The Threat (2 page)

The general cleared his throat. “What's your medical status?”

“Recovering from injuries, sir. I'm approved for light duty.”

“I've got you headed for the counterdrug office, director of interdiction.”

Dan blinked. “Something wrong?” Sebold said.

“I understood the billet was director for threat reduction.”

“Director, yes, but counternarcotics. Not threat reduction.”

Dan sat forward. They'd told him he'd be working to reduce the number of nuclear weapons in the states of the former Soviet Union, and secure them against the kind of theft and misuse that had killed so many of
Horn
's crew. That was why he'd decided to take the job. He fought anger. Since Iraq, since being captured and tortured by Saddam's Mukhabarat, he'd had to second-guess his emotional reactions. “I don't understand. Does Ms. Clayton know about the change?”

“The national security adviser signed off on it,” Sebold said. He smiled, glancing at a wall clock.

Dan got the message, but decided to push the button once more. “I was under the impression she wanted me in the threat reduction billet. My missile-development background. And the … operational experience with loose nukes. I've got some ideas. To get ahead of the curve instead of behind it.”

“Let's get one thing straight, Commander. You're hired to the NSC staff. What you do when you get here's up to us,” Sebold said. “If it's that important to you, maybe I can get you some of the action on threat reduction. And maybe a seat on the Iraq working group. But we need to make things happen in counterdrug. Tony Holt wants this initiative pushed hard this fall.” Holt was the White House chief of staff. Dan had heard him called the president's personal nut-cutter. “It's a joint mission, and a huge effort, force-wise.”

Dan rubbed his mouth. Cutting down the number of nukes in the world ranked high on his list. But fighting the flood of illegal drugs was important too.

“Orders change, Commander.”

“Yes sir, I know that,” he said at last. “I'll do my best.”

Sebold slapped the desk with eight fingers and rose. “Mrs. C will be back in town tonight. Morning conference in the Sit Room at 1000 tomorrow. Take one of the wall seats. Introduce yourself when it's your turn, but keep it short.”

“Yes, sir.” Dan stood too as another man came in without knocking.

“Bryan Meilhamer. Bry's been here a long time, knows his way around the halls of power. Bry, your new boss, Dan Lenson,” Sebold said. To Dan he added, “We go pretty much on a first-name basis around here.”

Meilhamer was in a sport coat and a sloppily knotted tie. He looked to be at least ten years older than Dan and thirty pounds heavier. His shirt was pulled out from his slacks on one side. Sebold said Meilhamer was civilian permanent staff, and would be his assistant director in counterdrug. Dan took a chubby soft hand, looked down on graying strands combed over coral pink.

“Give him the talk yet, General?”

“I was about to.” Sebold clasped his hands behind him, stood front and center before his desk. Like Patton, in the movie, Dan thought.

“We say around here, the Hill's where they talk about things; the Eighteen Acres is where they get done. This won't be like any assignment you've had before. For one thing, the hours are going to be longer. And every minute you're not physically here, you'll be on call.

“You'll be asked to take on heavy responsibilities, in different areas, at very short notice, depending on the demands of the moment. The legal limits are spelled out in the read-ins I sent you. Conflict of interest. Financial disclosure. But the requirements go beyond that.

“We exercise the power of the presidency. Because of that, and the trust it implies, even the appearance of impropriety here
is
impropriety. Not only do you not favor anyone's interest, you can't appear to do so, even in the most innocent way. Did you vote for Robert De Bari?”

The question was so unexpected Dan almost answered it. “I'm not sure that's really—”

“No, you're right; it doesn't make any difference. We're here to further his objectives. Not ours, or our individual service's. If you've got any agenda of your own, put it aside.

“As a National Security Council staff member, you'll be working with full generals, agency heads, the most powerful people in government. But as far as the Constitution goes, we don't exist. If you want your name in the papers, you're in the wrong place. If you have any criticism of the president, or anyone around him, keep it to yourself. Or bring it to me, if you absolutely have to.”

“I know what loyalty means, sir.”

“I hope so,” Sebold said. “A lot of what goes on inside that iron fence never goes public. The people who matter know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“I keep classified information to myself,” Dan said. “If that's what you're talking about.”

“Good. Because you're going to be working with some who it will sometimes seem aren't playing on the same team as we are. Before you assume they're being mendacious, or willfully ignorant, pick up the phone and talk it through. Nine times out of ten it's just someone protecting his turf. If that doesn't fix the problem, call me. I'll take it to a level that'll settle it.”

Sebold reflected. “Don't be surprised when people you expected more of turn out to have feet of clay. And when things get chaotic around here, remember, you get to see only one little piece of an issue. There's a bigger picture, but you most likely won't see it till a lot later … if you ever do. And don't get the idea you're at the center of things. We may work here, but we're not the banana. We're actually more like that white pulp on the inside of the peel.”

Dan was ready for more words of wisdom, but that seemed to be all. The senior director slid past them. “I'm due in the West Wing. If you want to come along, I'll drop you at the DNSA's office.”

Meilhamer murmured that it had been nice to meet him.

Outside, a small lot was parked solid with freshly waxed black Lincolns. Sebold said this was West Executive Drive. The white awning ahead, flanked by small evergreens and flower plantings in heavy cast-concrete pots, was the staff entrance to the West Wing. A blue-carpeted lobby was hung with framed art. Dan recognized a World War II battle scene by Tom Freeman. A vase of roses stood on a side table, their perfume mingling with the odors of frying pork and coffee. Keyboards rattled in the offices they passed.

At the corridor intersection of the Roosevelt Room, the Cabinet Room, and the steps Sebold said led up to the Oval Office, the general grabbed his arm. “Just a minute. Someone's coming.”

Dan saw them, young guys in suits, walking purposefully abreast. A hefty black man with round, babyish cheeks examined him as they neared. His look was impersonal, yet observant. His eyes flicked to Sebold, but they didn't exchange any greeting. Dan looked after them as they went away down a corridor which had, he noticed, suddenly gone empty.

His mind formulated a sentence along the lines of “What's going on.” But when he glanced back, mouth open, he was looking into the president's eyes.

Robert De Bari looked much as he did on television. Only the screen didn't convey how tall he was, nor how blue his eyes were. He wore a beautifully tailored suit, gleaming, wedge-toed cowboy boots, and a sky-blue silk tie. Two more agents flanked him; another, a compact and expressionless young woman in a gray skirt and blazer, trailed the swiftly moving party.

Beside him Sebold said, “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Hello, G-man. Who've we got here?”

“New staffer, sir. Dan Lenson. Going to counterdrug.”

The president stopped, braking his entourage, and put out his hand. Dan flinched as a static spark zapped between their meeting palms. “Good to have you with us, Dan. I need somebody to shake things up in that job.”

Dan couldn't seem to think very well. But looking into De Bari's eyes, feeling the strength in his grip, he suddenly felt both totally known and completely accepted by someone he could trust. It was the feeling you got sometimes with a brother, or a best friend.

He felt he should say something back, but couldn't get the words out. Having the Secret Service basilisking him didn't help. Despite himself, his eyes dropped to the president's right hand. The famously missing fingers. De Bari had lost them years before, as a firefighter, carrying a black child through the broken window of a burning apartment building in Carson City. The president nodded in a friendly way, as if he understood how Dan felt. He slapped his arm and bounded up the carpeted steps, taking them two at a time.

He got a breath at last. He said to Sebold, “Sorry—should I have said something?”

“You could have, but don't worry about it.” The director waved him off. “Don't forget. Sit Room. Ten tomorrow.”

2

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

The house was within walking distance of a new Metro station, down a street that still had maples and elms and an afterglow of the sleepy peace of the 1950s, when most of the homes along it had been built.

Blair had found it while he was in the hospital. The tan brick colonial was surrounded by flagstone walks and the yellow poplars the locals called tulip trees. Three bedrooms and a family room in the basement with floor-to-ceiling shelves he planned to fill with the hundreds of books he'd accumulated and had never been able to winnow down. Oak floors, and a kitchen where two could sit for breakfast. Blair had brought her furniture from her apartment in Crystal City, pieces from the country antique stores she made him stop at when they drove out to visit her parents. Azaleas burned like sunset under the front windows. There were tulips and peonies too, and butterfly bushes and lavender. There wasn't a lot of yard, which was good. He could polish it off in half an hour with the Snapper. At the end of the street was an assortment of shops, including a German delicatessen. One of Virginia's oldest churches was a mile away. George Washington had served there as a warden, and the gravestones had been used as targets by Union cavalry.

It was enormously more comfortable and spacious than the house, the town, the life he'd grown up in. He felt like an intruder. That didn't mean he wasn't happy things had turned out this way. Just that he didn't always feel he belonged.

He figured some of that was posttraumatic. The same reason he couldn't sleep without a weapon within reach. But knowing why didn't change the feeling.

When he swung up the walk it was almost dark, but the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Brawridge, was still out. They exchanged waves and smiles. She was in the yard every day, trimming plantings or tending a decorative fish pond in shorts so abbreviated he could see the bottoms of her cheeks. Which were on the decorative side too … The garage doors were closed, so he couldn't see if Blair's car was there. She had a government sedan and driver, but drove herself in and back. When she wasn't on travel. But the lights were on in their bedroom and the paper wasn't on the lawn. They should probably cancel it: They both got the
Early Bird
at work and read the
Post
and
Times
there. When he threw his briefcase on the couch he could smell dinner.

“I'm home,” he said, wondering how it could sound so commonplace and yet so nice.

She came out of the kitchen for a garlic-flavored kiss. “I figured you'd want something good after your first day at work. Then we can go look at beds for the guest room. How'd it go?”

Blair Titus was almost as tall as he was, with shining blond hair and the rangy relaxed way of moving so many people had who'd grown up with horses. He'd met her in the Persian Gulf, back when his career was in the tank and she'd been adviser to the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Blair had been asked to brief De Bari, elected but not yet in office, before he addressed the annual meeting of the National Guard Association. He'd invited her to serve on his transition team, then appointed her undersecretary of defense for personnel and readiness. This was the first time they'd actually lived together, and he was still getting used to it. Even in his first marriage, he'd never spent more than a couple of weeks home at a time.

“All right, I guess … but they switched me from threat reduction to drug interdiction.”

A metallic crash from the kitchen, and a curse. He went in to offer help. His skills were limited to casseroles, chili, burgers. Guy cooking. She tended to attempt dishes that were beyond her actual level of skill. Usually they turned out okay. When they didn't, you saw her temper. Blair looked passionless but wasn't. She intimidated a lot of men. Not with anger, but with a probing intellect. She did the same thing with him. Forcing him to examine his motives. Confront his self-questioning.

“You can peel those. But I thought they promised you TR.”

“Not exactly promised.” The frustration he'd felt in Sebold's office came back; he bit his lip as he scrimshawed a potato. “He said he'd try to get me on a working group, though.”

“That's where things get done. How's your neck doing?”

“Okay.” Actually he was feeling some pain again, but he didn't want to get dependent on the pills.

She slid a pan into the oven and sighed, pushing back damp hair. “Boy, I hope this comes out the way it's supposed to. Anything else I ought to know about?”

“Ran into the president.” He told her about their meeting.

“He zeroes in on you, doesn't he?”

“The charisma thing. He's got it, all right.”

“We were prepping him before the debate. Midnight session. We figured he'd get zinged on the conscientious-objector issue. Like, how could he send men to war if he wasn't willing to go himself? He said he'd answer it when the time came. Then the mike failed, remember that? And he made that quip that made everybody just sort of laugh and shake their heads.