Solomon flung her a two-fingered salute, unplugged his laptop, and hurried to his office. He shut the door behind him.
"I think that just about covers what Paul wanted," Liz said. She drew hard on her cigarette while Sheryl closed her computer and unplugged the cable. Liz watched her carefully. "What've we got here, Sheryl— seventy-eight people?"
"You mean at Op-Center?"
"Yes. There are seventy-eight here, plus another forty-two support personnel we share with DOD and the CIA, and the twelve Striker team members and the people they borrow from Andrews. Figure a hundred forty in all. So why, with all those people— so many of whom are friendly and open-minded and very, very good at what they do— why do I give a fig what Paul Hood thinks about us? Why can't I just do my job, give him what he asks for, and go have a double espresso?"
"Because we seek the truth for its own sake, and he looks for ways to manage it, use it for control."
"You think so, huh?"
"That's part of it. You're also frustrated by that male mindset of his. You remember his psych profile. Atheist, hates opera, never did mind-expanding drugs in the sixties. If he can't touch it, assimilate it in his day-to-day productivity, it's not worth the effort. Though that is a saving grace in one respect."
"How's that?" Liz seemed tired as her computer beeped for attention.
"Mike Rodgers is the same way. If they didn't have that in common, they'd maul each other to death with looks and innuendo— worse than they do now."
"The Bligh and Christian of Op-Center."
The rail-thin blonde pointed a finger. "I like it."
"But you know, Dr. Shade, I think it's something else—"
Shade looked interested. "Really? What?"
Liz smiled. "Sorry, Sheryl. Thanks to the magic of E-mail, I see that I'm wanted at once by Ann Farris and Lowell Coffey II. Maybe we'll finish this later."
With that, the Staff Psychologist turned the key in her computer, dropped it in her pocket, and walked out the door— leaving a confused assistant behind her.
As she walked briskly down the corridor to the press office, folding more gum, more pure chewing satisfaction, into her mouth, Liz had to suppress a smile. It wasn't fair to have done what she did to Sheryl, but it was a good exercise. Sheryl was new, fresh out of NYU and brimming with book learning— kilobytes more than Liz had had at her age, ten years before. Yet she didn't have very much life experience, and her thinking was much too linear. She needed to explore some mental territory without a roadmap, discover routes of her own. And a puzzle like Liz left her with— why does my boss care so much what her boss thinks— will help take her there, make her go through the process of "Does she have a crush on him? Is she unhappy with her husband? Does she want a promotion, and if so how will that affect me?" A trail like that could take her to any number of interesting places, all of which would be beneficial to her.
The truth was, Liz enjoyed her espressos a great deal and didn't think about Hood when she had them. His inability— or unwillingness— to grasp the clinical soundness of her work didn't bother her. They crucified Jesus and locked Galileo away, and none of that changed the truth of what they taught.
No, what frosted her was how he was the consummate politician before the shit hit the fan. He courteously and conscientiously heard her out and incorporated snippets of her findings into policy papers and strategies— albeit not because he wanted to. That was what Op-Center's charter demanded. But because he didn't trust her work, she was always the first one he called on the carpet whenever something went wrong. She hated that, and swore that one day she'd leak his godless little psych file to Pat Robertson.
No you wouldn't, she told herself as she knocked on Ann Farris's door, but fantasizing about it did keep her cool whenever he turned on the heat.
The Washington Times once deemed Ann Farris to be one of the twenty-five most eligible young divorcees in the nation's capital. Three years later, she still was.
Standing five-foot-seven, her brown hair bunched behind her and tied with the designer kerchief-of-the-day, her teeth hardball-white, and her eyes a dark rust, she was also one of the least understood women in Washington. With her B.A. in journalism and M.A. in public administration from Bryn Mawr, the Greenwich, Connecticut, blue-blood Farrises expected her to work on Wall Street with her father, and then at some blue-chip firm as V.P., then Senior V.P., then the sky was the limit.
Instead, she went to work as a political reporter for The Hour in nearby Norwalk, stayed two years, landed the job of Press Secretary to the iconoclastic third-party Governor of the state, and married an ultra-liberal public radio commentator from New Haven. She retired to raise their son, then left two years after that when funding cuts cost her husband his job and desperation sent him into the arms of a wealthy Westport matron. Moving to Washington, Ann got a job as Press Secretary for the newly elected junior Senator from Connecticut— a bright, attentive married man. She began having an affair with him shortly after arriving, the first of many intense, satisfying affairs with bright, attentive married men, one of whom held an office higher than Vice President.
That last part wasn't in her confidential psych file, but Liz knew because Ann had told her. She also confessed— though it was obvious— that she had a crush on Paul Hood and entertained some exotic fantasies about him. The statuesque beauty was remarkably frank about her relationships, at least to Liz: Ann reminded her of a Catholic schoolgirl she once knew, Meg Hughes, who was as careful and polite as she could be around the nuns, then uncorked her darkest secrets when they were away.
Liz often wondered if Ann confided in her because she was a psychologist or because she didn't perceive her as a rival.
Ann's husky voice told Liz to come in.
The smell of her office was unique, a blend of her pinelike, not-tested-on-animals Faire perfume and the faint, musky odor of the framed, archivally preserved newspaper front pages hung around her office, from before the Revolution to the present. There were over forty in all, and Ann said it was an interesting exercise to read the articles and ponder how she would have handled the crises differently.
Liz gave a quick smile to Ann, and blinked slowly at Lowell Coffey II. The young attorney stood when she entered; as always, he was fondling something rich— one of his diamond cuff links.
Masturbating the money, Liz thought. Unlike Ann, Coffey Percy Richkid had bought into his attorney-parents' Beverly Hills life-style and Alpha Gamma Crappa grandiloquence. He was always touching something that cost his family more than his yearly salary— Armani tie, gold Flagge fountain pen, Rolex wristwatch. She wasn't sure whether it was giving him pleasure, calling attention to how big his wallet was, or some of both, but it was transparent and annoying. So was the perfect, razor-cut dirty-blond hair, the manicured and polished fingernails, and the perfect, gray, three-piece Yves St. Laurent suit. She once begged Hood to put a spy eye in his office so they could settle once and for all not if he hit the lint remover every time he shut the door, but for how long.
"A cheerful good morning to you," Coffey said.
"Hi, Two. Morning, Ann."
Ann smiled and waved her fingers. She was sitting behind her big antique desk instead of on the front edge, as usual— a body-language barrier against Coffey, Liz imagined. The Yale grad was too smart or too chicken to indulge in overt sexual harassment, but his come-hither approach to Ann made him less popular than wage freezes among PR and psych personnel.