The Threat (3 page)

“And when Ted Koppel hit him with the question, he said he'd thought long and hard about what to do. Fight in a war he didn't believe was right? Go to Canada, desert his country? In the end, he'd told his draft board that if his number came up, he'd just have to go to prison. He stood by that choice now. No teleprompter. No prepared remarks. And it came across.”

Dan remembered the coverage, and remembered wondering at the time whether it hadn't just been a clever evasion. And whether a guy with an attitude like that should even want to serve as commander in chief. But the incumbent had been no hero either, snuggled into a deferment his wealthy daddy had arranged. De Bari was the first Italian American to make it to the top, as remarkable in his way as John Kennedy had been. “Bad Bob” (a nickname from his firefighting days) had scored with ethnics, Catholics, fellow Westerners, and the unions. But the recession—punishing, endless, grueling—had put him in office. The other candidate had seemed embarrassed about it, but not really concerned—an impression that had doomed him at the polls.

“So what's going on across the river?” he asked, admiring her long bare legs as she bustled here and there.

She told him about her ongoing feud with the comptrollers. “The force just isn't getting the money they need. I don't mean for weapons or force levels. I mean what keeps people in—health, housing, the no-glamour issues.”

“So put it in the budget.”

“I tried to, but what we keep getting back is ‘We're already putting too much into defense.' I wish the service chiefs were focused on the issue. Or just more responsive when you point out that a sizable percentage of our junior enlisted are on food stamps.”

“They ought to listen to you,” Dan said.

“Why should they? A woman. Never served in uniform. Working for a president who didn't either.” She frowned into the distance. “But it's not just me. They've never liked the fact civilians get to tell them what to do. I just have to get used to that.”

The phone rang and she answered it while he set the table. When they sat down it was full dark, and kids were rattling down the sidewalk on skateboards. The salmon was just right, the young asparagus tender.

After dinner they went to look at beds. He saw pieces he could live with, but they all seemed flimsy and overpriced. Especially considering his daughter was starting college that fall. Finally Blair asked him what he thought of one suite. He said he didn't have an opinion.

“Dan, this is your house too. You've got to have some idea what you want.”

“It's
furniture,
hon. As long as it keeps your ass off the carpet, who cares what it looks like?”

Which only seemed to irritate her more. They left without buying anything. It occurred to him that they usually did. As if she too wasn't sure and had doubts about the life they were trying to build.

*   *   *

But they made up on the way home. That was one thing he liked about her—she didn't hold a grudge.

That night they made love in the new queen-size for the first time. Or, more exactly, tried to. But cervical injuries didn't help erectile function.

At last he gave up and rolled off. They lay facing away from each other. His neck burned. His arms pulsed as if he were gripping a power line. He smelled her scent and hair spray, his own stale sweat … He wondered why women even bothered with men, exactly what they got out of it.

When she turned back her fingers slipped around him, dropped between his legs. But it was still no good.

“I'm sorry,” he told her. “It's just not going to work. I can do something else, though.”

She didn't answer. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, of her cheek.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry too. I thought it was supposed to come back.”

“Well, it did there for a while.”

“You said the doctor told you things would improve. The nerve pathways, or whatever.”

“That's what she said. But it just sort of … it's there, then … it isn't.”

“Well, don't let it get to you.” She groped for the sheets. “I married you, not your dick, okay? It's not a big deal. Just give it time.”

In the light that came through the blinds he could see her face close as she kissed him good night. Some might say her nose might be a little large. But not him. He put his hand against her cheek. “You're so beautiful.”

She murmured, “But there's something else going on, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: I thought you'd like living together. But sometimes you don't seem to. Like that remark at the furniture store.”

“I didn't mean anything by it.”

“Then why'd you say it? It's as if the harder I try to make things nice, like a home, the more it threatens you.”

“Well—I'm here. Aren't I?”

“But are you committed to it? Sometimes I'm not sure you are, Dan.”

He told her he was, but actually he was trying not to groan. The pain felt like augers drilling down all the way to his wrists. He rolled out at last and took a pill. Drank some water and came back to bed.

He lay waiting for the drug to work. Or for her to say something else. But she didn't. He wondered if he ought to apologize again. No, fuck that. He felt angry. Then frightened. He felt things trying to come into his mind. Instead of letting them in he visualized the pistol in the nightstand. Remembered how it fit into his hand. It was loaded. He took a deep, slow breath. Let it out. Then another. Not thinking about Iraq, or the way the flash had lit the faces in
Horn
's pilothouse, or anything at all. Not thinking of anything at all.

Without quite meaning to, at last he fell asleep.

3

THE WEST WING

The next morning he filed with others whose names he didn't know yet down a blue-carpeted corridor narrow as a frigate's passageway. It ended in a windowless conference room. He'd thought from
Dr. Strangelove
and
The President's Plane Is Missing
that the Situation Room would be far underground, paneled with sophisticated terminals and displays. And much, much bigger.

But it wasn't belowground, though they called this the “basement” of the West Wing. Their living room in Arlington was bigger than this cramped, damp-smelling space. And as the lead-lined door sucked closed, he didn't see any screens at all. Just polished cherry paneling. A folding easel. And the table, with eleven leather-upholstered chairs.

He found a seat along one wall, balancing his briefcase on his knees. Not much in it yet. Reports Meilhamer had given him to read. A Brookings book. He shrank back to let more men and women crowd in. The air started to get stuffy.

Sebold noted his presence with a nod and settled in halfway up the table. Dan recognized the deputy national security adviser. Brent Gelzinis wore rimless spectacles. His jet-black hair was slicked back like Robert McNamara's had been. The rest were the deputy assistants, the regional and functional senior directors, other directors like himself, and a few twenty-somethings he guessed were interns. The room quieted. He glanced toward the door, started to his feet. Then sank back, catching an amused glance from Sebold.

Mrs. Nguyen Clayton was slight, with a close bowl of dark hair. The assistant to the president for national security affairs had been evacuated from Saigon as a child; her native accent was overlaid now with Harvard and New York. Her tailored blue suit had filigreed gold buttons. Heavy bracelets and earrings pushed the envelope of Washington taste. Still young enough to be attractive, she brought with her into the room something most of those there found far sexier: the consciousness of power. She'd made a hundred million dollars in Silicon Valley before meeting Robert De Bari, when he was still governor of one of the emptiest, most crooked states west of the Rockies, and managing his campaign. The deputy adjusted her chair, and she descended among them.

“Let's get started,” she said.

Gelzinis cleared his throat. His low-key briefing was so packed with acronyms Dan was lost from the first sentence. When he was done the deputy assistants had their turn, then the senior directors. Clayton said little as she listened. Occasionally she asked if they'd checked with State, or Commerce, or the CIA. Once she said sharply, “No, we're not letting it lie. They have to have access to that technology. I'll speak to the appropriate people about it.”

When his turn came Sebold said, “We've got a new join at counterdrug. Dan?”

He got to his feet. Some looked up; others didn't. “Commander Dan Lenson. Navy,” he said, trying for terseness. “Glad to be here. I'll try to get up to speed as fast as—”

“All right, thank you, everyone,” Clayton said, rising. They all got up with her and followed her out. Leaving him looking around the empty room.

*   *   *

Room 303, in the southern wing, third floor of the Old Executive, was one of the “split-level” suites, so called because to shoehorn more bodies in, the nineteenth-century's fifteen-foot-ceilinged offices had been divided with a false floor at the seven-and-a-half-foot level. This and gray cubicle partitions made a two-story suite out of what had been several very tall rooms. As an added benefit, the false floor included ductwork for central air. The effect might have been claustrophobic for someone as tall as Dan. But it wasn't as tight as the cable-overheaded passageways of the typical destroyer.

His people were gathered at a table behind the receptionist's desk. Meilhamer had explained that given counterdrug's limited manning and worldwide responsibilities, he'd divided them up among the assistant directors by geographic area. Asia/Europe was Marty Harlowe, major, Marine Corps, a rail-thin blonde Dan trusted on sight. He noticed she didn't wear a wedding ring. South America/Caribbean was Luis Alvarado, a Hispanic Coast Guard lieutenant commander. The continental U.S. belonged to Ed Lynch, an Air Force major. Interagency liaison was Miles Bloom, Drug Enforcement Agency. Bloom was younger than Dan, fit-looking, with a heavy black mustache and leathery skin that testified to a lot of time in hot climates. The staff assistant, Elise Ihlemann, was an Army Guard sergeant. At the moment she was at the waddling stage of pregnant. All were in civilian clothes, suits or sport coats, corresponding office attire for the women.

Marty, Luis, Ed, Miles, Elise. Plus Bry Meilhamer, of course. The temptation was to think of the career incumbent as the exec and himself as the skipper. But permanent civilian staff might not have the same goals as those who'd return to the field, the fleet, when their tour was up. They looked impressed by him. Perhaps even afraid of him. The grapevine would have given them their new boss's background. Even if it just hit the high points, he supposed it'd be an earful.

“Want me to summarize what Mrs. C put out this morning?” Meilhamer asked him.

“Thanks, Bry, I'll give it a go.” Dan went over what he thought pertained to them, then flipped his wheel book closed. “I'd like to get briefed on what each of you has on his plate. What packages you're working. What events we have to prepare for. I need someone to explain this counterdrug intelligence-plan initiative. That's going to change how we do business. Miles, that fall into your area?”

“I can brief you on that, Dan.”

First names, right. “Come on into my office and we'll talk. Bryan, you too. Marty, you available this afternoon? Talk about the Taliban and poppy production?”

The major said quietly that she'd be there.

*   *   *

Meilhamer and Bloom briefed him in a long two-on-one interrupted by many phone calls. Dan's office was so small their knees bumped. The view through his half window was of construction vehicles down in the central courtyard. GSA employees in green uniforms were free-throwing bags of trash into blue Dumpsters. If he bent low and looked up he could catch a sliver of sky.

“We're basically walking point for the administration's initiative. That's what's coming down these days from the chief of staff,” Meilhamer said, looking down at the carefree janitors, not at Dan.

“I read something about us being a coordinating agency.”

“We're not an agency, but yeah, we coordinate.”

“Which means?”

Meilhamer said patiently, “Getting military and law enforcement and State to work together to reduce interstate drug flows.”

“Interstate?” Dan said, puzzled. He'd thought their charter ended at the national border.

“He means international,” Bloom put in. He was sprawled back, clearly not impressed by having to brief his new boss. He also didn't hew to the suit-and-sport-coat code. He was in shirt sleeves, collar open. His gray silk shirt was more stylish than what the others wore. “But we also keep tabs on the grass growers in the national parks.”

“So we coordinate military, law enforcement, DEA, and State?”

“And CIA, Customs, and Justice, and Commerce, and sometimes Agriculture. Whoever we need to reach out and touch.” Meilhamer wiped his glasses. “But let me make one thing clear: We coordinate, but we don't command.”

“Who does?”

“Well, that gets fuzzy above the task force level.”

Great, Dan thought. He frowned at his notes. “Who exactly is our customer? And who's our boss?”

“Boss and customer are the same guy: the president, through Mrs. Clayton. But there's a lot of congressional involvement.”

He looked at his notes again. “NDIC?”

“National Drug Intelligence Center. Justice Department. Strategic intelligence fusion.”

Dan said okay, and what was the linkage to the military? Meilhamer said it went through three task force headquarters, in Key West, Alameda, and El Paso. “But Defense doesn't really want to play.”

“Why not?”

“It's not a traditional mission, they look at it like a tar baby. But the national estimate's fifty-two thousand drug-related deaths last year. Like Castro invaded and wiped out Galveston. You think we wouldn't declare war the same day? But it's sprinkled here, sprinkled there. And the corruption's oozing in along with it.”