"They're macho in a different way," Liz said. "Men don't like losing those either, but they can accept losing to a man much easier than they can to a woman."
Lowell Coffey snickered. "Which is just what I'd expect a woman to say. You know, Senator Barbara Fox busted my chops harder last night than any man has ever done."
"Maybe she was just doing her job better than any man has ever done," Liz observed.
"No," said Coffey. "I couldn't use the kind of shorthand with her that I used with the men on the committee. Ask Martha, she was there."
Ann said, "Senator Fox has been a rabid isolationist since her daughter was murdered in France years ago."
"Look," Liz said, "all this isn't my opinion. Countless papers have been written on the subject."
"Countless papers have been written about UFOs," Coffey said, "and I still think it's all a sack of horsefeathers. People respond to people, not sexes."
Liz smiled sweetly. "Carol Laning, Lowell."
"Excuse me?" Coffey said.
"I'm not allowed to talk about it," Liz said, "but you are— if you've got the cajones."
"You mean Prosecutor Laning? Fraser v. Maryland? Is that in my psych profile?"
Liz said nothing.
Coffey flushed. He turned the page, creased and recreased the fold, and looked at the newspaper. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Elizabeth. I crashed into her car by accident after the trial. It was my first case and I was distracted. Losing to a woman had nothing to do with it. "
"Of course not," Liz said.
"It's true," Coffey said as his pager beeped. He glanced at the number, then dropped the newspaper on the table and stood. "Sorry, kiddies, but you'll have to hear my closing argument some other time. I've got a world leader to call."
"Male or female?" Phil asked.
Coffey made a face as he left the room.
When he was gone, Ann said, "Don't you think you were a little rough on him, Liz?"
Liz finished with the National Enquirer, collected the Star and Globe, and stood. She looked down at the rosy-cheeked brunette. "A bit, Ann. But it's good for him. Despite the bluster, Lowell listens to what people say and some of it sinks in. Unlike some people."
"Thank you very much," Stoll said as he shut his computer and disconnected the computers. "Before you got here, Ann, Liz and I were 'debating' about whether her ineptitude with hardware was actually a physical limitation or a subconscious antimale bias."
"It's the former," Liz said. "It would be the same as saying that your skills with hardware ipso facto make you a man."
"Thank you again," Stoll said.
"My God," Ann said, "I move that we all cut back on the morning caffeine and sugar intake."
"It's not that," Stoll said as Liz left. "It's just the Monday after an international blow. We decided we're all a little testy because nobody thought to preprograrn their VCRs for the week we're going to be living here."
Katzen tucked his laptop under his arm and rose. "I've got some material to get for the meeting," he said. "See you folks in fifteen."
"And then every quarter hour after that," Stoll said, following him out, "until we're all old and gray."
Alone now, the Press Officer sipped her espresso and contemplated the primary Op-Center team. They were a bunch of characters, with Matt Stoll the biggest kid and Liz Gordon the biggest bully. But the best people in any field usually were eccentric. And getting them to work together in close quarters like this was a thankless job. The best Paul Hood could ever hope for among his eclectic officers was peaceful coexistence, shared purpose, and some degree of mutual, professional respect. He got that through high-maintenance, hands-on management— though she knew the toll that took on his private life.
Leaving the cafeteria to go to the meeting, Ann ran into Martha Mackall. The forty-nine-year-old Political Officer and linguistics expert was also hurrying to the meeting, though she never seemed to be in a hurry. The daughter of the late soul singer Mack Mackall, she had his cheek-splitting smile, smoky voice, and easy manner— layered atop her own core of steel. She always appeared cool, the result of having grown up on the road with her father, where she learned that drunks, rednecks, and bigots were more intimidated by a sharp mind and wit than by a sharp knife. When Mack was killed in a car crash, Martha went to live with an aunt who made her study hard, put her through college, and lived to see her make the move from her father's "Soul to Go" days to the State Department.
"Morning, glory," Martha said as Ann increased her speed to keep up with the taller woman.
"Morning, Martha," Ann said. "I understand you had a busy night."
"Lowell and I did the Dance of the Seven Veils up on the Hill," she said. "Those Congresspeople take a bit of persuading."
The two walked the rest of the way in silence. Martha was not one for small talk in any language, unless it was with the high and mighty. Increasingly, Ann had the feeling that if there was anyone who coveted Hood's job, it wasn't Mike Rodgers.
Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, Matt Stoll, Phil Katzen, and Liz Gordon were already sitting around the large, oval conference table in the Tank when Ann and Martha arrived. Ann noted that Bob Herbert appeared drawn. She assumed that he and his old friend Rodgers had spent the night working on the Striker mission— and dealing with some of the emotions the bombing had to have brought out in the wheelchair-bound Intelligence Officer.
The women were followed in by Paul Hood and a hustling Lowell Coffey. Even before the attorney was in, Rodgers had pressed a button in the side of the table and the heavy door had begun to shut.
The small room was lit by fluorescent lights; on the wall across from where Rodgers was sitting, the large, digital countdown clock was frozen at zero. Whenever there was a crisis with a timetable, the clock was set and a similar read-out appeared in every office— just so there was no mistake about when things had to be done.
The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with mottled gray and black, sound-absorbing Acoustix. Behind this were several layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and more Acoustix. Buried in the concrete, on all six sides of the room, were wire grids that generated vascillating audio waves; no electronic information could enter or leave the room without being completely and irreparably distorted.
Hood sat at the head of the table. To his right, on a small extension, were a monitor and computer keyboard and telephone hookup. A tiny fiber-optic camera was attached to the top of the monitor and allowed him to see anyone on-screen who had a similar setup.
When the door was shut, Paul said, "I know we all feel sick about what happened yesterday, so there's no need to comment further about that. I want to thank Mike for the incredible job he did. He'll be telling you about that. In case you haven't already heard, there's more to this story than has been on the news. I've come straight from a plane flight and a quick shower, so I'm as eager to hear what he has to say as you are. I'd like to point out, though, that everything you'll be hearing is Priority One clearance. When we leave here, both Mike and I or Mike and Martha have to sign off on anyone less than that who needs to be told." Hood looked at Rodgers. "Mike?"
Rodgers thanked Hood, then briefed the team on what had happened in the Oval Office. He told them that Striker had departed from Andrews at 4:47 A.m. and would arrive in Helsinki around 8:50 P.M, local time.
"Lowell," he said, "where are we on the Finnish Ambassador?"
"He's given me a temporary okay," the attorney said. "He just needs a rubber stamp from the Pesident."
"When will we have that?"
"This morning," Coffey replied.
Rodgers looked at his watch. "It's already four in the afternoon over there. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. They start late and work late over there. No one makes any high-level decisions until after lunch."