The Threat (31 page)

“And?”

Gunning murmured, “In that case, Commander, you're going to have to do what Blow-dry Bob isn't man enough to. You grab that card out of his hand, before we're all vaporized, and you send that fucking go message all by your fucking self.”

17

MARINE ONE

The satchel crouched at his feet like a black mastiff to which he was unwillingly leashed. Jazak was crammed in beside him. The sofa bench, upholstered in light blue cloth, ran along the starboard side of the compartment. Facing them, in comfortable-looking armchairs, were the president and the Distinguished Guest, and opposite Dan and Jazak, on another sofa bench, the secretary of state and the undersecretary for African affairs.

Dan couldn't keep his eyes from going back to De Bari. Was she still seeing him? He couldn't help imagining the president and Blair together. And when he did, it was hard to stay in his seat and pretend he didn't know, or didn't care.

What sort of man could do that to someone who worked for him?

Then they were aloft, to the muffled howl of twin turboshafts and five rotor blades.
Marine One
banked deliberately, so as not to cause its passengers to lose their breakfasts. The gentle hills of Maryland emerged from the roseate haze of a hundred thousand cars stalled on the Beltway.

*   *   *

The radios had snapped out “POTUS departing” at eight that morning. When Barney McKoy—head of the protective detail, the round-faced black agent Dan had noticed before, always next to the president—had nodded, he and Jazak had taken off jogging across a lightly snowed-over South Lawn, clutching their hats. And of course the satchel, which Jazak had security-wristleted to Dan's wrist “to get you used to it.”

HMX-1 flew the Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King helicopter out of Naval Air Station Anacostia. Up close
Marine One
had loomed huge and loud and sparkling, auxiliary power unit whining, the glossy green-and-white finish waxed bright. Even the tires, which squatted so nearly flat on the blocks that Dan deduced internal armor, looked new. A marine in full dress stood at attention. The metal stairs were polished rhodium-bright. In contrast to naval tradition, where the highest-ranking boarded last, the aides boarded after the VIPs, along with the Secret Service. Other agents kept a cordon around it till the door thunked closed.

He'd noticed one other thing. As De Bari and today's guest, the president of Chad, had boarded, a dark-skinned man in an ill-cut summer suit had come rushing up. The Secret Service had closed in; then, seeing all he wanted was to make sure his boss got a leather portfolio, accepted it from him. McKoy had opened it. Leafed through the contents. Then assured the African it would be handed to his president.

Dan and Jazak were next up. A Secret Service agent reached for the emergency satchel. But McKoy stopped him with a shake of his head. Dan followed Jazak up the steps as the rotors began turning. “Remember, nobody else touches it,” the major yelled, squinting into the cold wind, thick with the smoky lamp-oil smell of jet exhaust. “Or even looks inside. You and the president. That's it.”

“Got it,” Dan yelled back.

He looked around as they settled in, clicking seat belts embossed with the presidential seal. He'd flown in “Sea Pigs” before, but this was different. No sonobuoy racks. No antisubmarine warfare consoles or search-and-rescue winches. Instead it had reading lights and map tables, and was separated halfway down with comm consoles, one of which Jazak was plugging into. The protective detail guys were in windbreakers instead of blazers. Also on the bench seats were the president's personal assistant, “Haz” Nosler, a self-effacing young man who had something to do with the first lady's family; and the senior White House physician, a Navy captain, Dr. Shigeru “Shiggy” Yoshida.

These were people you didn't see much in the West Wing. He had a sudden sense of the presidency as a faceted jewel, with rays that shot off this way and that, into realms unknown to one another. But he no longer thought of it in terms of overawing power.

The hearty man who sat gesturing with an unlit cigar had the trappings of it. The helicopters. The staff. But did De Bari truly captain the ship of state? Dan was beginning to wonder if he did, if he wanted to, or even if he could. Because Washington didn't seem to work that way. There was no plan. No leadership. Only different circles that schemed and leaked and betrayed, who fought desperately to be
in the loop
. There was no concern for the country. Only interests, and what favor or appropriation or regulatory exemption they could buy.

Democracy? Maybe. But it seemed squalid and wasteful, compared to the service. Or had Sebold been right with practically the first words he'd said when he arrived. That he shouldn't assume things didn't make sense just because they didn't to him. That there
was
a big picture.

He hoped so. But the longer he played this game, the less he believed in it.

The president was talking to the Distinguished Guest. The Chadian president's bald scalp was covered with dark-complected bumps, like a plucked turkey. He gripped the arms of his chair, squinting out a picture window at the city below. De Bari sprawled in a gray suit and light blue tie. He'd yanked his collar open as the door slid closed. Dan stared, not caring if his contempt showed. The U.S. president rolled his cigar in the remaining fingers of his right hand. His gaze kept flicking to a locker. Dan guessed it held liquor, which of course he couldn't help himself to in front of his Muslim guest. The translator bent between them as De Bari held forth. The secretary and the undersecretary huddled in too, expressions intent. De Bari gestured again with the cigar, delivering a punch line Dan couldn't hear.

The Chadian had come in the night before, slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, and now was accompanying De Bari to meet with other heads of state and representatives from central Africa. The
Post
had run a piece that morning about the deteriorating security and ecological situation there, the drought, the growing famine.

The winter-stripped woods below slowly grew into the Catoctin Mountains. Dan couldn't help remembering Bosnia. He shifted, recalling the antiaircraft guns, the shoulder-launched missiles. An SA-7 would make short work of them at this altitude. Wouldn't
that
be a great way to assassinate the president. You could armor a helicopter all you wanted, but if a fragment hit the blades, everybody would die.

Somehow, watching the blue mountains slide closer, he couldn't bring himself to care.

*   *   *

Naval Support Facility Thurmont, the official name for Camp David, consisted of rolling hills, pebbled trails, and cabins with shake roofs scattered under chestnut oaks and pitch pines. Dan and Jazak cooled their heels outside the largest, perched on a rude log bench on a flagstone terrace, looking out over the valley in the fresh cold air.

The opening meeting broke around four. The Secret Service and the Africans' bodyguards emerged onto the terrace. Dan caught McKoy's eye, and the baby-faced agent nodded. Other teams fanned out through the wooded trails, scuffing through frozen leaves.

With heads together, the participants straggled out. A photographer hovered, trying to work in the view. Dan watched as the now-familiar photo op took shape, the leaders stepping up one by one for the grip and grin. De Bari beamed, obviously enjoying himself. The others looked stiff, even tormented. Or maybe they were just cold. A few yards away a tall woman, shawled against the chill, was sitting in a golf cart with another woman. After a moment Dan recognized the first lady.

Jazak saw her too. “This might be a good time to meet the missus.”

“Sure. Uh … how do we address her? ‘Madame President'?”

“No, that would be for a woman president, if we ever got one. It sounds informal, but just ‘Mrs. De Bari' or ‘Ma'am.'”

The winter sunlight dappled the ground as they strolled over. Jazak was careful, Dan noticed, to keep the president in view between the oaks.

Mrs. De Bari looked vacantly past them as they reached the cart. She was facing in the general direction of the president, but it didn't seem as if she was watching someone she loved or even had much interest in. Her eyes were dark and her chin was firm. Her hair was covered with a green silk Hermès kerchief. Her profile was elegant, with the nose of an Italian aristocrat. But up close she looked older than her husband, even haggard, with rouged cheeks and a fold at the edge of her mouth that suggested constant pain. Raising his voice above the wind in the treetops, Jazak said, “Ma'am? I'd like to introduce Commander Dan Lenson. The new naval aide. Dan, Mrs. De Bari.”

Dan bowed slightly, but didn't put out his hand until she extended hers. Her fingers were icy cold.

So he and this woman had a secret bond. What if he should mention it to her? Tell her about her husband and his wife?

It probably wouldn't surprise her. Everyone knew De Bari's weakness. She must have given permission at some point, overtly or tacitly. Or at least decided to look away. Thinking this, he must have held her hand a moment longer than necessary, because she frowned and withdrew it, the thin fingers slipping his grasp.

“Notice anything?” Jazak murmured as they strolled back toward the president, who was laughing heartily and miming a golf swing. The Africans looked as if they wished they were somewhere warmer.

“She looked tired.”

“It's the big C. But you never heard it from me.”

Dan glanced back. When he followed her gaze, he saw the group was dispersing, the golden moment under the trees at an end.

*   *   *

As Chick Gunning had said, the rings of staffers and social aides that orbited the first family fell away out here. He and Jazak helped Nosler carry the luggage into the presidential cabin, a rustic sprawler of pine logs and split shakes. Inside, its pine floors, knotted rugs, and hand-laid stone fireplaces, stoked and roaring with oak splits, were no more pretentious than a luxurious bed-and-breakfast, though Jazak showed him a discreet door that revealed an elevator to regions beneath. Dan fetched dinner for Snorrie, the first dachshund, then decided to check out the mess arrangements under his naval aide hat.

The chief was eager to show him around, as Dan would be writing her evaluation. She took him through noisy steamy kitchens, detailing the food-preparation precautions. Everybody down to the guys who unloaded the food trucks was Yankee White cleared. Everything was spotless. He was telling her to pass his “bravo zulu” on when one of the female agents, smooth and detached as a positronic robot, looked in. “
He
wants to go for a run. We need another runner.”

He had no desire to go jogging with this guy. He wanted out of this job just as quickly as he could. But meanwhile … the old story … it was his duty. So: he'd just get through it. Then, out of this septic tank and back to sea.

He changed in the aides' cabin. Pulled on his sweats. Did a few stretches, concentrating on back and calves, and put on a headband to keep his ears warm. Then looped back to the presidential cabin. Jazak handed him the satchel and tapped off a salute.

Dan jogged off, the dread weight of nuclear retaliation pulling him off balance at each step.

*   *   *

The compound was quickly out of sight, erased by the leafless branches of mountain laurel and wild roses that became screening-thick as they left the hilltop. Dead leaves crunched underfoot. Their breaths panted out in white steam. Six runners: four Secret Service guys, all male, in blue track suits to cut the chill; the president, in a dark green University of Wyoming sweatshirt and the same blue pants as the agents; and Dan, in his gray Academy-issue sweats. He wondered if anyone had invited the Africans. They hadn't seemed like the jogging type, but you never knew.

De Bari looked heavy today. Maybe it was the sweats. He set a good pace, though, on the initial downhill. Dan figured they were doing about a twelve-minute mile. But as soon as they were out of sight of the cabins he eased off to a lazy bear-shamble. His cheeks mottled red. He pushed his hair back and coughed. “Damn, colder'n I thought out here,” he said to no one in particular. The detail guys didn't respond. Glancing at them Dan wondered suddenly how they felt about the man they so intimately guarded. Whom they were with every minute of his day, save for when he closed the bathroom door.

Or the bedroom. Which brought the shriveling memory of facing these same men—had they been the same ones?—in the freezing-dim corridors of the Pribaltskaya … Their flat returning gazes gave no answer. Did they pass around the story of his shame? Did they think of the man keeping pace with them, loping steadily if slowly down into the valley, was an impotent cuckold?

“What about that new guy? What's his name—Kubicki, Kubicka? Something like that.”

He flinched. De Bari had slipped back, still cocooned by his human shields, but measuring his pace to Dan's.

His mind hunted, then made the connection. The Naval Academy team had broken out of its decade-long doldrums. De Bari was talking about a new quarterback, a half–Native American who was the biggest ground gainer any of the service academies had seen since Staubach. He said unwillingly, “Uh, I hear he's something, Mr. President.”

“Seen him play?”

“I keep meaning to make it to a game.…”

“I'm thinking of going to Army-Navy next season,” De Bari said between breaths. “If they invite me.”

“I'm sure they will, Mr. President.”

“You think so? I keep trying, but I just can't seem to make any progress with your people.”

Was it his imagination, or was the guy trying to be
chummy
? His fists tightened. Fuck a guy's wife, then stroke him … but what else could you expect from the premier politician of the age? Everything America wanted she'd found in Buckshot Bob. The television presence of a superstar. The Dr. Atkins of the federal budget. Pulling U.S. troops out of country after country. And now, some sort of Mideast peace deal he was supposed to be putting together, along with central Africa, a Medicare catastrophic-expenses cap—