by David Shobin
Despite the ostensibly hardscrabble existence, the camp had abundant technology that seemed strikingly out of place. A satellite dish was mounted to one of the shacks. Linked solar panels captured the sun’s energy and delivered it to banks of storage batteries. In case of a sustained overcast, a powerful diesel generator stood ready to be cranked on. The camp could create more electrical energy than it could ever consume.
Certain creature comforts paralleled the glut of technology. One of the shacks had shelves brimming with foodstuffs. Although there was no fresh produce, tinned goods were plentiful. There were cases of canned meats, fruit, and vegetables, in addition to oddities like Italian olive oil, German sausage, and Iranian caviar, which no one ate. Another shack was filled with durable goods—Irish sweaters and sweatshirts, Moroccan tee shirts, and French fatigues. The most plentiful items were dozens of Adidas sneakers, lifted from a pier in Algeria, all new in the box. Lastly, there were huge quantities of bottled water.
Exhausted from his journey, Mahmoud retired to his tent and went to bed early. The camp had no beds, only sleeping bags. At this time of year, nights could be cold. He built a fire of sticks and dried palm fronds, but it quickly burned out. Mahmoud wrapped himself in the down and was soon asleep. Sometime after midnight he was awakened by a cold, gusty wind. One of the tent flaps had loosened, and wind-driven sand was pelting his face, accumulating in his hair, teeth, and sleeping bag. He quickly sealed and tightened the flap, brushed himself off, and went back to sleep.
Al-Maidah was temporary home to twenty men. At sunrise, an electronic muezzin called everyone to morning prayer. Although the skies were clear, it was still cold, and Mahmoud put a sweatshirt over his fatigue top. One of the sheds contained prayer mats. Mahmoud placed his next to others outdoors in the sand, facing east-northeast toward Mecca. Soon, after a breakfast of dates, flatbread, and Pellegrino water, it was time to go to work.
Al-Maidah had been constructed for the sole purpose of training men to become proficient in the use of firearms and explosives. There were no novices, only experts in their craft seeking to finely hone their edge. Mahmoud approached the munitions storage area. The munitions shack had large quantities of plastic explosives—about fifty kilos of C-4, crates of Czech Semtex, and smaller quantities of newer American and Chinese compounds. In addition, there were hundreds of detonators, blasting caps, and remotely operated radio initiators. But what interested Mahmoud more were the firearms.
As a marksman, he specialized in midrange shots of extreme accuracy. Such shots were usually at a distance of one hundred to two-hundred-fifty meters. Under ideal conditions, he could place three shots into a one-inch circle at two hundred meters. But such precision called for state-of-the-art equipment. A bolt-action rifle, rather than the semi-automatic Drugunov, was required. The rifle’s action, barrel, and scope had to be first-rate. Long before he left Gaza, Mahmoud was told that he’d be getting a gift from a firearms dealer in Southern California. American equipment was far and away the best for this situation. Mahmoud was assured the items required would arrive at Al-Maidah before he did.
Amid racks of AK-47s, what Mahmoud wanted was still in its shipping boxes. The rifle came in a molded Styrofoam case, which he opened with his knife. When he lifted the weapon up and held it before him, he made a noise like a sigh. The rifle was made of a titanium alloy and was very lightweight. The receiver bore the name of Harris Gunworks. All metal surfaces were bead-blasted to reduce glare, then painted flat black. The ebony stock was graphite-reinforced fiberglass. A lightweight Swarovski scope topped the weapon off.
The entire package had an air of lethality. It was a sinister-looking weapon. Mahmoud worked the bolt, which moved crisply, smoothly. He carried the rifle into the bright sun outside and removed the scope covers. Putting his cheek to the stock, he sighted on a nearby dune. The optics were sharp and clear. When he lightly touched the trigger, it broke at a scant three ounces of pressure.
Soon he was out on the makeshift range, preparing to shoot from a weathered bench. Targets were stapled to wooden frames one hundred, two hundred, and three hundred meters away. The cartridges were in plastic cases holding fifty rounds each. Mahmoud took one out, lifted it up, and examined it closely.
The round was a 6mm BR, standing for benchrest. BR implied an accurate round, and the caliber was used in precision, competitive benchrest shooting. Each round was hand loaded. It was an oddly shaped, stubby little cartridge. The bullet was an eighty-grain solid point projectile, rather than hollow point. That hardly mattered when one’s target was most often the human head. Mahmoud chambered one of the rounds and peered through the scope. It was time to see how the rifle shot.
He had three hundred rounds to work with. He’d use however many were necessary to master the rifle and cartridge, though he had to keep twenty in reserve for an as-yet-undisclosed mission. One by one, he touched the rounds off, leaving ample time between shots to let the barrel cool down.
After an hour of shooting, he knew he was dealing with a remarkable weapon.
The rifle had minimal recoil and was a pleasure to shoot. Beyond that, it was astonishingly accurate. His first five-shot group measured a scant eleven millimeters across. He zeroed the optics until he was dead-on point of aim at one hundred fifty meters. He shot all morning, patiently and precisely, cleaning the weapon after every twenty shots, until he’d expended one hundred rounds. When he was finished, he knew he possessed the most accurate rifle/cartridge combination he’d ever fired.
Although he needed only one more day of practice, Mahmoud would stay at Al- Maidah until called. He didn’t know where he would be sent or what the target was. All he knew was that it was vital to the Palestinian movement.
And, if it was Allah’s will, he would give his life for it.
Patsy’s was a cozy Georgetown pub popular with the military and cops. It was largely unknown to politicians and the press corps, which was one of the reasons Jon chose it. The last thing he needed was for some hungry gossip columnist to link the White House chef with the president’s doctor. After she changed into street clothes, Mireille followed Jon to his car. Fifteen minutes later, they were inside the pub.
Heads turned. Jon found it oddly satisfying that nearly everyone stopped to stare at his companion. Mireille wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, but she was very attractive, and she had undeniable poise. Her body language was unmistakable feminine, and she moved with charm and grace in the lithe stride of a dancer. She glided, rather than stepped, across the floor, delicate movements with a nuance of bounce.
“Let’s sit here,” he said.
A corner booth had just been vacated. If Mireille was aware of the attention she was getting, she didn’t show it. As she took her seat, all of her attention was on Jon.
“It is very crowded here,” she said, pronouncing “it” as “eet.”
“Do you come here often?”
“From time to time.” He signaled a waitress, then turned to Mireille. “What would you like?”
“Just a Pernod, please.”
“Excuse me?” asked the waitress.
“Pernod,” said Jon, pronouncing the D Mireille had omitted. “And bring me a single malt scotch, neat.”
As the waitress walked away, Mireille smiled. “I keep forgetting how to speak American.”
“Don’t worry, so do most Americans. How long have you been in the States?”
“Three years. I worked in San Francisco before I came here.”
“Great town. Where in France do you come from?”
“Paris, originally. I was born there. But my family originates in Brittany.”
“On the coast?” he asked.
“Yes. They were farmers for centuries.”
While she spoke about the subject with animation, Jon studied her. Mireille had glossy, ash blond hair that fell below her shoulders. Her nose was long and slender, but not aquiline. With its alternate extremes of nonchalance and expressiveness, her face had the imprint of Gallic ori
gins. There was an understated aloofness in her facial mannerisms, and when she spoke, she would dismiss something with a single cluck of her head, or, in disagreement, purse her lips and emit a nearly inaudible “pfff.”
But when something pleased her, there was nothing French about her enthusiasm. Her eyes would go wide, and her broad, effervescent smile was all California. She punctuated her speech with her hands—slender-fingered, strong, yet undeniably feminine.
“Do other people in your family cook?” he asked.
“Yes, it is a family passion. I think it comes from generations of farming. Harvesting and cooking go together very naturally.”
When the waitress returned with their drinks, Jon offered a toast. “To the memory of Mr. Phillips, a sweet man.”
Mireille said nothing as she touched her glass to his. Her eyes clouded over, and she turned away. Not wanting sadness to overtake her, Jon quickly changed the subject. “In case I didn’t mention it, your cooking is out of this world. What makes you so passionate about it?”
She took a long sip of her drink, closing her eyes as the fire stoked her gullet. “When you grow crops, you begin with something raw and unformed, like a seed. You plough the earth, plant the seed, and water it. Soon it sprouts, but you still have to weed around it, protect it. When it grows, you nurture it. Finally, it blossoms, and in the end you have this wonderful creation everyone can enjoy. Cooking is a lot like that. The recipe begins with raw ingredients, but you bring them together. Then you mix it, shape it, let it rise, and then heat it. If you have done your job well, it can become a masterpiece. So you see, cooking, like farming, is in my blood.”
“It all sounds rather like life.”
“I never thought of it that way,” she said, “but it’s true. If you want your life to prosper, you have to work at it. Sometimes you have to change it. Take dough, for instance. You have to knead it, shape it, roll it. It will only rise if you work it properly.”
“You’re quite the philosopher, you know that?”
With Mr. Phillips a warm, pleasant memory, they continued talking about farming, cooking, and life. Jon enjoyed watching her speak. Disarmed by her candor, fascinated by her mannerisms, he knew he was becoming enchanted with her.
CHAPTER 12
With precisely a year to go before Election Day, the president met the assembled press in the briefing room. In addition to Roxanne and the chief of staff, the vice president and his wife Amanda were there, along with the Secretaries of State, Defense, and Treasury. The Press Secretary had already briefed those in attendance that there would be no question and answer period. Without fanfare, Bob Meredith entered and walked up to the podium.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Three years ago, our fellow citizens bestowed a great honor on me, and an even greater responsibility. In a desire for change, the American people, in their collective wisdom, entrusted me with implementing policies and that best reflected their wishes. That has always been this Administration’s priority. I am happy to say that we are halfway there.”
That brought polite laughter from the press corps, and Forbes smiled. Like a musician, the president knew how to play his audience—when to hit the high notes, and when to draw out his speech in a shimmering vibrato. Given his considerable skills, Mitch Forbes thought Meredith should have no problem getting reelected. A greater challenge would be managing the yearlong reelection process, a tangled maze dense as chaparral.
In an ideal world, Forbes thought, it would be best to insulate the Executive Branch from the mercenary nature of politics. But politics were never ideal. In the real world of a national political campaign for the country’s highest office, it was simply impossible to keep reelection politics out of the White House. Yet Forbes would be very careful how they intertwined. It was a juggling act that would test his administrative skills to the utmost.
As some Administrations had learned the hard way, it was imperative to keep fundraising out of the House. This was something Forbes was certain he could control. Yet for the next year, his non-financial responsibilities would assume a dual purpose: he had to assist the president in day-to-day governing while simultaneously helping run the reelection. There would now be two separate entities vying for the chief of staff’s time—the White House, and the campaign staff.
Forbes realized he was going to be a very busy man. He would earn his money during the year to come. He’d have to fit campaign time into the president’s already busy schedule. He would need to make key decisions about political strategy from his own office, where he’d be spending a great deal of time. And he would have to slow down political initiatives to give the president breathing room.
Most of all, he’d have to let the president do what the president did best, which was to lead the greatest nation on earth. If he did that, the rest should take care of itself; for in the end, the best politics was good governing.
“In the last three years,” Meredith resumed, “we have accomplished a great deal. Our economy is robust and vital, and we as a nation are more prosperous than ever before. We have reshaped our military to meet the changing needs of a changing world, yet our military power and preparedness exceed what we once thought possible. In the areas of health, education, and equal opportunity, we are well on our way to meeting our admittedly ambitious goals. Yet for all our accomplishments, have we come far enough?
“I think not. The seeds that were planted have germinated, but they need more time to grow. When I assumed the Presidency, I quickly realized that the American people would not accept half measures and partial solutions. They wanted progressive policies that would be carried to fruition. In order to fully realize the will of all Americans, we need more time.
“Therefore, I have decided to seek another term as your president. We have embarked on a journey that is at its midpoint. The challenges before us are as great as the rewards, but with the help and support of you, my fellow Americans, I am confident I can safely guide the ship of state to its destination.”
His prepared remarks complete, Meredith paused and looked out across the crowded room. Despite the Press Secretary’s admonition about questions, reporters began loud, persistent inquiries. The president seemed confused. He turned and stared uncertainly at his wife. From the bewildered expression on his face, it was suddenly apparent to Roxanne that her husband didn’t know what to do next. Before the situation could degenerate, she smiled broadly, walked over to him, and kissed him lovingly on the cheek. Her lips slid to his ear.
“Let’s go, Bob.”
“Did you see the announcement today?” Jon asked.
“Yes, I did,” Mireille replied. “We have a TV in the kitchen. Do you think he will be reelected?”
“He’s what we call a shoo-in. That means a sure thing. Everybody loves him, and he’s a great leader. But what did you think of that business at the end, when he looked a little lost?”
“He was just tired, no?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was indecisive—about what, I’m not sure. But the journalists must have asked about it after he left, because an hour later, the Press Secretary was back there reassuring everyone. He said the president was thinking of adding to his prepared remarks but decided against it.”
“That must be it, then. Are you worried about something? As his doctor, you’re in a position to know.”
It was almost seven p.m. Other than on the occasion of special dinners, Mireille’s normal workday ended at five. After she’d gone home and changed, Jon picked her up at her Georgetown apartment and proceeded to his own home in Bethesda. The time he’d spent with her at Patsy’s had been so enjoyable that he looked forward to seeing her again, and they set a date for Tuesday night.
The only distraction was Tommie. When Victoria made a last-minute call claiming to have urgent business in New York, Jon had gladly agreed—as usual—to having his daughter stay over. As soon as he picked Mireille up, he ran the complication by her. With endearing nonchalance, she dismissed it as a non-
issue. She said she’d be delighted to have Tommie accompany them.
“When I examined the president last week,” Jon said, “he was fine. I’ll take the Press Secretary’s word. The president’s certainly got a lot on his mind.”
“Are you a good doctor, Jon?”
“Now that’s what I call being direct. No one’s ever asked me that before.”
The hint of a smile curled her lips. “Well, are you?”
“I suppose I am. Why?”
“When you saved the president’s life last week, they said you were remarkable.”
“They?” he asked. “That’s nice to hear, but who’s they?”
“Everyone. The kitchen staff, the servers, the Secret Service agents. They said that if you had not been there, President Meredith would be dead.”
His mind flashed back to that night, to how he’d nearly been too paralyzed with fear to move. “That’s nice to hear, but they’re making a big deal out of basic first aid.”
She made that poofing sound with her lips, dismissing his remark. “You can’t take a compliment, can you?”
“It’s not that, it’s…. Anyone with the least bit of medical knowledge could have done what I did.”
“So why didn’t they?”
It was a question that he, in fact, had wrestled with. The Secret Service agents who’d attended the president didn’t seem to know what they were doing. “I’m not sure. Maybe they knew I was there. It’s funny, though. I wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Pardon?” she said, in the French.
“I got there at the last minute. I actually had something else to do that night.”
“What a coincidence. I wasn’t there either.”
He hadn’t been aware of it until she mentioned it. That night’s dinner was certainly the sort of gala event she’d been hired for. Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t seen her in the kitchen when he’d examined the president.