Power Curve (24 page)

“How many dependents are there?” she asked.

“Approximately 25,000,” Bender answered. “And every single one is a potential hostage.”

“I see,” Turner replied. She made a decision. “For now, we will pursue this primarily on the diplomatic front. Robert, see what private channels you can open with the Chinese. Doctor Elkins, I want a detailed list of my military options. We will meet again at two this afternoon to review the situation.”

“What about the airlift?” Elkins asked.

Turner hesitated, a tick playing at the corner of her mouth. “Continue it for now. But don’t put passengers at risk.” Again, she hesitated. “Perhaps, if we can negotiate an air corridor like in Berlin, I’ll order an evacuation. See what you can do.” She pointed her pen at the vice president. “Sam, I want you to press ahead on tax reform.”

“Is that wise at this time?” Kennett wondered.

Turner fixed him with a steady gaze as she spoke. “As I said earlier, my administration will not be held hostage to this crisis.”

Well, Mr. Vice President
, Shaw thought,
welcome to the wonderful world of Maddy Turner. She didn’t listen to me, she won’t listen to you
. “Mizz President,” he said, “we need to prepare for the press briefing.”

Her advisors rapidly left while Shaw held back. Bender and Hazelton stood just inside the door, locked in a private
conversation. They were a mismatched pair, the tall and lanky general bent over, listening to the short and petite analyst.
They make a damn good team
, Shaw decided. He glanced at Turner. She was looking at them, her face a blank mask.
Now what the hell is eatin’ at her?
he thought.

“Madam President,” Bender said, “may I suggest that your press secretary or I take this briefing?”

“Not a good idea,” Shaw muttered under his breath for Turner alone to hear. “Maybe later when things settle down. For now, you must appear in charge.”

“Thank you, Robert,” Turner replied. “I really must do it this time.”

A worried look spread across Hazelton’s face, and she looked at Bender. She started to speak but thought better of it and walked out the door.

Shaw stood by the wall of the press briefing room with Bender and Hazelton. The chief of staff’s eyes worked around the room, bisecting the reporters. But he was careful to avoid eye contact with Liz Gordon.
Four days into this crisis and they’re already acting like sheep
, he thought. He listened as Turner fielded questions. He checked his watch, nine minutes into the briefing, and crossed his arms, anything to ease the cold chill he felt. Nothing was going to save Turner from what was coming, and he hated the knowing. All the joy of dealing with the unexpected surprises that made life in the Capitol so exciting was gone.

“Madam President,” Liz Gordon said, “according to the leaders of the National Organization for Women, you have lost the support of the feminist movement, and they now regard you as a traitor to their cause.”

Turner’s head came up, and she shot a hard look at Shaw. They had not anticipated that question. “Liz, many of my sisters still believe that affirmative action is the answer. In reality, it is an idea whose time has come and gone. But what must remain in place is a commitment to equal opportunity. And equal opportunity starts with economic opportunity for everyone. To that end, I am sending to Congress legislation proposing a total overhaul
of our tax system. Our goal is to promote productivity and create well-paid, meaningful jobs for anyone, regardless of race or sex, who wants to work.”

Again, the room erupted in questions. Shaw shook his head, his stomach churning.
Too bad, Maddy
, he thought.
You just scared the hell out of every CEO and stockholder in the United States and struck out with your strongest supporters. Hell, the feminists are no different from any other special interest group: They only wanted equal opportunity for themselves. You should have listened to old Patrick
.

Bender and Hazelton did not move when the press briefing finally reached a painful end. “Not good,” Bender said. “I could have sidestepped that issue.”

Hazelton stared at Shaw’s back as he left. She spoke slowly, “Sir, I think this might be a good time to sit down with some of your senior analysts. May I suggest your office?”

“Let’s do it,” Bender said. They walked in silence and entered his office. Hazelton closed the door behind her. “OK, Mazie, what’s bugging you?”

“Liz Gordon’s question,” she answered. “It sounded like a setup. There’s a leak in the administration.”

“Any idea who?”

She frowned. “It could be anyone, her advisors, a cabinet member, who knows?”

A picture of Norene Coker, the African-American congresswoman in Turner’s kitchen cabinet, flashed in his mind’s eye.

“Do you have someone in mind?” Hazelton asked.

He shook his head. “Yeah, but I don’t know why.” He settled into the chair behind his desk. Hazelton called for the analysts to join them while he studied a staff roster. He was shocked to learn that his staff occupied most of the third floor of the Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. Norma, the senior of his two secretaries, announced that two Secret Service agents, Chuck Stanford and Wayne Adams, were waiting to see him.

“We volunteered to serve on your detail,” Stanford, the older of the two, said. Bender had been expecting in
creased protection because the national security advisor came under the Secret Service’s umbrella.

“I hope you two like to run,” Bender said. “That’s what I do for exercise.” No answer.
Why the silence?
he wondered.
Did I say something wrong? Why the tears?

Sanford finally managed to say, “Our pleasure, sir.”

“They ran with Bill Carroll when he was the national security advisor,” she told him.

“That man could really pound the pavement,” Sanford said.

“The heart attack detail,” Adams muttered. “We must’ a set a few records.”

Bender grinned, breaking the sad remembrance of things past. “I’m not in Bill Carroll’s league.”

The light was on when Shaw entered the rear door of his condominium. Although he wasn’t worried—security at the Watergate was top notch—he was puzzled. Perhaps the maid had left it on. He walked through the kitchen and paused. Jessica was curled up in the corner of the couch next to a fire. She tossed her blonde mane of hair when she saw him and smiled. “You are late,” she said. “Are you hungry?” She stood up. She was wearing a short, off-white silk chemise and nothing else. “I can cook you an omelet.”

“I ate at the White House.” She sat back down and pulled her legs up. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“Senator Leland,” she murmured. The senator’s name opened many doors, including the one to his apartment, and explained why she was there. She was the messenger, the cutout between Shaw and what he had come to call the Group. She smiled. “Of course, people might get the wrong idea that you are settling down to serious monogamy. Can I get you a drink?” He nodded and sat down in an overstuffed chair, not bothering to shed his overcoat. Jessica padded across the floor and mixed his favorite drink. She held it up to the light to check the color. Satisfied she had it right, she set the drink down and dropped her chemise to the floor. Picking up the drink, she came back to him and sat in his lap.

“We need to talk,” she whispered. “Are we on a monitor?”

A little nod. “A security video, no audio.”

She nuzzled his ear. “The senator thought the press conference went well today. He wants you to keep feeding leaks to the press and play ‘Deep Throat.’” Shaw cringed at her reference to the leak that kept the two
Washington Post
reporters on the trail of the Watergate cover-up. The reporters had named the leak after the porno movie of the same name, and Shaw didn’t want to star in a remake of either episode. She told him how the Group was planning a series of demonstrations in the park across the street from the White House that would slowly build in intensity. Shaw was to counsel tolerance at first. But when the time was right, he was to clear the park with a show of force, the bigger the better.

“Can I see the videos?” she asked, smiling for the hidden camera. “We can do our own Deep Throat,” she whispered.

“Some other tune,” he replied. He would destroy the videotapes after she left.

Jessica pushed his overcoat off and reached for his fly. She unzipped his pants and wiggled her bare bottom on his lap. No response. She stuck her tongue in his ear. “I must be losing my touch,” she murmured.

Paris, France

“Don’t expect this meeting to last more than fifteen minutes,” Mazie Hazelton said.

Bender tried hard not to act like a tourist as the black Lincoln town car drove through the outskirts of Paris. He kept trying to get his bearings and orient himself. Finally, he picked up the phone and asked Chuck Sanford, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, where they were. The reply was a laconic “Near Versailles, General.”

Bender sank back into the seat and tried to focus on what Hazelton was saying. But the so-called private negotiations the military attaché at the American embassy had set up with the Chinese were progressing with a speed
that surprised him. “Mazie,” he admitted, “this is pretty overwhelming for a boy from Sacramento, California.”

“That’s all part of the game,” she told him. “The idea is to keep you off balance, and they will try anything to intimidate you. You’ve got one big factor in your favor: You are an unknown. So be noncommittal and say as little as possible.”

“You’ve dealt with the Chinese before,” Bender said. “Are they really inscrutable?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “But they are very focused.”

They turned off the main road and entered a tree-lined lane. Bender caught his first glimpse of the château when they crossed a low stone bridge. “Will you look at that?” he breathed.

“It’s one of the Rothschild palaces,” Hazelton told him. “The Chinese are overplaying this. Why?” Four Chinese in dark business suits were waiting for them when the Lincoln pulled up to the steps. The introductions were reserved and formal, and they were escorted to a small, but very luxurious room on the second floor. Hazelton motioned him to hold back, and she entered first. When she saw her counterpart enter from the opposite side of the room, she nodded and told Bender to enter on her cue. The moment the Chinese envoy appeared in his door, she motioned Bender forward. Both men stepped into the room simultaneously. “General Bender,” she said, “may I introduce Wang Mocun, Chairman Lu Zoulin’s special envoy.”

The two men shook hands, taking the others’ measure. Wang was two inches shorter than Bender but outweighed him by fifty pounds. His thin hair was plastered back against his skin, and he had a round face that bore a distinct resemblance to a young Mao Zedong. They sat down at a table on opposite sides and started the intricate opening moves that reminded Bender of a minuet. The fifteen minutes Hazelton had promised passed and grew into two hours. Although they were separated by different languages and cultures, Bender sensed he was up against a shrewd and very difficult opponent. How difficult became obvious when Wang concluded by speaking for over thirty minutes. Bender shot a questioning look at Hazelton when
Wang referred to the United States as a “crippled giant” and “a lost empire.” Her face remained impassive, and she did not look up.

“I find your observations of my country worthy of an academic,” Bender replied. “But surely more theoretical than practical.”

“Okinawa is a very practical matter,” Wang replied in English without waiting for a translation. “The correlation of forces is against you.”

Bender may have been a novice at negotiations, but he knew when the gloves were off. “Ah, the dreaded ‘correlation of forces.’ We have heard that phrase before.”

Wang’s English was good enough for him to catch the sarcasm in Bender’s reply. “Your society lacks the cohesion to resist it,” Wang replied. “We do not wish to hurt any innocent Americans, so it would be in everyone’s best interests to negotiate a settlement now—before events move out of control.”

“I assure you, Minister Wang, that we can control events.”

“That is doubtful under your current leadership.”

“Do not underestimate the resolve of our president,” Bender replied. He made the appropriate closing statements, and they were escorted back to the waiting Lincoln. They pulled away and did not talk until they reached the main road. “I blew that one,” he said.

“Not at all,” Hazelton replied. “The tone of Wang’s speech was much more insulting than his words and the meaning was softened in translation. It was a calculated and deliberate insult.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.”

“I’m considered fluent in Mandarin and Japanese,” she replied.

“Does Wang know that?”

“Probably,” she answered. “But he has another problem.”

“Which is?”

“It is very complicated,” she answered. “We asked for this meeting, which made us the supplicant. Naturally, they agreed to it. But the Chinese would have never been here unless they wanted something. They came out playing
hardball and got nothing, not even a request for another meeting, and Wang has nothing to report to Beijing. I think they are pressing for a quick resolution and want these meetings more than we do. By forcing them to ask for the next meeting, we’ll be in a much stronger bargaining position.”

Bender shook his head. “I did all that?” They rode in silence. Then, “Mazie, when we were preparing, you said you would arrange for the next meeting with the Chinese.”

“True, but they didn’t know mat. We can increase the pressure by returning to Washington.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” he replied. “Let’s do it.”

Washington, D.C.

Fresh snow had fallen on Friday night and covered Lafayette Park with a soft winter radiance. Workers were still clearing and sanding the walks at nine o’clock Saturday morning when a solitary figure crossed H Street and walked past the statue of General von Steuben. He was wearing a black cowboy hat with a small feather stuck in the silver-beaded headband. His dark hair was streaked with gray and braided into a thick pigtail, which hung down his back. A brightly colored blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and bulged in front, concealing his burden. The blanket almost reached to his heavy winter boots, and he walked with a quiet dignity that matched his craggy face.