by Mike Maden
“Looks good,” Early said.
“Is good,” she insisted.
“What kind of joe did you bring me?”
“Tanzanian peaberry.” She turned to Pearce. Her face softened. “More tea?”
“In a while. Thanks.”
“I’ll check back in a few.” She drifted to another table.
Early watched her for a moment. Caught her stealing a glance back at Pearce. Early stuck his fork into the empanada. “She’s sweet on you.”
Pearce shrugged. “She had a little boyfriend trouble a while back. I made it go away. That’s all.”
“And you call me a Boy Scout.” Early shook his head with a smile as he took another bite.
“You know how you can tell when a politician is lying?” Pearce asked. “When their lips are moving.”
“Man, this is really good.” Empanada churned in his mouth like tube socks in a laundromat dryer. “You want some?”
“No, but thanks.”
Early took a sip of coffee. Examined the cup. “This is unbelievable. Maybe she’s sweet on me, too.”
“She probably heard you were a good tipper.”
Early pulled a cell phone out of his shirt pocket and set it in front of Pearce.
“I’ve already got a phone. But thanks.”
“Not with that number on it. Pick it up and call her.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
Pearce frowned. “She’s on East Coast time, you know.”
“She’s at work. Call her. Tell her she’s a liar and I’ll go away. We never met. I won’t bother you again, and neither will she.” Early stabbed his fork into a chunk of roasted rosemary potato glistening with olive oil.
Pearce picked up the phone. Leaned back in the booth. Thought about it for a few seconds, then punched the call button. It rang twice.
“Hello, Mr. Pearce,” Myers answered.
Pearce shot a curious glance at Early. Is this a joke?
Early grinned. No, it’s not.
“Mike asked me to call you,” Pearce said.
“That means you turned down his offer. I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a big fan of yours.”
“Mikey’s always been a cheerleader for lost causes. Including yours, I’m afraid.”
“He told you about the situation?”
“I turned him down before we got that far.”
“I actually prefer doing business face-to-face. If it’s at all possible, I’d like to meet with you later today and put all of my cards on the table. You can fly back with Mike.”
“It’s going to be a very short meeting, ma’am, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“If you can spare the time, I’d be grateful.” Myers clicked off.
Pearce stared at the phone in his hand for a long time. Old habits die hard. How do you say no to the president?
“She’s a pistol, ain’t she?” Early smiled.
Pearce slid out of the booth as Early took another bite of food.
“What’s the verdict, chief?” Early asked.
Pearce grabbed his ranch coat and stood up.
“I’ve got a boat needs refinishing this afternoon. So if we’re going to do this, let’s go.”
Pearce pulled on his coat.
Early dropped his fork and leaped up.
“Give me your wallet,” Pearce demanded.
“What for?”
Pearce motioned impatiently with his hand.
Early handed Pearce his wallet. Pearce fished out a hundred-dollar bill and tossed it on the table.
“What are you doing?” Early asked.
“She’s got a kid. And you were never a good tipper.”
Pearce tossed Early’s wallet back at him, turned, and marched toward the door.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
It was just after seven in the morning when Early and Pearce arrived at the private VIP entrance to the West Wing.
Early and Pearce checked their weapons with the duty officer behind the security desk, a striking Haitian-American woman with luminous green eyes.
Early placed the palm of his right hand on the security scanner.
“What? No smile today?” Early asked.
“Sorry, Mr. Early. Everybody’s jittery. Someone called in another bomb threat an hour ago. That’s the third this week.”
“Just another crank. Won’t amount to anything,” Early assured her.
“Hope you’re right.”
A few moments later, Early’s personnel page pulled up on the security monitor. It included his latest headshot, a short bio, his job title and security status. The guard nodded him through to the unmarked door behind her.
“Thanks, Simone. Take it easy.” Early strode through the checkpoint.
Pearce didn’t budge.
“You coming?” Early asked.
“You need to wave me through.”
“He can’t. We have a strict security protocol,” Simone said.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Pearce said to Early.
Another security agent stood close by. A big slab of meat in a crew cut wearing a name tag that read HANK. He shifted his weight, his thick body visibly tensing.
“The president’s waiting,” Early said.
“Sir, you have to place your hand on the scanner,” Hank said. His cold, gray eyes weren’t asking.
Pearce looked him up and down with a smirk, then turned back to Simone. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He stepped over to the glass and put his hand on the scanner.
Simone flashed a dazzling smile. “Thank you, sir. I promise this will only take a second.”
Pearce left his hand on the scanner but glanced over his shoulder at Hank, who was still eyeing him.
Simone frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. Something’s wrong. Mr. Early’s file pulled up again. Would you mind removing your hand for a second?”
“Sure thing.” Pearce smiled.
Simone tapped a few keys to relaunch the program. When it pulled back up, she said, “Please put your hand back on the scanner.”
Pearce put his hand back on the glass screen.
Vice President Greyhill’s file pulled up.
“I don’t understand,” Simone whispered to herself. “You’re not the vice president.”
“Maybe I’m wearing a disguise,” Pearce offered.
“What’s the matter?” Hank asked Simone.
“A glitch. Let me try something.” Simone turned to Pearce. “I’m sorry, but this will take a few moments.”
“We’re already late, Simone,” Early said.
“The president will have to wait a little longer, sir,” Hank said. He glared at Pearce. “You need to step back.”
Pearce smirked. “I’m fine right here.”
Hank took a step toward Pearce.
“Oh, Jesus,” Early whispered. He knew Pearce wouldn’t back down. But Simone saved the day.
“Ah. The system’s back up. Please, sir. Once more, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Pearce put his hand on the glass for the third time.
Simone frowned. “Your name isn’t Elvis Presley, is it?”
“Afraid not,” Pearce said.
Alarms rang on Simone’s computer. The monitor snapped to black.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Simone hissed. She tapped keys furiously.
“Your system just crashed,” Pearce said.
Early’s eyes screamed a question at Pearce. What have you done?
Pearce shrugged.
“Told you it wasn’t a good idea.”
Hank grabbed Pearce by the shoulder.
Big mistake.
16
The President’s Dining Room, West Wing, the White House
“Sure you don’t want anything to eat, Mr. Pearce?” Myers asked. She was just sitting down to a couple of poached eggs and a cup of black coffee.
“No, thank you. We ate on the plane,” Pearce said. He sipped his green tea.
“MREs,” Early grumbled. He was working on his second cup of coffee already.
“Mike tells me you’re quite a fisherman. You ever fish salmon?”
“Only every chance I get.”
“I had the hardest time learning to tie the Jock Scott. My husband had the patience of Job.”
“They say that the hardest flies to tie are your first one and your last one,” Pearce said.
She took a bite of egg.
“That was quite a little show you put on downstairs. I see why Mike puts such faith in you.”
“One of the reasons I get hired is that I don’t leave any footprints behind.”
“You mean, besides the one you left on Hank’s face?” Early grinned.
“From what Mikey tells me, it’s probably best for all concerned that I was never here to begin with.”
“Technically, you broke the law when you tampered with our security system, but I’m the one who called this meeting, so this one’s on me, Mr. Pearce.”
Pearce took another sip of tea.
“That’s where you say something civilized like ‘Thank you, Madame President,’” Early said.
Pearce ignored him. Early was still fuming over the embarrassment Pearce had caused him at the security desk.
Myers leaned back in her chair. “I understand you’re reluctant to accept the assignment I have for you, even though you don’t know what it is.”
“Let’s just say I have trust issues,” Pearce said. He glanced around the room. It was well appointed with period-style furniture. His eyes fixed on a large oil painting of Lincoln and his war cabinet. “It’s the decisions people like you make in rooms like this that cause most of the suffering in the world.”
“I have trust issues, too,” Myers said. “But I still think you’re just the man I’m looking for.”
“How do you know that? Mike’s an old buddy, but even he hasn’t kept up with me for the last few years. And as you’ve seen, nobody else has, either.”
“I usually make up my mind about a person in thirty seconds, and I seldom change it.” Myers smiled over the edge of her coffee cup.
“Let me see if I can change it, then.” Pearce pulled out his smartphone and tapped on the photo gallery icon. He slid the phone over to Myers. She glanced at the first photo. Her face darkened.
“Royce Simmons. The man who killed my husband.”
“DUI. Three priors. Driving with a suspended license the day he plowed into your husband’s Lexus. Increasing the DUI penalties in Colorado was what got you into politics in the first place,” Pearce noted.
“That’s old news, Mr. Pearce. What’s that got to do with us?”
“Slide it to the next photo.”
Myers stiffened for a moment. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, but she complied.
Pearce saw her eyes light up for a moment, then dim again. “Mr. Simmons in a morgue. Broke his neck in a fall, I read.”
“Mike, you mind giving us a second?” Pearce asked.
“Sure. I need to call the hospital and check up on Hank anyway. I’ll send him your love.” Early turned to the president. “Call me when you need me, ma’am.” Early closed the door behind him.
“I take it there’s another picture you want to show me?” Myers asked.
Pearce nodded.
She flicked the touch screen. A man’s face.
“Cliff Calhoun,” she said.
“Tell me about him.”
Myers set the phone down and glared at Pearce. “What do you want me to tell you that you don’t obviously already know? When I learned Simmons was due for early release, I hired Cliff to follow him. And I gave Cliff the order to kill Simmons if he caught him driving drunk again.”
“How soon before Calhoun caught him drinking?”
“The first night he was released. He was in a bar, celebrating. Cliff said he knocked back a half dozen whiskey shots and as many beers in less than an hour. Got up, stumbled out to a borrowed car. No license, of course. Bastard was going to drive home. Sidewalks were slick with ice. Cliff broke his neck. Made it look like Simmons slipped and fell. Nobody cried for the son of a bitch, not even his own mother. I hope your intel told you that, too. As far as I’m concerned, it was a public service. If Simmons hadn’t gotten drunk again, he’d be alive today, or at least, he wouldn’t have been killed by me.”
Pearce thought about her answer. He could put her in jail for twenty-five to life with that confession. The only problem was, Pearce hated drunk drivers, too.
“Did I pass your test, Mr. Pearce? Can we quit playing games now?”
“Still not interested.”
“Why? Because I hired a man to kill a drunk before he could kill somebody else’s husband and father? I’ve never talked about it because I didn’t want to go to jail. Calhoun’s been dead for years, so I don’t even know how you could have possibly found out. But if you’re asking me to apologize, I won’t.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m a businessman, not a therapist. I don’t do personal vendettas. It doesn’t fit the company mission statement.” Pearce stood to leave. “You need to find somebody else.”
“Sit down,” she said.
Pearce ignored her.
“Please.”
Pearce hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.
Baghdad, Iraq
August 21, 2005
“Dick holsters. All of ’em.”
Annie stood in front of Troy’s steel desk reading the airstrike request denial again. She gripped the paper so hard her hands trembled.
It was only the two of them in the spartan operations office that morning. Troy sat and listened to Annie rant, but he was focused on the ring in his pocket. He’d been carrying it for a week, waiting for just the right moment to ask her. Somehow that moment never seemed to arrive, today included.
IEDs had been cutting down American soldiers and Iraqi policemen for months now, and slaughtering innocent civilians, too. Instead of chasing the bombers, Annie decided it was smarter to find the source of the remote-controlled bombs.
Ba’athists and Iraqi insurgents—many of them former Revolutionary Guards—had enough technical know-how to set off crude timed charges. But the Iranians had been supplying IEDs with sophisticated timers and remote-control detonators, many of which, ironically, were manufactured in the United States and smuggled via Singapore into Iran. The Quds Force operators were also particularly adept at fashioning shaped-charge IEDs, the kind of munitions that could even punch holes through the thick steel hull of the mighty Abrams main battle tank.
Annie worked her sources hard for weeks even as she turned new ones, chasing leads on the IED suppliers. She favored the “aggressive” interrogation of captured insurgents and had been reprimanded twice for the physical harm she’d caused to those in her severe custody. She once even sifted bare-handed through the shredded remains of a dead insurgent after he accidentally detonated a device he was trying to set. But it was a piece of hard intel shared by a friend in Israel’s Mossad that finally pinpointed Baneh, Iran, as the target.
Annie’s request for a satellite redeploy over the city gave her superiors the visual confirmation they needed to order an airstrike. But the request for an airstrike was denied from higher up the chain of command. President Bush’s political opposition had drawn a line in the sand at the Iraq-Iran border. The Republicans were afraid they wouldn’t get the war they wanted so badly if they asked for a declaration of war; the Democrats were too afraid to oppose a war that had gained such widespread popularity among the public. A compromise was reached. The undeclared Iraq war could continue indefinitely, but Iran was strictly off-limits. Reelection was the driving reality of Washington politics.
The reality in Iraq, however, was that dozens of people were getting injured or killed by Iranian-built IEDs every day, and the severity and frequency of the attacks were increasing.
In Annie’s mind, the gutless politicians back home were just as guilty of the carnage as the
Iraqi insurgents.
“They’re all dick holsters,” Annie grunted again. She crushed the paper into a hard little ball and threw it across the room.
“You’ve got to let it go, Annie,” Troy said.
“I can’t. You know that.”
“What else can we do?”
“We could go in ourselves.”
“We’d never get approval.”
“Who’s asking for permission?”
“No support? On a mission like this? Good chance of getting killed that way.”
“Maybe. But more of our people will get killed if we don’t. Guaranteed.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“Is that your head or your dick talking?”
“You mean my head or my heart?”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Both,” Pearce said.
“Sorry. Pick one.”
“Okay. Heart.”
Annie dropped in Pearce’s lap. She pulled a handful of hair behind her ear. That was her tell. Pearce braced himself.
Annie’s bright eyes bore into his.
“Sorry, mister. Wrong answer. We didn’t come over here to go steady. We came here to win a war. Right?”
Pearce took a deep breath. Old ground.
“Right.”
She smiled. “Good boy.” She affirmed his answer by patting his broad chest with her hands. Felt something in one of his shirt pockets. It was the ring, of course. But this wasn’t the time.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
She started to say something but held her tongue.
Pearce thought about asking her what she was going to say, but he knew she wouldn’t answer. Her mind had already turned to the mission.
Annie slipped off his lap and grabbed her cell phone. “I’ll handle logistics,” she told Pearce as she dialed. “You handle Mike.”
The President’s Dining Room, West Wing, the White House
Pearce took his hand off the doorknob, turned around, and took his seat.
“Unfortunately, it took the death of my son to wake me up to what’s been going on down in Mexico. The horrific violence. The sheer volume of drugs like methamphetamine and brown tar heroin flooding into our country, killing our children. I was too damn busy making a pile of money in the IT industry, or running a state government, to pay attention to any of it.”