Outside, even in the evening, the air was thick and humid. Her car was already in front of the building, but the twenty steps between the house and the car were enough to leave her sweating.
Inside the dark unmarked Mercedes sedan, the air would be cool — chilly, even. And dry — yes, dry. She could already imagine it surrounding her, soaking the sweat off her skin, cooling the blood she felt pounding in her temples. Of all the marvels of the modern world, air-conditioning had to be at the top of the list.
Brad’s security people already had the back door open. The cool air was beckoning her along with the silence after the chatter of so many voices in so many languages. Sometimes it seemed like her time in the car was the most peaceful in her day. Even when she was forced to discuss business — and Brad’s security policies had put an end to most of that — nothing seemed quite as urgent.
“Madam!” The rough, deeply accented voice of the Russian ambassador made her pause. “Is there an explanation for this outrage?”
So close. Maybe he would get into her car and they could discuss it there. Not that there was anything to discuss yet, although he clearly had a better idea of what had happened than she did.
No. Russians were reflexively paranoid and he would suspect they were being monitored. Brad stepped between her and the Russian ambassador.
“It’s all right.” Brad stepped to the side but stayed close.
“I see you are leaving the party early,” she said pleasantly. “A nice evening, isn’t it?”
“As are you,” he said, ignoring the pleasantry. “Do not trifle with me, Madam.” Wexler noted that he had dropped the honorific. “I want to see your president at his very early convenience. Surely there is some explanation for this? There will be many in my country who will take it for deliberate provocation. I must warn you,” he said, wagging a thick finger at her, “that I’m not sure I can restrain them. Not this time.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her voice still neutral and polite. “Just what is it that has annoyed you?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” The ambassador swore, then stepped toward her, prompting Brad and his security people to move in closer. He saw them, and his scowl deepened. “Surely you don’t take me for a barbarian? Do you think you are in physical danger? That I would attack you, perhaps slap you around a bit to knock some sense into that pretty little head? Or maybe,” he said, ignoring Brad and stepping closer again, “that I would assault you?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said crisply. “Brad, please wait in the car. I’m fine.”
“But—” Brad started.
She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “I’m fine. Go on.”
She stared until he reluctantly moved away and back to the car. Regardless of her orders, he stood outside it. She turned back to the Russian ambassador. “Now, what is all this about?”
“Is it possible that you do not know?” Seeing the incomprehension on her face, he laughed, an unpleasant sound to his voice. “So, the vaunted freedom of the press doesn’t make any difference if no one hears it, does it? You should listen to ACN, Madam.”
“And if I did, what would I hear?” she snapped, losing patience with the entire charade and almost as furious at herself for being caught unawares.
“That your American officers believe that your country may have been the one that hit that cruise ship. Not Russian missiles. American ones.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Ask your gallant aide.”
She turned to look at Brad, who nodded, reluctance on his face. “It’s possible.”
“You have always been a poor liar, Madam Ambassador. Always.”
“Not always.” She said nothing more, simply smiled, her point made. The Russian’s face clouded over. She thought, You didn’t seem to think so when you fell for the cover story about the Patriot missiles.
Earlier that year, in an effort to discover who had planted a listening device in her office, she had intentionally faked a top secret conference with Brad about shipping Patriot missiles to Taiwan. There had been no such plan, but when the Russians had tried to blackmail her with the information, their perfidy had been exposed.
The Russian stepped closer to her. She could smell him, the rank odor. Brad stepped closer also.
“You know so little about how the world works,” the Russian said. “How your actions affect the rest of the world. How they think of you. Not everything in the world that you dislike can be vetoed, Madam. Sooner or later, you will face reality.”
“We faced reality on September 11,” she snapped. “Don’t talk to me about not understanding the world. What you’d better worry about is whether the world understands us.”
He drew back. “If the World Trade Center taught you anything, it should be that you are not unique. There are not separate rules for Americans. There never were. There never will be.” Before she could frame a reply, the Russian Ambassador stalked off. She slid gratefully into the air-conditioned car.
Either traffic was exceptionally light or both men had been expecting trouble. Probably the latter. Even in the lightest Beltway traffic, it would have been almost impossible for them to arrive at the White House so quickly.
The president had long ago given up apologizing for ruining either man’s evening. It was the price they paid for wielding power. And if you got right down to it, that’s what holding public office was about. Neither the general nor the adviser’s salary would have been sufficient to entice them into the hours they worked. No, it was the ability to control what was happening in the world, the feeling of power, and, in the best cases, the fervent belief that somehow one could make a difference in the world for the better.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” both men murmured as the Secret Service showed them in. The president had elected to receive them in his private quarters, and shoved the dinner tray away. He pointed at the televisions, which were now providing updates on the Montego Bay situation.
“Tell me what I need to know,” he said simply.
The two men had undoubtedly discussed it on their way here because neither bothered to glance at the other. The general began. “I spoke to the skipper of the carrier and the admiral of the battle group on the way over here, Mr. President,” he said. “We were not on a secure line, but I made sure that they would be standing by one later for instructions. From what they could tell me, the reporter — that Winston — ambushed the skipper on the bridge. Sure, maybe he said some things he shouldn’t have, but he thought he was talking to one of his officers. He’s read her the riot act.”
“A woman scorned,” the national security adviser said quietly.
The president shot him a disgusted look. “I don’t care if she’s female, male, or something in between. What matters right now is that the situation is a mess. I need some answers, gentlemen. And I need them now.” He pointed at the general. “Get the facts. You can use the secure phone in the situation room. I want to know everything.” He turned to the national security adviser. “Organize State and the embassies. I want it made clear to Russia right away that we are not certain what happened and intend to investigate fully. If they want to send an observer over, that’s fine.”
The general started to protest, and the president cut him off. “I know about the additional security precautions. I think your people can handle them, don’t you? We don’t admit we’re testing the system, nothing like that.”
“I was just going to suggest, Mr. President,” the general said, “that we have an exchange of observers. Surely the Russian data systems also captured the incident. If they’re coming over to take a look at our data, we should be taking a look at theirs. It seems only fair.”