by Tim Tigner
Wiley kept his eyes steady, his face void of emotion. “I landed on my feet.”
“Indeed you did. Director of the FBI—that’s not a bad consolation prize. Still, handing the keys to the Governor’s mansion over to that snot-nosed tree-hugger had to hurt.”
“What’s your point, Mark?”
“Relax,” Mark Abrams said, his jowls bouncing grotesquely as he patted Wiley on the shoulder. “We’re on your side. In fact, we invited you here to make you an offer.”
Rather than ask, Wiley wedged his cigar in his mouth and raised his chin. He did not like being led down the primrose path, toyed with, or manipulated—even by billionaires. Let them get on with it.
Abrams looked him dead in the eye and locked his gaze. Without looking away he said, “How would you like to be President?”
“Of the United States?” Wiley blurted back, sending his Cohiba to the teak decking.
Mark Abrams, the head of Armed Services Industrial Supply and arguably the most powerful of the three CEO’s present, flashed him a tight-lipped smile but did not say a word.
Wiley cringed inside, berating himself for his sophomoric slip even as he struggled to regain his composure. He shifted his gaze to Mark Rollins. Then to Mark Drake. And finally back to Mark Abrams. “What do I have to do?” He asked.
“Commit.” Abrams replied without pause.
Wiley knew that he had asked the right question. Abrams’ tone was stern but he was secretly pleased. Wiley could tell. He sensed the relief of a man who had just drawn to an inside strait.
“Irrevocably,” Rollins added. “You need to commit irrevocably—both upfront and blind—that you will see the campaign through to the end.”
In silence, Wiley studied Rollins, CEO of the gigantic defense conglomerate that bore his name. Rollins was the tallest of his three hosts, and like Drake was thinner than Abrams by half. None of them were puppy dogs, but Wiley sensed a genuine cruel streak in Rollins. His pampered features were pleasant enough, but the man had evil in his eyes.
Mark Drake jumped into the conversational void. “The problem is this, Mister Director. Even with all the technological advances coming from companies like ours, there is still only one means available for untelling something.” He lowered his voice. “A most-primitive means.”
“So before you reveal your plans, I have to sign a blank check,” Wiley summarized.
“Precisely.” The three Marks spoke as one.
Their proposition was clearly take-it-or-leave-it but Wiley was not sure he wanted to know what either taking it or leaving it would mean. He shifted positions surreptitiously to scan the floor behind the bar for a bucket of wet concrete. Drake and his fellow defense contractors clearly were not referring to money when they spoke of a check. Wiley wished they were.
“That check has just three words on it,” Abrams added, picking up on Wiley’s thoughts. “And we need to hear you say them, aloud and with conviction, before we proceed.”
Wiley raised his eyebrows in query.
The Three Marks—Abrams, Drake, and Rollins—clarified slowly and in unison while Stuart looked on in satisfied silence. “Whatever … it … takes.”
Wiley took a deep breath. He thought of the White House—east and west wings—and of traveling on Air Force One. He pictured the red carpets, the gala dinners, and the saluting Marines. He thought of the power. He thought about what it would be like to literally be able to summon anybody in the world to spend the weekend with him at Camp David. The offer The Three Marks made might come with a price, but Wiley doubted that there was a man alive who could resist signing that check.
As he repeated the three fateful words, never in a million years would he have guessed that the first victim of that pledge would be Cassi …
~ ~ ~
“You’re looking pale,” Stuart said, jerking Wiley back from memory lane. The man had slid into the armchair across from him without Wiley’s notice.
Wiley turned his eyes to meet his campaign manager’s, but did not comment.
“What could be so urgent,” Stuart continued, “that it could not wait until tomorrow and yet was not important enough for you to think of when we met this morning?”
Wiley hardly considered Stuart’s midnight invasion of his home a meeting, but he needed a congenial atmosphere, so he let that discrepancy pass. He leaned back and tented his fingers contemplatively before he spoke hoping to get Stuart to do the same. “I want you to reconsider your position on Cassi.”
Stuart did mirror his posture, leaning further back into the burgundy leather to digest the request, but he made no verbal comment.
“I’ll grant you that her height is a problem,” Wiley continued, “but I think it’s less of a liability than going into this race single would be. I don’t have to tell you that the public wants a family man in the Oval Office.”
Stuart seemed to ponder the words for a moment, and then he leaned back into the conversation. “Historically, you’re right. But times are changing. More and more voters are single. The divorce rate has topped fifty percent. The average American voter is personally aware of the tradeoff between work and family. Most female executives have had to sacrifice family for their careers. With the pump thus primed, it’s easy to argue that twenty-first century America needs the undivided attention of its President. Your bachelor status could actually be an advantage. There’s certainly plenty of room for spin.”
As Stuart snatched his best arrow from the air and snapped it over his knee, Wiley felt despair creeping back into the crevices of his soul where seconds before he had nurtured hope. But he was not ready to fold, not yet. “You might be right, but you might be wrong. Surely you will agree that it would be better if we didn’t have to take the chance?”
Stuart nodded once, but remained silent. He wanted more.
“I want you to meet Cassi. Get a feel for her. I think she could add a lot to the campaign. She is a psychologist and a negotiator. She is bright as the sun and she glows under pressure. Women will admire her. Men will respect her. Even kids will like her. She’s gutsy—practically a hero. Talk about potential for spin ...”
Stuart shook his head. “Her image isn’t nearly as important as what she does to your image. You’re the one who needs the votes, not her. She diminishes you when you need to appear larger than life.”
“And I’m saying that, despite the height, I look better next to her. See for yourself. Join us for brunch tomorrow.”
Rather than dismissing the suggestion outright as Wiley had feared, Stuart stared at him for a minute in silence. Wiley could practically see the wheels spinning behind those dark eyes. He felt a surge of hope. Time passed. The fireplace crackled and a log fell. Finally Stuart spoke up.
“All right. I’ll take a look. I’ll meet you for brunch with an open mind. But if I say no after seeing the two of you together, she’s gone. No rebuttal. No tears. Agreed?”
Wiley sensed that this tenuous capitulation was the best deal he would get. He feared that it would not be enough. Once again he was facing a point of no return. He gave a parting glance to the life he used to know and then he said it. “Agreed.”
Chapter 9
Alexandria, Virginia
CASSI CONTINUED CHANNELING her frustration into sit-ups even though she was well past a hundred. At least trimmer abs would help to camouflage her condition, she thought, grasping for consolation. It looked like she was going to need it. She paused to wipe the sweat from her brow and ended up shaking her head in frustration. Despite her instincts all signaling to the contrary, Wiley had let her down again.
She had been positive that last night was finally going to be the night. Absolutely certain. The timing would have been poetic—coming the very day she learned that she was pregnant. Her intuition wasn’t just the wishful thinking of a desperate woman’s romantic mind, she told herself. All the signs had been there. He had reserved a prime table at La Chancery, an elegant, intimate restaurant with exquisite French cuisine. He
had confirmed her availability not once but three times. And he had shown interest in what she was planning to wear. Those were objective indicators, right? Plus she had seen him fumbling in his left pants pocket a dozen times of late, as though fondling a little treasure. A ring perhaps? God, she hated to catch herself reading into everything like a pathetic schoolgirl. She wiped more sweat from her brow. She had already been in her gown when he called to cancel. “I’m sorry Hon,” was all he had said for an apology. “It’s urgent business.”
He had not even congratulated her on her successful negotiation with Elvis.
Gripping the receiver with flustered fingers, she had wanted to scream, to yell, “You promised!” But instead she gracefully offered to cook him a gourmet brunch in the morning. By her reckoning, he had paused a second too long before accepting. But he had said yes. Thus far she had taken everything Wiley had told her at face value. If he had said no, she admitted to herself with not a little shame, she would have spent the night searching for the other woman.
Although their discussion was twelve hours ago, her resentment still burned. She knew that it was the job and not Wiley that was to blame. She understood fully well that resentment was a negative, destructive emotion. But she could not help it. She was a six-foot-one, north-of-thirty woman with a PhD and a badge. Single men who could cope with and complement that combination were rare as honest politicians.
Cassi looked at her watch and berated herself. As a result of her neurosis, he was just fifteen minutes away and she was all worked up and sweaty. Jumping to her feet she caught sight of her panting form in the mirror. It struck her that a good brunch could be even more intimate than a candle-lit dinner—given the right music, a cozy atmosphere, and the proper state of undress.
She ran through the shower and then applied a dusting of makeup and a dab of perfume before slipping back into the cream silk pajamas she had been wearing an hour earlier. The lingerie was not particularly revealing in the classic sense, but it hugged her in all the right places. She had found that there was something about the way flesh bounced under silk that attracted men’s eyes like a fishing lure. Twirling before the mirror she decided to go for broke and leave all but one of the buttons undone. She might as well show off her flat stomach while she could. As an afterthought she grabbed the bottoms from a pair of pajamas that Wiley had left in her closet but never worn. Then she ran to the kitchen. She would suggest that he change.
To her own astonishment, Cassi had the candles burning and Norah Jones singing before the doorbell rang. It was amazing what you could accomplish given the proper motivation. She tossed her hair to give it extra body, checked the lie of her top, and opened the door with a sultry “Good morning.”
Wiley was not alone.
“Good morning yourself,” Wiley said, kissing her cheek. “Cassi, allow me to introduce Stuart.”
The third wheel held out his hand. “Stuart Slider.”
Stuart struck Cassi as either a European gymnast or a wrestler, but given that he was with Wiley, she knew that he was neither. He wore black Bally loafers, black jeans, and a black sweater that hugged his compact but muscular frame like the label on a bottle of Guinness. She recognized his casual appearance as being anything but. That man had given serious thought to his wardrobe, carefully crafting his image.
She disliked him at first sight.
Cassi shielded herself with the door as they entered so that she could discreetly button her top. When she turned back around after locking the door, Stuart held out a magnum bottle of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label with a manicured hand while giving her a look that made her think that he could see through silk.
“Why thank you,” she said. “How considerate.”
“Stuart is an old friend passing through town,” Wiley said. “He called last night, but as you know, I was too busy to catch up. So I took the liberty of inviting him along this morning. I hope you don’t mind?” As he finished he apparently noted her pajamas for the first time and added. “I suppose I should have called.”
“No problem,” she said. “We’re casual here. As you can see, I’m running a bit behind. If you’ll grab some champagne flutes from the cupboard and set one more place, I’ll run to the bedroom to change.”
~ ~ ~
Wiley and Stuart did most of the talking during brunch. Cassi had the oddest feeling throughout that they were putting on a show, although for the life of her she could not fathom why. Adding to the strange atmosphere, she could not escape the feeling that Stuart was studying her—not as a sex object, but more as a rival. She never caught him in the act, and when he addressed her their conversation was pleasant enough, but for some reason she still felt the urge to smack those rimless silver spectacles off his taught face. That was not fair of her, she knew. It was Wiley who had done the inviting, so if she was going to be mad at anyone it should be him. But even for a psychologist, logic was not always emotion’s master. She wondered if the emotional rollercoaster she had been riding these past twelve hours was the pregnancy hormones kicking in. If so, she was looking at eight long months.
The other odd thing about Stuart was that he kept taking pictures of her with Wiley. He explained it away as his hobby, his passion really was how he put it. But Cassi was not convinced. Stuart did not strike her as a passionate man.
Cassi made an effort to take her mind off analysis and back to the conversation at hand, but it was hopeless. The topics they selected were at once too deep for Sunday brunch and yet too shallow for her mood. What did she think about foreign troop deployment? Was she a defender of the second amendment? When they shifted to a woman’s right to choose she would have choked on the champagne had she not been just pretending to sip. Rather than answer she excused herself to urgent business in the kitchen.
Since she could not suddenly begin refusing alcohol without provoking the obvious question, Cassi had decided to fake it. At the table she raised the glass to her lips without actually drinking. Then she would surreptitiously soak up half her flute with her napkin and exchange the napkin for a fresh one each time she went to the kitchen. She was pleased with herself for devising such a clever ruse.
As she returned to the table with warm cinnamon rolls, Stuart turned to watch her approach and said, “I’ve heard of lofts, of course, but I’ve never actually been in one before. How long have you lived here?”
“I moved in right after graduate school, so I guess that makes it six years.”
Stuart nodded. “I figured that you had been here a while. I notice that you’ve been watching the kids playing at the daycare center across the street. I get the impression from the emotions crossing your face that you know some of them. Am I right?”
Stuart was an observant one, Cassi thought. Perhaps he really was an avid photographer. She nodded abstractly to buy herself some time. She did not feel like revealing anything about herself to this guy. On the other hand she did not want the conversation to lapse back into politics either. After pondering her options for a moment, she decided to risk exposing a bit of her soul to Stuart in order to see what Wiley’s reaction would be to her discussion of kids. “Actually I do know them. The red haired one with boots is David. He likes pretending to be tough although he’s really a coward. The girl with the pink glasses on the swing next to him is Rita. She falls down a lot but never cries. The little cutie in the yellow coat hanging from the jungle gym is Sammy. He’s the clown. He uses humor to hide the insecurity he feels because he still wets his pants. The girl by herself on the bench is Sara. She’s not interested in their games. It’s because she’s smarter than the others but the ironic result is that she feels inadequate.” Cassi saw Wiley looking at her with wide eyes and stopped.
“How do you know them?” He asked.
She shrugged. “They’re out there every weekend. Sometimes I sit and watch them as I drink my morning tea.”
“So how did you learn their names?” Stuart asked.
“Oh, those aren’t their real names—just the
ones I use.”
“Cassi was a child psychologist before joining the Behavioral Sciences Unit,” Wiley added.
Cassi faked a sip of champagne to occupy her mouth. When her former career came up, people usually wanted to know why she switched. It was a story she did not like to tell. Stuart seemed to sense that, and did not ask. Instead he inclined his head toward the daycare center and said, “It’s kind of sad if you think about it. They should be spending their weekends with their parents.”
It was a much more sensitive comment than she would have expected from him, Cassi thought. Perhaps there was a heart beneath Stuart Slider’s dark veneer. As she contemplated that unexpected twist, he refilled their champagne flutes.
“Speaking of morning tea,” she said, “I’ll go brew some.” Standing, she followed Stuart’s gaze. He was looking at her hand as she reached for her flute and nodding to himself almost imperceptibly. He looked up suddenly to catch her expression. She felt the lining drop out of her stomach as their eyes locked. The flute slipped from her grasp but Cassi instantly forgot it. Stuart knew.
Chapter 10
Tafriz, Iran
FEELING HUMILIATED AND infuriated, Odi watched from behind a sandy knoll as his team disappeared into the inky Iranian night. For a second he considered tracking their progress further with the assistance of his Urtel sniper scope, but the thought of having to look in from the outside like a wannabe voyeur just rubbed salt in his wounds. He shook his head. What had Potchak gained by relieving him of command? He asked himself for the dozenth time. A lousy ten minutes? Ten minutes that might have made the difference between eliminating terrorists and murdering kids? Was it extreme urgency that drove Potchak’s severe reaction? Or was Odi missing something? He could not get his head around the incredible stupidity required to make a decision like that. It just did not compute. Potchak was a hard-ass, but he was no fool.