The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  Manning replaced the receiver, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and rested his head on his cupped hands.

  Evans clearly was planning for a lot of fuss and bother in the weeks ahead. Either the White House bunfight, or the move to the new embassy would, under normal circumstances, be more than enough to keep everybody busy. Both of them occurring more or less simultaneously, and on top of normal business, had all the ingredients of a logistical nightmare.

  Manning sat up and ran his eyes over his notebook. His afternoon was more or less free. Evans had asked him to scan various invitation lists with a view to putting together a high level version for the White House reception, which, she had been led to understand, would be held on the South Lawn.

  Cutting and splicing the various theme-based lists would be enough to pass the while. Manning already knew that one or two of the long familiar reception faces were, of late, deceased. If nothing else he would be able to deliver definite news to Evans about names and faces she would not need to remember.

  Manning hit a key to reawaken his computer but as he did so his cell phone rang. He flipped it open and put the phone to his ear. He grimaced when he heard the voice, clear enough that it could be in the adjoining room.

  “I thought I said you were never to call me here,” Manning said in a near whisper.

  “It doesn't matter if it's my cell phone,” he hissed.

  “Where?” he said after a short pause.

  “Okay, all right. But this is positively the last time. After this I'm bloody well out.”

  37

  THE PLANE BANKED TO THE SOUTHWEST. Far below, the ruddy brown land and lake landscape of Labrador signaled that the Atlantic had been crossed.

  This British Airways 747 out of London's Heathrow was just one jet in the daily formation heading from Europe for the cities of the eastern United States and beyond. Its passenger manifest was made up of the usual assortment of people, all of them checked and vetted before being stowed in their seats for the transatlantic journey. Steven Pender did not stand out from the rest of them.

  Pender was staring out of the cabin window, blinking in the glare 37,000 feet above the earth's surface. He could sense the pull of America, though the plane was still a good three hours from arrival at Kennedy. Looking away from the window he contemplated the plastic cup with the remains of what had passed for tea. His eyes returned to the news magazine on his pullout table.

  The American president was pictured in the Oval Office, leaning back against the front of his desk, arms folded, the familiar determined jut to his jaw telling the world that nobody pushed him or the United States around.

  The headline, “Dollars and Sense,” was an allusion to the president's reputation for seeing the world as a place where American business interests came before even the most hallowed policies of departments such as State and Defense.

  William T. Packer, the article confirmed, was showing once again that he valued bottom line financial issues at home more than lofty foreign policy positions that many had believed were set in stone. When it came to Taipei versus Beijing, the writer was arguing that it was a matter of where the bucks accumulated rather than stopped. Right now, they were piling up fast because of new trade deals with Beijing. As a result, the reporter opined, much of the world was beginning to take the view that Taipei might be out of the loop to the point of being screwed.

  The language wasn't quite so blunt, but Pender also read things into photos. He reckoned the president's pose in the Oval Office picture said much about the man. He was, Pender had concluded, not someone to lose sleep over ditching old friends if there was a new, bigger and more powerful partner waiting in the wings. Packer was a devious operator for sure, a right ornery bastard, an enormously successful politician.

  “More tea sir.” It was more statement than question, and the stewardess was already leaning across the sleeping woman in the next seat, her metal teapot gripped firmly by her long fingers.

  Pender was diplomatic. “Just a drop thanks.” He smiled at her and she at him. She poured, but he raised his hand for her to stop before the liquid reached the top of his plastic cup.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Pender stared at the brew before his eyes turned to the cabin window. Yes, he thought, Packer was the kind of man who made enemies. And the more, the better. They would help provide the necessary cover for success in the upcoming operation.

  Pender closed the magazine and returned to his book. His eyes stared at the page but his mind was wandering. By necessity, Pender's future, his life, would be anonymous. But it stood to be comfortable and that, he decided, was no mean compensation.

  Pender was shaken from his thoughts as the aircraft shuddered. The fasten seat belts jingle carried through the cabin as the plane bobbed up and down in the unseen turbulence. The turbulence would be short lived, a crew member's reassuring voice announced on the intercom. But in the meantime the captain was advising everyone to remain seated with their seatbelts fastened.

  The shaking had awakened Pender's neighbor, an impressively-sized woman who had fussed with things in her pocketbook before falling sound asleep after the dinner service. Pender had noticed that everything the woman had done since boarding the plane had been in neat and ordered segments. She had smiled at Pender when she first sat down but had said nothing since.

  Now awake again, Pender reckoned, it would be time for her chat again.

  “Was that turbulence? I was snoozing,” the woman said, her eyes fixed on Pender's tea.

  “Oh, tea. What a good idea.”

  Pender turned and half smiled. “I highly recommend it,” he said.

  “Oh, you're English,” she replied at once. “I love the English. That was my third visit. What a wonderful, special country.”

  “There's worse, I suppose,” said Pender, his eyes returning to his tea.

  “I was visiting a friend,” the woman said. “She lives in a very nice apartment in London, or should I say a flat as you English do.”

  “Apartment's fine. Everybody speaks a little American these days,” Pender responded, more or less pleasantly.

  “Oh, but I'm not an American,” the woman said quickly. “I'm actually Canadian by birth though I have lived in the United States for most of my life. Must hold on to our heritage, I always say. I was born in a little town not too far from Toronto. And where are you from, Mister, um?”

  The woman raised her eyebrows slightly awaiting Pender's revelatory response. Pender demurred.

  “Ah, Toronto,” he said.

  The woman nodded. She wasn't giving up.

  “My name is Paula Neilson,” she said. “I live in New York, and I'm in banking, downtown, not far from where the World Trade Center towers once stood.”

  She was throwing nuggets in succession, but Pender wasn't about to give anything back in a hurry. The plane shuddered as it encountered another pocket of turbulent air. Pender lost a little of his tea.

  “Funny thing, isn't it?” he said, his eyes moving to the window, “The most turbulent air is always called clear. You wouldn't think there was anything out there at all to impede our progress. It's almost a vacuum.”

  Paula Neilson was not about to be diverted.

  “Did you say you were in Toronto? Is this your first visit to the United States?”

  Pender turned and allowed himself to half smile. “No,” he said simply.

  Paula Neilson let out a little sigh, but just as she was beginning to drift back to her bag and its eclectic contents, Pender gave her some slack. It was his habit to be parsimonious with personal information, but, yes, he did feel a little chattier in a plane. In a plane there was nowhere to go, nothing to do other than what everybody else was doing, and nothing to do about either of those limitations. Nothing, nothing, nothing; except, of course, to mentally plan out the more obscure details of the next job or take a little time to tease one's traveling companion.

  He relented.

  “My name, by the way,
is Stephen Pender. I have been in the States quite a few times, a dozen or more. Wonderful country, great places to see, charming people,” he said.

  Paula Neilson beamed.

  “And I've been to Toronto. Fun town,” he added for good measure.

  Neilson was beside herself.

  “Oh, indeed it is. I still get up there on a fairly regular basis, once or twice a year. I have cousins,” she said. She was clearly, Pender reflected, fast approaching her own version of conversational full throttle.

  Oh, what the heck; it would pass the time.

  “Yeah,” he said, “and there are some great restaurants. What's the name of that place, the French one, Gaston's?

  “Oh, I'm not sure if I know that one, but certainly there are some very good ones. Yes, Toronto is a fun place. They use it all the time for movies that are supposed to be set in New York, you know.”

  Pender nodded and smiled.

  “So I believe,” he said.

  The conversation stalled for several seconds but Paula Neilson wasn't about to let go now.

  “So, Mr. Pender, where do you stay in New York? A hotel? With friends?”

  “I have an apartment, rented for the time I'm in town,” Pender replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It's self-catering, a bit like a home away from home.”

  “Oh, yes,” Neilson replied. “That makes a lot of sense. Does it have a doorman?”

  “I have not been there before, but I believe not,” Pender said. “It's self-catering right down to letting yourself in late at night.”

  He was flirting now. He had noticed that Neilson was not wearing a wedding band and might be on the trail of an adventure. He just as quickly put thoughts of one out of his mind. This was not a pleasure trip.

  The woman's eyes were fixed on his. He could sense it. She was building up to something. They were interrupted by the stewardess who was reaching across Neilson again with Pender's tea cup, now almost drained, squarely in her sights. She knew a good customer when she saw one and was clearly intent on emptying her teapot and stowing the wretched thing away.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Pender said in his best home county, his hand covering the cup.

  The stewardess couldn't quite hide a little frown of disappointment.

  Paula Neilson released another sigh, louder this time.

  Jesus, Pender thought, I might have to use karate to keep all these women off.

  It occurred to him that over the last few years he had not enjoyed much in the way of life's more obvious pleasures. Dalliances were awkward when on the job, sometimes too high a risk. Longer term affairs were a no-no. He had no doubt that his winning ways would work on Paula Neilson well before they landed. But she would have to wait for some future traveling companion.

  Pender braced himself for the next question. He had a good idea what it would be. Neilson reached into her bag, rummaged for a few seconds and, with a small hoot of triumph, plucked a business card from its depths.

  “This is me,” she said. “If you ever need a quick loan to smooth your way through New York's French restaurants just give me a holler.”

  “Thank you,” said Pender taking the card.

  “Senior Associate, very impressive.”

  “I hate the word senior,” said Neilson. “By the way, I was meaning to ask you. What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Pender, Stephen?”

  Now it was Pender's turn to draw in a breath. He turned and fixed Paula Neilson with narrowed eyes and a half smile.

  “Very simple,” he said. “I shoot people.”

  38

  “FOUND IT.”

  Manning's voice was raspy, triumphant. He had been ever more anxiously probing a pile of briefing papers, department manuscripts, photocopied newspaper articles, features and editorials that had piled high on his desk to the point that when he sat down he could no longer see Nesbitt across the adjoining desk.

  Manning stood up, clutching his prize.

  “My favorite editorial.” He beamed. Nesbitt smiled.

  Manning was doing his best to sound cheerful. He just hoped that his colleague would not notice the effort.

  “I really turned them on this one. What's his name in the Post editorial department must have been fresh out of preschool. Christ, he hadn't even heard of the Chequers Protocol.”

  Nesbitt's smile widened. “Not surprising if it didn't exist,” he said.

  Manning sat back in his chair and read the editorial. He knew it off by heart but it was always worth another look. It was only a couple of years old, but it seemed to speak of another age.

  “Yeah,” well, I was just testing him. I ended up telling him that the protocol was with a small c and small p, more of an under the table understanding between ourselves and the Brits. Either way, we had Her Majesty's minions cold on that one, Frank. First with the punch. Not every day that The Washington Post more or less calls the British prime minister an idiot.”

  “And a little more than less,” said Nesbitt. “Your best day indeed. Pity it was all downhill after that.”

  “Nonsense,” Manning snorted.

  Manning and Nesbitt worked well together for the most part. Neither man was especially tidy, and that had helped smooth over the daily trial of working in a space that was not designed for a pair of diplomats who had a love of old fashioned paper files to match J. Edgar Hoover.

  “Any plans for the weekend?” Manning threw out the question more or less for its own sake, just to keep the air of normalcy on an even keel.

  “Well, now that you ask,” said Nesbitt, “I'm thinking of heading out to western Maryland for an overnight. To Sharpsburg, that's the town, to the Antietam battlefield.”

  “Oh, yeah? That was a big battle wasn't it? When was it?

  “Eighteen sixty-two, September seventeenth,” Nesbitt replied. “Still the bloodiest single day in American history, over 4800 dead and thousands wounded. For a little while on September 11 they thought the death toll might be surpassed but Antietam's still standing on its own. With luck it will never be surpassed.”

  “I should hope not,” Manning said, staring at another pile of cuttings. “The fact that you're going is a good thing. What was it that guy said about forgetting history and then history repeating itself?”

  Nesbitt raised his right forefinger. “'Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ George Santayana.”

  Nesbitt had the bit between his teeth now and was enthusing.

  “Lots of Irish involved in the battle, of course, on both sides. The Union Irish Brigade took a terrible hammering at a place called Bloody Lane. I've never been to Antietam, but I hear it's very moving. Looks much the same as it did all those years ago, and, of course, there is the monument to the Irish Brigade which we had a hand in a few years ago. It's right beside the main observation tower, General Thomas Francis Meagher, the whole thing. Frankly there are times that I wish I was alive in those days, on a horse, a gray charger, leading my regiment up and over the hill.”

  “No you bloody don't, Frank. You wouldn't have lasted the first volley,” Manning interjected. “Taking anyone with you?”

  “No, just me I'm afraid,” said Nesbitt. “I'm just about the only Civil War buff here at the moment. Donal what's his name was a complete war nut but he's back in Dublin as you know. He went to just about every battlefield. I've been to Gettysburg and that's about it. But Antietam should be fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

  “Oh, I'm sure it will be,” said Manning. “I'd go with you but I have a few wife and daughter things, and I might have to work a bit on this White House reception business. Time, as usual, is short.”

  Nesbitt, as far as his companion was concerned, was good company, for the most part. His habit of sneaking cigarettes in the office was not always to Manning's liking but that was about his only vice. Nesbitt was in the act of reaching into a desk drawer for a smoke when Margaret Morris poked her head around the door.

  “Anybody got any ideas for lunch?�
�

  Nesbitt looked at Manning. “Well, Your Highness?” The two had lately taken to referring to themselves as the princes of Denmark. It was an inside joke, a mutual salute to a former occupant of the office by the name of Eoin Sharkey.

  Sharkey had become a hero to some, a villain to others by telling a visiting journalist from one of the Irish American weeklies that Ireland's diplomats in Washington were just a wee bit bored. Where once they had a wee war, they now had a blessed, but also grinding and never ending peace process. Where once there had been the delicate dance of a small nation in the midst of the big players there was now a small nation jostling for attention amid the Euro trash throng.

  Of course, the peace process was wonderful, Sharkey had opined. But it did take the edge off the Washington posting compared to former years. Hardly a subversive in sight and making nice with the British, our friends and partners in a political and diplomatic merry-go-round that always seemed to start and end in the same place. Sliced, diced and explained in the inevitable joint communiqué.

  Ireland, Sharkey had told the reporter, had become another Denmark, and had the visiting hack any idea what that meant to a crack diplomatic team? Any bloody idea?

  It had all been off the record. Supposedly. But Sharkey didn't really know this visitor so well that he could afford to be so candid. He had failed to drive the off-the-record message home strongly enough. The result had been rather spectacular. The story had not appeared as a formal, front page report, the gods be thanked, as the ambassador had put it.

  But it had topped a politics-leaning gossip column and smatterings of it had made it across the Atlantic. What had staved off absolute catastrophe was the fact that only part of the paper appeared on its website while the offending column had been confined to the hard copy version. Sharkey's four year term had ended shortly after the report, and he had been routinely posted back to Dublin, though with some less than diplomatic advice from the ambassador ringing in his ear.

  Manning and Nesbitt, self-crowned princes of the now hybrid Hiberno/ Danish embassy, more or less agreed with Sharkey's assessment. As such, they were reduced to taking delight in any victory, however small, and no matter how great or small the vanquished foe. The Washington Post, certainly leaning towards great, would do for now.