by Radclyffe
“I’d forgotten the two of you were at prep school at the same time, weren’t you,” Lucinda said.
“We were a year apart,” Blair said. “For a while there I wanted to be just like her. That was before I mostly wanted to kill her.”
The president made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “For a while there, I was pretty sure you were going to.”
Blair smiled, then her face grew serious. “I think if we’re going to convince her, it needs to be face-to-face.”
“You’re saying a call from the President of the United States wouldn’t be convincing enough,” Lucinda said.
“The Ari I knew—and from what coverage I’ve caught of her when she ran Jafari’s senatorial campaign and recently with Martinez—she hasn’t changed. She grew up under the bright lights. Her father…well…” Blair shrugged.
“Yes,” Lucinda said with a sigh. “Her father. He might be the wild card in all of this.”
Blair shook her head. “Not if you mean that he’ll influence Ari, overtly or otherwise. She’s spent her whole life proving she was her own person, and that means not only standing up to him but most often taking the exact opposite position.”
“Sounds familiar,” the president said.
The president’s daughter grinned for a fleeting second.
“All the same,” Lucinda said, “are we in a position to withstand a witch hunt if the opposition, or even someone in our own party, decides to go digging into the Rostof family businesses?”
“The question is,” Roberts said mildly, “is Ari Rostof willing to take that chance?”
The president glanced at Lucinda. “We need to move quickly on this if we’re going to contain the media. I believe we’ve made the right choice, but I’m willing to hear arguments.”
No one said anything for a long moment.
Lucinda said, “Next order of business, then, is to get her here and on the job. Ideally, I’d like her in front of the cameras today. Blair, how do you feel about taking the lead in this?”
“I’d want to sit down with her,” Blair said. “No video calls. No record at all. We’re not exactly best friends, but we’ve got some history, so I think she’d be open about any concerns.”
Cameron Roberts glanced at Blair, one eyebrow imperceptibly lifting. If Oakes hadn’t been watching her, she wouldn’t have seen it.
“Does anyone know where she is right now?” the president asked.
“I’m sure the senator’s office would know how to reach her,” Lucinda said. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries through confidential channels.”
“All right.” The president turned to Tom Turner. “The biggest thing on the horizon is the convention, and anyone we get to take Adam’s place is going to be one hundred percent buried in that. Can you put someone from your team in on the ground level with Rostof, if she agrees?”
“It might make sense to send someone along with Ms. Powell to be available when Ms. Powell presents the offer. Ms. Rostof’s likely to have questions, some of which we may be able to answer.”
The president nodded. “Fine, let’s do that.”
Cam said, “There’s another issue we have to consider. The circumstances of Adam’s death. If the collision was intentional, if he was targeted because of his position or his perceived importance to your reelection, sir, then it is not beyond reason that his successor might be a target also.”
“Are you suggesting formal protection?” the president asked. He could request protective services for anyone, and frequently did, although those individuals were most often foreign dignitaries.
“Not until we have more information from Metro and the coroner,” Cam said.
“All right then,” the president said as he rose. Everyone followed suit. “Let’s see that it’s done.”
He turned and left, and Oakes and Evyn followed him out.
“Oakes,” Turner called, “wait a moment.”
Oakes fell back while Turner spoke with two of the other members of the detail, who broke away to accompany the president with Evyn.
“Are you good to go?” Turner asked her.
“Yes, sir,” Oakes said crisply. Turner must know she and Adam were—had been—friends. She didn’t need to say anything else. He would trust her to know her own limits.
“Egret’s team will advance this trip. I’ll advise them to inform you of the details.”
“Thank you, sir.” Oakes added, “As to briefing Ms. Rostof—”
“Keep it to the obvious—venue details, expected crowd size, that sort of thing—and let her know what you’ll need from her. As the president said, she’s going to have a steep learning curve and we can’t do our jobs if she’s not doing hers.”
Oakes nodded. From what she’d heard, Ari Rostof sounded like the kind of person who didn’t naturally play well with others. That might have to change.
“Good,” Turner said. “You’re officially reassigned for the length of this mission.”
“Yes, sir,” Oakes said, fervently hoping the mission would be brief.
After a brisk five-minute walk back to the command center, during which Oakes kept from thinking about Adam by calling up one of her endless mental lists, she pulled her go bag from her locker. On autopilot after having done this hundreds of time before, she checked to make sure everything was there, even though she knew it was. Going through the motions helped keep her focused.
The locker room door opened and Evyn came in.
“Hey,” Evyn said, threading her way around the benches to Oakes’s side. “I’m really sorry about Adam.”
“Yeah.” Oakes rearranged her clean shirt and pants for the second time, tucked her bathroom kit into the opposite corner along with a pair of field pants and boots, and zipped up the duffel. “Any other morning, I’d probably have been with him.”
“I know,” Evyn said.
Oakes appreciated that Evyn didn’t tell her that it wouldn’t have made a difference if she’d been there, or that she might’ve been a second victim if she’d been with Adam, or that she couldn’t have known what would happen. She already knew all those things. Knowing didn’t help.
“So, about this trip—how are you?”
Oakes blew out a breath. “You get the feeling that this Rostof’s getting the white glove treatment?”
Evyn snorted. “Just a little bit.”
“I don’t know what use I’ll be.” Oakes shook her head.
“Maybe you’ll just be along to make everything look good.”
Oakes rolled her eyes and Evyn smiled, although the smile didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. “I imagine anybody who even thinks about taking over for Adam’s going to want to know what the plans are for the biggest event in the president’s immediate agenda.”
“It’s not like I’m going to be able to tell her anything. If we’d gotten an itinerary…” She trailed off. Adam or one of his people would’ve been responsible for providing the advance team with a skeleton outline of what the president would be doing in the days leading up to and during the convention, but… “So far, nothing.”
“Well,” Evyn said, “I wouldn’t want her job.”
“No,” Oakes said quietly. “Me neither.”
“Give me a holler if you need anything,” Evyn said.
“Hey,” Oakes said, forcing a smile, “white glove treatment. No problem.”
Chapter Six
Newport, Rhode Island
2:10 p.m.
“Ms. Rostof!” Martha—once a stay-at-home mom, she’d grown bored once her children reached their teen years and now came in daily to cook and clean—called down to Ari from the veranda. Somehow she’d managed to be heard over the rumble of the Castaway’s engines.
Ari, about to cast off the last line, halted. Shading her face with one hand, she squinted up toward the house. Martha, looking half her age in a plain T-shirt and jeans, made a come-up-here motion with one arm. Ari sighed. Really, was she ever going to escape?
; Ari retied the line, climbed up onto the dock, and trotted toward the land end of the pier.
“What is it, Martha?”
“Telephone call for you.”
Ari frowned, pulled her cell from the pocket of her cargo shorts, and checked the readout. Missed call. She hadn’t heard it above the rumble of the engine.
“I’m about to go out for a sail. Take a message.”
Martha shook her head. “You’ll want to take this one, Ms. Rostof.”
Resigned, Ari called, “Just a minute, then.”
She hurried back to the boat, hopped down onto the deck, and shut down the engines. A quick scan to double-check all the lines were secured, and she was on her way back to the house. Someone from the senator’s office must want her. If they’d called her cell and then her home number, she wasn’t going to be able to avoid addressing whatever was going on. Some piece of negative press or, heaven forbid, some past indiscretion dug up by the opposition come back to haunt the candidate now. Yearbooks should be outlawed, or certainly not kept around to indict someone thirty years after their idiotic college years.
Martha crossed the porch, hurried down the stairs to meet her on the path up from the bay, and held out the portable house phone to Ari. Her expression vacillated between worry and avid curiosity.
“Thank you, Martha,” Ari said, waiting for Martha to move out of earshot.
Turning her back to the house, Ari stared out across the harbor. The water had calmed, but the weather report suggested a storm would blow in by later afternoon. Her window for getting in a sail was rapidly shrinking.
“This is Rostof,” Ari said absently, mentally calculating how far she’d be able to sail before she’d need to turn around or risk getting caught offshore in a squall.
“Ari, this is Blair Powell.”
For a second, Ari struggled with the name. Surely not that Blair Powell. But then what other Blair Powell did she know. “Blair?”
“Yes, hello. I’m sorry to catch you without warning, but it’s important that I speak with you.”
“All right,” Ari said, rapidly switching into business mode. “What can I help you with? If it’s something to do with an upcoming vote, of course, I’ll probably need to confer with the senator or staff. I’m away—well, of course, you know that, don’t you. So, some shift in the polls I haven’t heard about?”
“Actually, it’s not about the senator, at least not directly,” Blair said. “It’s a bit complicated.”
And cryptic, Ari refrained from adding. Blair Powell was one of the most influential figures on the national scene—an effective policy promoter and a wizard at fund-raising. If that wasn’t enough, she often represented the president when he was unable to attend some event. For all those reasons, Blair had earned the right to be as cryptic as she liked.
“I have plenty of time,” Ari said as the clock face in her mind loomed large, her sailing window fading fast.
“I’d like to speak with you in person,” Blair said.
“Oh,” Ari said, hoping she didn’t sound too relieved as the vision of calm seas and brisk winds returned. She might still get in a sail. “Of course. What’s your schedule like? I’m sure I can make mine work with yours, whenever it’s convenient. I can be back in DC tomorrow if necessary.”
“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a time crunch,” Blair said. “How does thirty minutes sound?”
“I’m sorry?” Ari said, confusion descending again. She didn’t seem to be tracking very well, and that wasn’t like her. This whole conversation seemed to be taking place in a wind tunnel, as if she was hearing sounds that should have made sense but didn’t. She could usually predict where a conversation was going after a few moments, either from reading the expressions on the faces of those around her or analyzing the tone of voice, the word choices, the cadence, or the pauses, which were far more important than most people realized. But she was at a loss to quite understand why Blair Powell—the First Daughter—was calling her in the first place. Blair, at least as much as she remembered of her from personal experience, wasn’t the sort of person to get involved in backroom politics, and neither, for that matter, was the president. If they wanted something from the senator, they most likely would’ve simply directed their request to her. If it was something as simple as needing a calendar update, Angelo or one of the other staffers could accommodate.
Usually, the only people who contacted Ari privately were the ones who wanted to influence the senator or, in some far subtler plan, undermine her. She said nothing, waiting for a clue as to what direction the call would go.
“We’re at the Newport Naval Base. We could be there in thirty minutes, traffic permitting.”
“You’re at the naval base,” Ari repeated, sounding like a confused parrot even to herself, “here in Newport?”
“Yes,” Blair said.
Ari’s mind started working again. Blair Powell had no reason to be at the naval base. It certainly wasn’t the sort of place where any kind of campaigning would be going on. If she was there, it was because she wanted to meet with Ari. And if that was the case, whatever had brought her here was critical. All of that was moot, anyhow. One did not refuse the First Daughter, not without knowing the circumstances and, very possibly, not even then.
“Of course,” Ari said briskly. “I’m at my father’s home, but of course you know that. Please come ahead.”
“I appreciate you giving up some of your time off,” Blair said. “I know how precious it can be.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” Ari said. “Do you need directions?”
“No, our driver is familiar with the area.”
That sounded like a military escort. Ari’s skin itched with the urge to get inside and turn on the television. What had she missed? But then, if some kind of national emergency had happened, the station would have contacted her father—and he would have informed her already.
“Might I ask how many to expect?”
Blair laughed faintly. “I promise not to inflict the entire entourage on you. I am with Commander Roberts and a number of Secret Service agents. You don’t need to make any special arrangements.”
“I’ll have lunch prepared,” Ari said.
“We’ll be there shortly. And again, my apologies for the interruption.”
“Please don’t worry about that,” Ari said. “I’ll look forward to our discussion.”
“Thanks. We’ll see you shortly.”
The president’s daughter disconnected, and Ari tucked her phone back into her pocket. Blair Powell had made a trip for the express purpose of speaking to her. She’d also been pretty confident that Ari would meet with her. She couldn’t think of a single reason for this visit, and her father was in the dark too. Something had happened that hadn’t yet hit the air.
She pulled her phone back out, hit speed dial, and waited until her assistant in Washington answered.
“Angelo,” she said, “it’s Ari.”
“Hey, boss,” Angelo Herrera said with his usual high-octane energy level. “How’s the sailing?”
“Just about to go out,” Ari said. “How is everything there?”
“The same as always,” he said. “The phones are ringing, the volunteers are like eager puppies, and Royster is making his usual sounds about how the senator’s liberal policies are going to send the country to hell.”
“Is the senator ignoring him?”
“For the time being, but you know how hard it is for her to hold off.”
“Just keep her busy and don’t let her talk to the press.”
Angelo laughed. “So you just calling because you miss me?”
“Is there anything else brewing—anything unusual going on down there?”
A beat of silence, and then Angelo said, “Not that I’m aware of. Have I missed something?”
“I’m not sure, but keep all the lines open. Especially anything coming out of the White House.”
“All right, I’ll alert our people to sit
on any media releases, and I’ll shake the rumor tree.”
Ari laughed. “Shake gently.”
“Always do.”
“Good, it’s probably nothing. But it has been quiet lately.”
“For which I am grateful,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Right, I’ll talk to you again soon.” Ari disconnected, unable to shake the feeling she’d be seeing him a lot sooner than a few days and that her coveted sailing time had come and gone.
She jogged up to the house, alerted Martha about a possible unexpected luncheon, and continued on down the west wing to her father’s study. She rapped on his open door.
“Got a minute?”
He regarded her over his reading glasses, then set them aside. “I thought you were going sailing.”
“I was.” She crossed the thick Persian carpet and stopped in front of his massive walnut desk. She didn’t sit. “Is there anything in the way of breaking news you haven’t told me about?”
His gaze sharpened. She’d often been told they had the same eyes, and she wondered if hers ever appeared as lethal as his.
“What’s happened?” he said.
“I don’t know that anything has, but Blair Powell and Commander Cameron Roberts will be here in”—she checked her watch—“twenty-five minutes.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
His gaze, if possible, grew more remote. Ari knew that look. Her father rarely raised his voice. He didn’t need to. He made his displeasure known by actions, not words. Right now he was deciding on a course of action depending on what she said next. She’d learned to volley verbally at a young age, one of the skills that made her so successful.
“Because I just got off the phone with her,” Ari said. “I had no notice until five minutes ago.”
“A private meeting? And the subject?”
“Blair indicated she wanted to speak to me. I don’t have any details.”
He picked up his glasses. “I’ll be curious to hear about it.”
“I’ll speak with you later.” Making no promises, Ari headed for the door. She estimated it would take him ten seconds to send out inquiries about anything of note on the world scene.