Israeli lobby to push their case with Congress.”
Pontowski nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen the results of that effort before.” He pointed at Fraser. “Tom, I want you to stay on top of this and have some answers by this afternoon. Don’t leave a single stone unturned.” He walked out of the room, cutting off any further discussion, leaving a hushed and stunned group behind him.
The secretary of state broke the silence. “He’s worried.”
Fraser stood up and glared at him. “Obviously. We’ve got to sort this one out—and fast.” For the next few minutes, he demonstrated the organizational skill that made him such an asset to the President. Finally, they were ready to leave.
“Okay,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, “who presents it to the President? I’d suggest we let General Leo Cox do it. He’s the most knowledgeable man I have on the Middle East.”
Everyone readily agreed, more than willing to let the Defense Intelligence agency handle this one. “No,” Fraser said. “I want the CIA to present it.” No way I’m going to let that son of a bitch get to the President, he thought, stomping out of the room.
Back in his office, he threw the papers he was carrying at Melissa and slammed his door behind him. Once in the privacy of his own office, he paced the floor, rage and fury boiling through him. “Damn,” he growled, “I control access to the President. I set the agenda. Someone’s getting around me.” Slowly, he regained control and the shooting pains in his stomach quieted, leaving only an occasional echo to remind him of his ulcer.
The light for his private line on the phone bank flashed at him. He sat down and hesitated before answering it, making sure he was in total control. It was B. J. Allison, the CEO of one of the largest oil corporations in the United States. Allison was also a heavy contributor to any cause or campaign Fraser might suggest and heavily invested in Middle Eastern oil. “B.J.”—he forced a smile into his voice—“we’ve got to get together for lunch of dinner.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah, I got rid of the bimbo. Tomorrow night would be fine.”
4
Zack Pontowski was sitting by his wife’s bedside reading and drinking coffee when she woke up. She studied her husband for a few moments, not wanting to disturb him. We’ve been through so much together, she thought, and now you’ve got to watch me die. For a moment, she fought back her tears, not because lupus was again ravaging her body, this time attacking her skin, but because she couldn’t help him now that he had reached the pinnacle of his career. She cried because he had to carry the burden alone. When she was in firm control and the tears conquered, she moved, letting him know she was awake.
“Sleep well, Tosh?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked her. She smiled at him as he laid down the thick read file that waited for him every morning, removed his glasses, and placed a hand gently over hers. Pontowski had caught her first waking movements and had concentrated on his reading until she was in control.
“You are so vain,” she chided him. “You never let anyone see you wearing glasses.” He humphed in response. “Probably just as well,” she allowed. “Don’t need to hide those steely blue eyes.” He waited until a nurse had helped arrange her in a sitting position before handing her a cup of coffee. “Well, then,” she continued, “have you solved the world’s problems or will that take until lunch?” She believed in keeping him humble.
“Should have that done by tomorrow. Looks like a decisive power struggle is going on inside Russia.” He always told her what was occupying his attention and she had a way of keeping him focused on what was important. “Lots of turmoil inside the Kremlin.”
“Will that affect what’s going on in the Middle East?” He had shared Melissa’s memo with her the night before.
“Hard to say. It does look like Rokossovsky is in deep trouble. The old guard is fighting his economic reforms tooth and tong.”
“Tooth and toenail,” she corrected him. They both laughed although it was far from a laughing matter for Viktor Rokossovsky, the young and energetic Soviet premier.
“We got a letter from Matt,” he announced, handing her the envelope. “He’s in Marbella on vacation, whooping it up, I expect.”
“Just like his father,” she said. Pontowski waited while she read the rare note from their grandson. It was an occasion when he wrote, for Matt was like his father—an unrestrained fighter pilot, eager to party, chase women, and fly whenever he got the chance. Zack Pontowski and his wife both shared the unspoken hope that he would not die in a fiery crash like his father did—that combat would not claim the last male descendant of the Pontowski clan. “Now this is different,” she said. “He mentions a girl, a Rose Temple from Canada. Do you think our ne’er-do-well grandson may be getting serious for the first time in his life?”
“Well, he did write a letter.” Again, they both laughed.
Patience was not part of Fraser’s personality and the delay ate at him. Still, he forced himself to sit quietly in the receiving room of the mansion in the rolling hills of western Virginia that B. J. Allison called home. Even for a private dinner at home, Fraser knew that B.J. liked to make an entrance. Some “home,” Fraser decided, calculating its worth at around $19.5 million. He had missed it by less less than $200,000.
He was not disappointed by her entrance. Five minutes later, B.J. Allison swept down one of the spiraling staircases wearing a simple floor-length gown and a single diamond pendant with matching earrings. Fraser was impressed, not by the gown or diamonds, which he correctly estimated to be worth $2 million, but by the five minutes. B.J. kept governors and senators waiting seven minutes and was on time only for the President of the United States or royalty.
“Tom!” she sang out, her voice a beautiful contralto. “You do avoid me too much.” Fraser couldn’t help but smile as she took his arm and escorted him into the drawing room, the first stage in the journey to dinner. Only the eccentric with strong self-destructive tendencies or the extremely powerful willfully avoided Barbara Jo Allison. Charles de Gaulle had reportedly managed it successfully.
No one knew B.J.'s exact age, nor did they discuss it publicly, for it was the one thing the petite and elegant woman was sensitive about. Reporters could describe her as a witch, bitch, or anything else within the realm of journalistic decency with impunity. One young reporter had mentioned the rumor that she was so politically conservative that she considered Attila the Hun a flaming radical and that she had a swastika tattooed on the right cheek of her fanny. B.J. had sent a note to the reporter’s publisher telling him that the swastika was tattooed on the left cheek because it was a liberal philosophy, however misguided and amusing. The reporter’s reputation and career were made.
The one TV commentator who had speculated about her age had disappeared into obscurity within three days and later committed suicide. Fraser was wildly off when he estimated her age at sixty-six.
B.J. led Fraser through dinner with the grace and charm she had learned from her mother in Tidewater Virginia and regaled him with Washington gossip and delightful rumors. It was only in the intimacy of the library over coffee that B.J. turned to what interested her the most—oil and politics. “They tell me the President is going to press Congress to reduce the offshore oil depletion allowance. Now I think that would be most unwise, don’t you?” He readily agreed and promised that he would do what he could to change Pontowski’s mind. Neither of them mentioned that, thanks to Fraser, Allison had thrown her weight, influence, and campaign contributions behind Pontowski in the recent election.
“And the Middle East, I
do find that worrisome, don’t you?” Again, Fraser agreed, wondering what she was leading to. “Is it true that someone is telling the administration that the Syrian-Egyptian treaty is more than an agreement to spur on economic development in those two poor countries?”
Fraser almost dropped his cup. How had she learned that? What were her sources? The briefing the CIA had given Pontowski the day before was classified top-secret. He knew better than to lie. “Yes, that’s true. The Israeli secret service—”
“Yes,” she interrupted, “I know about the Mossad. I do wish they would quit meddling in my business. Secret agents, penetrations …” She stomped her foot in frustration. “Why, you’d think I was a foreign power threatening those poor unfortunate people.”
“What nonsense. If you want, I’ll tell the President that the Israelis are harassing American companies.”
“I wouldn’t trouble him for the world.” She laid on her soft southern accent, creating an illusion of helplessness. “You mustn’t listen to the ramblings of a silly old woman.”
“I should be so old,” Fraser lied and quickly changed the subject. “Mossad did pass a warning to us that the treaty is a cover for a military alliance between Egypt and Syria with a possible link to Iraq. Some of our analysts think Israel is the only logical target.”
“Ridiculous,” she snorted. “I know many Arabs and they all want peace. Why just the other day I was talking to Sheik Mohammed al-Khatub, you know, that charming man from OPEC, and he assures me that they all want peace. The Israelis are using that as a scare tactic to get more money and arms out of us.” She paused before continuing. “Tom.” She laid her hand on his arm. They had come to the crux of the meeting. “I do wish that President Pontowski and Congress would recognize that we have many other friends in the Middle East besides Israel. And I do think it’s time we let Israel sink or swim on its own, don’t you?”
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