Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (189 page)

“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don't know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”

“You attend the war council meetings, don't you?”

“I'm allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I'm not allowed to vote, and I'm discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”

Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You're probably the smartest person in that council meeting—why you're not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it's your problem, Highness. I'm telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don't know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I'm going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That's not the way I want it, but that's the way I'll play it if I have to.”

“I'm sorry I can't be of more help, General.”

“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.

“What?”

“Come on now, Highness—you know exactly what I'm talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You're a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You've lived in America most of your life
and you've obviously learned that the old ways won't work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what's hamstringing you. You've voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court' and you've committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards—half of which aren't even
in
this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.

Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “
You're
the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won't take charge. Why? Because you don't want your parents to think you're taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God's sake, not the
fourteenth
. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven't shown themselves in almost two—”

“Shut up!”
Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.

“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could take care of yourself—I see that's true.”

“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”

“
After
you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice
shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I'm not going to repeat myself!”

“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we've both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”

“Sir—”

“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”

Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I'm going to keep fighting.”

Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”

“Don't take too long, Highness.
Salam aleikom
.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two more soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.

“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.

Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”

 

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE RESIDENCE

T
HAT SAME TIME

Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President's sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She's here.”

President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened—he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”

“You said you didn't want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room—I thought that was appropriate.”

“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”

Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She's the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It's got to remain business…”

“This
is
business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I'll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”

“They're on the way.”

“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.

A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”

“Nope. I think we're done for the night. Thanks, Walt.” He breezed past the chief of staff and entered the Treaty Room. “Hello, Senator. Thanks for meeting me at this ungodly hour.”

She was standing beside the immense mahogany U. S. Grant Cabinet table, lovingly running her long fingers across the inlaid
cherry features. The steward had placed a tray of tea on the coffee table on the other side of the room. Her eyes widened and that camera-magnetizing smile appeared when she saw Gardner enter the room. “Mr. President, it is certainly my honor and privilege to be with you tonight,” Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau said in her famous silky Louisiana accent. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” She stood, embraced the President, and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white low-cut business suit which subtly but effectively displayed her breasts and cleavage, accented for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if motorized in tune with her smile and batting eyelashes, and her green eyes flashed with energy. “You know that you may call upon me at any time, sir.”

“Thank you, Senator. Please.” He motioned to a Victorian couch and took her hand as he led her to it, then took an ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.

“I hope you give my best to the First Lady,” Barbeau said as she arranged herself just so on the couch. “She's in Damascus, if I'm not mistaken, attending the international women's rights conference?”

“Exactly, Senator,” the President said.

“I wish my duties in the Senate would have allowed me to attend,” Barbeau said. “I sent my senior staffer Colleen to attend, and she's bringing a resolution of support from the full Senate for the First Lady to present to the delegates.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Senator.”

“Please, sir, will you not call me ‘Stacy,' here in the privacy of the residence?” Barbeau asked, giving him one of her mind-blowing smiles. “I think we've both earned the right to a little downtime and relief from the formalities of our offices.”

“Of course, Stacy,” Gardner said. He did not offer to let her call him “Joe,” and she knew enough not to ask. “But the pressure is never really off, is it? Not in our lines of work.”

“I've never considered what I do ‘work,' Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then sat back and crossed her legs
as she sipped hers. “It's not always pleasurable, to be sure, but doing the people's business is never a chore. I suppose the stress is part of what makes one feel alive, don't you agree?”

“It always seemed to me you thrive on the pressure, Senator,” Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after he sipped the tea. “In fact, if I may say so, it looks to me like you enjoy
creating
a bit of it.”

“My responsibilities many times dictate that I do things above and beyond what most folks might call ‘politic,'” Barbeau said. “We do whatever we need to do in the best interest of our constituents and our country, isn't that right, Mr. President?”

“Call me Joe. Please.”

Barbeau's green eyes flashed, and her head bowed without her eyes leaving his. “Why, thank you for the honor…Joe.”

“Not at all, Stacy,” Gardner said with a smile. “You're right, of course. No one likes to admit it, but the end often justifies the means, as long as the end is a safer and more secure nation.” He picked up a telephone sitting on the Monroe desk. “Could you have the libation table brought to the Treaty Room, please?” He hung up the phone. “It's after nine
P.M.
, Stacy, and I'm not in the mood for tea. Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all, Joe.” The smile was back, but it was more introspective, more reserved. “I may just join you.”

“I know what might convince you.” A steward brought a rolling table with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of Bacardi Dark on ice and fixed Barbeau a drink. “I thought I read in
People
magazine that you preferred a ‘Creole Mama,' correct? I hope I got it right…bourbon, Madeira, and a splash of grenadine, topped with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green.”

“You are a real surprise sometimes, Joe,” she said. They touched glasses, their eyes locked together. She tasted hers, her eyes glistened again, and she took a deeper sip. “My my, Mr. President, a little intelligence work, even after hours, and a skilled hand at the bar. I'm again impressed.”

“Thank you.” Gardner took a deep sip of his drink as well. “Not
as sophisticated as a Creole Mama, I'm sure, but when you're a politician from Florida, you'd better know your rum. Cheers.” They touched glasses and sipped their drinks once more. “Do you know the origin of touching glasses, Stacy?”

“I'm sure I don't,” Barbeau replied. “I didn't even realize there
was
an origin to it. It's not just a cute little noisemaker then?”

“In medieval times, when adversaries met to discuss terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after negotiations were concluded they tipped a bit of the contents of their cups into the other's to show neither was poisoned. The custom evolved into a sign of friendship and camaraderie.”

“Why, how fascinating,” Barbeau said, taking another sip, then letting her tongue run across her full lips. “But I certainly hope you don't see me as an adversary, Joe. I'm anything but. I have been an admirer of yours for years, as was my father. Your political skills are exceeded only by your intelligence, charm, and true dedication to the service of the nation.”

“Thank you, Stacy.” He let his eyes drift across Barbeau's body as she took another sip. Even as it appeared that she was concentrating on enjoying her drink, she noticed he was looking her over…again. “I knew your father when we were in the Senate together. He was one
power
ful man, very strong-willed and passionate in his pursuits.”

“He counted you among his most trusted friends, even though you and he were on opposite sides of the political and ideological aisle then,” Barbeau said. “After I was elected to the Senate, he often reminded me that if I wanted some straight talk from the other side, I shouldn't hesitate to come to you.” She paused, adopting a rather wistful expression. “I wish he was still here now. I could use his strength and wisdom. I love him so much.”

“He was a fighter. A tough opponent. You knew where he stood and he wasn't afraid to tell you. He was one hell of a man.”

Barbeau put her hand on Gardner's and pressed it. “Thank you, Joe. You're a sweet man.” She took an instant to look at him deeply, then let her lips part slightly. “You…look very much like I remember him in his younger, more fiery years, Joe. We had a dining room
very much like this in Shreveport, and we used to spend endless hours together, just like this. I wanted to talk politics and he wanted to find out about who I was dating.”

“Daddies and daughters always stay close, eh?”

“He made me tell him my most intimate secrets,” she said, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “I couldn't deny him anything. He made me tell him everything—and I was a
very
naughty girl growing up. I dated all the politicians' boys. I wanted to learn everything about politics: strategies, planning, fund-raising, candidates, issues, alliances. They wanted…” She paused, giving him another sly smile and a bat of her eyes. “…well, you
know
what
they
wanted.” Gardner swallowed hard as he imagined what they got from
her
. “It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Sometimes I think my daddy set me up on some of those dates just so I could be his spy—the Cajun political version of turning your daughter out, I suppose.”