Chapter 16
I found it disconcerting that the president relied so much on me and my memory of events and conversations. I guess I should feel flattered, but it gives me a ton of anxiety to be entrusted with so much power.
“Dee, I want you to meet with CIA Director Carlini. He has people inside places that we could only guess. Because those spies live in the shadows, they can see things hiding in shadows. That’s why we call them spooks. Bill Carlini and his people are key to unraveling this mess.
William Carlini had been CIA Director for 10 years, minus four years when he was replaced in the administration of Bartholomew Martin. Matt told me that picking Bill Carlini to head the CIA was an easy choice. Carlini is well known, not only throughout the government, but across the world as a smart, gutsy guy who doesn’t trust anything until he sees proof. I’ve met him a couple of times before, and I’m convinced that he’s the real deal.
A CIA police officer from the Security Protective Service met me and my secret service agents at the entrance to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. The CIA has its own cops, no surprise. We were escorted to Carlini’s office, and my secret service guys waited outside the door. The office was spacious, about 20 by 30 feet, enabling him to call a sudden large meeting. I found it annoyingly dark. The walls were deep walnut, the carpet rich brown, and all of the furniture either black or dark brown. I asked him why all the darkness.
“Spooks like to lurk in the shadows,” he said.
I noticed immediately that he wasn’t alone.
“I believe you recognize your old friend, Buster,” Carlini said. He was referring to Agent Gamal Akhbar, the best spy in the CIA, and a good friend. Buster, as everybody calls him, is a tall Middle Eastern-looking guy. He gets his looks from his Lebanese mother. He’s a Christian, speaks fluent Arabic, and often refers to himself as a jihadi’s worst nightmare.
Buster stood and extended his hand. We’re good enough friends that a brief hug would have been in order, but Buster is a stickler for appearances.
“Buster, as you know, is usually 10 steps ahead of the rest of us,” Carlini said. “I’m going to ask you, Madam First Lady, to bring us up to date on what you’ve heard from NavOps, and then Buster will fill us in on where we are.”
“Bill,” I said, “thank you for honoring me with my fancy title, but as we all know I’m the former First Lady—until further notice—and the current Chief of Staff to President Benton. I look forward to reclaiming my old title as First Lady, Matt’s wife, but for now, please call me Dee.”
I brought them up to date on the latest thinking at Naval Operations, including Admiral Patterson’s concern about the launch codes and targeting procedures being reconfigured.
“So here is our current thinking,” I said. “We have a suspicion that the Louisiana may be docked on the Crimean Peninsula at the old underground submarine base at Balaklava. We know that a submarine entered the facility a few days ago, but we’re stumped about something. We picked up a faint return on sonar of a sub with characteristics like an Ohio, but that’s the only thing we have to go on. We have the entrance and exit from Balaklava under tight satellite surveillance, but that doesn’t do much for us because a sub can enter and exit the underground base while submerged.”
“Has the Navy limited its surveillance to Russian facilities, Dee?” Buster asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Our whole concept is that this was pulled off by the Russians. Who else would have the capability of executing such an event? But of course, that doesn’t answer why Russia would do such a stupid thing—steal one of our subs and kidnap the president.”
Nobody seems to have the answer to that question.
Chapter 17
Without my invented method of keeping time, I think I would have lost my mind by now. I had just finished my hour and a quarter routine. First the Gettysburg Address repeated five times, then meditation, then exercise, followed up by just plain thinking. I estimate that three days have gone by according to the can opener notches I made in the floor. A sound at my door told me that my food, if you can call it that, was about to be delivered. A sailor walked in, whom I recognized as an American from my initial introductions a few days ago. He put my tray down on a table next to my cot.
“Hey sailor,” I said, “can you get me some cleaning supplies? Some spray disinfectant, a sponge, a mop, stuff like that.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I’m not allowed to take any requests.”
With that, he looked over his shoulder and set down a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste next to it. He smiled and nodded as he did that.
“Thank you,” I said. “Anything going on?” I didn’t really expect an answer, but I just welcomed the interaction with another human being, especially one bearing toothpaste.
“General Zhukov will be by this afternoon, sir.”
The kid was polite, even though I was his prisoner, and even though the little prick was a traitor.
“Thank you Petty Officer—what’s your name?”
“Jackson, sir, Phil Jackson.”
“Well, thank you Petty Officer Jackson, a pleasure speaking to you.”
“I’ll try to sneak in some cleaning stuff, sir,” he said softly.
It looked like I may have made a friend, if you can call a traitor a friend.
After I finished my meal of diced beets and mashed potatoes, I began my next recitation of the Gettysburg Address.
“Four score and seven years ago…”
Chapter 18
“Matt, wake up,” I screamed as I shook him. He didn’t move and I shook him again. But it wasn’t him. It was a pillow. Matt wasn’t there.
Nightmares were becoming a regular part of my life. Matt is the most important person in my world, and being without him gives me an unshakeable feeling of emptiness. Thank God President Benton has given me a busy job. Otherwise I think I’d lose my mind.
I looked at the time on the radio display. Shit, 3:30 a.m. and I was wide awake. God could I use a drink, I thought. A couple of vodkas would make things a lot more pleasant.
What the hell am I thinking? Absolutely not. Both Matt and I are former (that is, recovering) substance abusers. After my first husband died, I began to hit the bottle heavily, and then included drugs in my diet. I was a full spectrum substance abuser—booze, drugs, and food. In the space of a year and a half, I had ballooned into 250 pounds, a fat, drunk, self-indulgent slob.
Thank God a good friend intervened and got my ass into rehab, the Monahan Institute in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a great place run by a great man, Jake Monahan. I didn’t know Matt at the time, but we later learned that we were both graduates of the Monahan Institute. With Monahan’s help, I went on a regimen of diet, meditation, constant exercise, and therapy, slimming down to my current size, which Matt says is perfect. When I first met Matt, I have to admit that I looked pretty good. On our first date, we discovered that we were both alcoholic drug addicts. It was a turning point in our brief relationship. We spilled our guts to each other that night. I told Matt about waking up on the floor of a jail cell after I got drunk on a park bench the night before. He told me about getting a case dismissed because he nodded off on heroin and missed a court date. We realized that we had something more in common than a mutual attraction to each other. We fought the same demons. That night we were both exhausted. We expected an evening of passion, but we woke up in the morning sitting on the couch with my head on Matt’s shoulder. It was perfect, not exciting, but perfect. Two days later, on a Monday, I showed up unannounced in Matt’s office with a simple message:
“I love you.”
He said the same. I realized that whatever life held for me, it would include Matt Blake. Our lives have been one ever since.
My imagination didn’t include the idea that the man I married would become President of the United States, or that he would be kidnapped.
My mind wandered to a wonderful morning just a few weeks ago. Matt and I lay in bed after awakening.
“Hey, Dee, is it me or was last night unbelievable?”
“No, Matt. Last night was believable. We both went through it, again, and again, and again. I believe it. Do you?”
“So what happened, Dee, besides the best night of sex we ever had? Did something change for the better?”
“Honey, when you ran for this job as President of the United States, we both knew it would be stressful as hell. We both knew it would mess with our private lives. But last night, after four months on the job, we’ve finally achieved a breakthrough. Last night we learned to box out your job, and to box in our relationship. Last night was just about us.”
“Hey, what are you doing?” Matt asked.
“You have to ask?”
“The alarm is set for 5:30, Dee.”
“Do you want me to stop?” I said, as I lifted my head and looked at him.
“I did not say that.”
“We have 45 minutes,” I said. “Plenty of time to sound a few more alarms. Now let me get back to what I was doing.”
No way am I going to go back to my old ways. I came close to destroying my life once, and I’m done with that shit. But even more important, I felt that a drink would be a betrayal of Matt, and that’s the last thing in the world I’d want to do.
Now I have to find Matt.
Chapter 19
Ali Behzadi sat in his office in Tehran with his old friend Basim Rouhani. Both men were in their mid-60s. Behzadi’s office was equipped with modern functional furniture that was also quite comfortable, which he required because of arthritis in his lower back. The office overlooked a grove of fig trees, which Behzadi loved because the view took his mind off his constant back pain.
Both men were known as mullahs or religious leaders. They were revered by people because of their positions, their titles, and also because people were attracted by their peaceful manners.
“Basim, my friend, I think that you and I have strayed from the black and white message of our regime over the past few years. Let’s face a simple fact. You and I really do see Islam as a religion of peace, but we are rare. Our people have had their heads pounded over the years with a message of hate. They forget that the Quran, as dictated to the Prophet, may peace be upon him, was written down by primitive semi-literate tribespeople. You and I are both familiar with the possible differing interpretations of the Quran. One passage is interpreted to say, ‘Find the non-believer and smite him before the justice of Allah.’ That very same passage has been interpreted by others as, ‘Embrace the non-believer and show him the way to the love of Allah.’ In other words, Basim, as you and I have discussed many times, the leadership of our nation has chosen to interpret the Quran as a message of fear and hatred.”
“Are you talking about ‘Death to America,’ Ali?” Rouhani said with a laugh.
“Yes, Basim, that’s a perfect example. You and I have both lived and studied in the United States when we attended NYU many years ago. I found America to be an open, free society, where all religions are welcome to worship in their own way. Can America be a bully at times? Of course. As the most powerful nation on earth, its leaders sometimes think that they can determine the future for other countries. A perfect example is when they supported that dictator Pahlavi as the Shah of Iran. But the sheer stupidity of capturing the American Embassy and holding 52 people hostage for over a year strains my imagination. ‘Death to America’ became part of the Iranian vocabulary, but it gradually came to hold as much meaning as ‘good morning.’ ”
“You’re correct, Ali. The leadership of our country embraced the idiots who took over the embassy, and even helped them. We forced a world crisis that had no meaning, other than to the religious fanatics who were in charge. We picked a fight with the most powerful nation on earth, and what did we have to show for it? Crippling economic sanctions and political turmoil. It was a sad time for Iran.”
“Our country now has a new name for the United States,” Ali said—“‘the Great Satan.’ Forgive me my friend, but I can say this to few people other than you. I find nothing ‘satanic’ about the Great Satan. Any rational political leader would see that friendship and cooperation with America is in our own self-interest. Can you imagine a better trading partner? But no, we now have a regime that is even worse than the ones in years past. We have a regime that wants to drill the idea of the Great Satan into our people’s heads. As we well know, Basim, vast numbers of Iranians don’t accept this idiocy. Sure, the regime can line up a few hundred young men screaming ‘Death to America,’ but you and I know, as do most people, that these are staged events for TV cameras. The average Iranian would just as soon see America as a partner. But that is less likely to happen now than it has been for decades. Abad Tavana, our new supreme leader, is a messianic cult believer. I think he is truly insane, but that doesn’t matter. He has control over the people in government, and our relations with the United States will continue to deteriorate. No matter what problem Iran faces, including storms and earthquakes, Tavana has a simple answer—the Great Satan.”
Rouhani leaned forward and lowered his voice, a habit he had learned over the years.
“Ali, do you think our regime has anything to do with the capture of that American submarine and the kidnapping of the President of the United States? I hear constant rumors, which is normal in our country. However, one of my sources of information I consider to be solid. My old friend Farhad Asidi has worked in the foreign ministry for many years. He is still there because he knows when to keep his mouth shut. Farhad tells me that he’s sure it’s the Russians who are behind the conspiracy. That much you and I could have guessed by ourselves. But Farhad thinks that there’s another force behind the caper.”
“But besides Russia, Basim, who could possibly be behind this crazy scheme?”
“I have no idea, but whoever it is must be intimately familiar with America and its ways.”
Chapter 20
I had just completed the Gettysburg Address, part of my odd-ball way of keeping time, when everything went dark. My sole light bulb had blown out and I sat in total darkness. My routine, for what it was worth, was suddenly dashed into nothing. I couldn’t even scratch hash marks into the floor because I couldn’t see the floor. I hit the solid core of sensory deprivation.
Because of my time-keeping routine, I had an idea that my watcher, Petty Officer Jackson, would soon come to deliver my meal. I estimated that he would appear in about 10 minutes.
Didn’t happen. Besides total darkness, I would go without my meal of soggy potatoes and raw beets. As much as I hated the fare, the thought of it was good because I was hungry as hell. I had actually cut down on my exercise program by a few minutes, because my protruding ribs told me that I wasn’t getting enough calories. I was famished.
General Zhukov was obviously fucking with my head, and doing a good job of it. This guy must have been a big hit with the KGB. He’s a sadistic prick who does things for no reason, other than because he can.
After what I estimated to be a couple of hours, I heard the door open. No knock, no warning, just an opening door. The faint ambient light from the hallway actually stung my eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” said Zhukov. “I trust that you have been able to relax without interference from a light bulb.”
I squinted at him and noticed that he wasn’t carrying a food tray.
I guessed that he expected that I’d beg, plead, and protest my lack of light and food. Instead, I just said “Good afternoon, General.”
He reached overhead and unscrewed the dead light bulb, replacing it with a glaring beast that must have been over 1,000 watts. I felt like I was on an operating table without anesthesia.
He said nothing more. He just turned and left the room, leaving me to ponder my new suddenly bright surroundings and wondering when or if I’d ever eat again. The man was a talented brain fucker.
Chapter 21
“Director Carlini, a Mrs. Ludmila Yushcenko is here to see you sir,” his
assistant said. “She’s accompanied by a lawyer. I don’t have her down as an appointment.”
“Find out exactly what they want and let me know,” Carlini said. He had a firm rule not to entertain visitors unless they had an appointment with completely spelled-out business.
“She says that she wants to discuss immunity for herself and her husband,” Johnston said.
“Direct them to the State Department. I don’t discuss immunity matters.”
“Sir, she says it concerns the USS Louisiana.”
Carlini sprang to his feet, spilling a glass of water all over the papers on his desk.
“Send them up immediately. Call Buster and tell him to come to my office.”
Buster approached Carlini’s door at the same time as Mrs. Yuschenko and her lawyer.
“Hi Buster, long time no see,” said the lawyer.
“Jack Townsend, my friend and former CIA spook, and now criminal defense lawyer. You’re looking well and prosperous. Come in. The director is waiting for us.”
They walked into Carlini’s spacious office. It was raining heavily and windswept drops pelted the windows. The overcast skies added to the darkness of the room, so Carlini turned on all the lights.
“Hello, Jack,” Carlini said to Townsend. “I hope private practice is suiting you well. If you ever want to come back to the side of goodness and truth, we’d love to have you. My assistant says that you want to discuss the USS Louisiana as well as some sort of immunity deal. You realize that we’re also talking about the status of the President of the United States.”
“Yes, sir, I represent Ludmila Yuschenko and her husband Admiral Vasili Yuschenko. The admiral will be here in a couple of days for a naval conference at the Pentagon, and Ludmila said that she’s here to pave the way for him. Because of the sensitive nature of what we’ll be discussing, I’m asking for immunity from prosecution for Ludmila. Then we’ll discuss Admiral Yuschenko.”
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