“Join me in my office,” he said.
The Frenchman followed him out of the study, and an indiscernible movement in the chief’s carriage sent his underlings in the opposite direction. A brief walk through a hallway lined with pictures of past presidents brought him to the chief’s chamber.
The room seemed tight compared to the president’s study, but meticulousness kept it orderly. Shelves lacking books and a sleek laptop workstation suggested that the chief embraced modern technology. A thin stack of outgoing papers cut a right angle atop the rosewood desk, and seeing no evidence of work in progress, Renard grasped the man’s efficiency.
A placard displayed the chief’s name, and after his demeanor shift, the Frenchman deemed it worthy of remembrance.
“Mister Navarro,” he said, “you appear to have had a recent change of opinion in erecting defenses in the Spratly Islands. Have I won you over with my charm and wit?”
Navarro leveled probing eyes at Renard and seemed to dissect him. The Frenchman held his composure under tense scrutiny. When the chief had completed his exam, he leaned back in his chair and spoke with a tone that carried a surprising enthusiasm — checked by a businesslike efficacy.
“Of course, you won me over,” he said. “Before I let you in front of the president, I pieced together enough of your history to know that I needed you. There’s no better man for hire that can redefine a military strategy, navigate intelligence channels, and acquire weapons.”
“Then your protestations have been a charade from the beginning.”
“The president needed to hear me voice the countering opinion. It’s part of the routine I must follow to manage him. If I had accepted you too eagerly, he would have hesitated.”
“You speak of him like a child.”
Navarro smiled.
“In a way, he is. I served as his father’s chief of staff during his rise in the senate. If only the cancer hadn’t taken him, I would now be serving the wiser of the two men.”
Renard scanned his memory banks.
Five years ago, the elder Andrada had been a favorite to rule the country. Sympathy for his death and a cash influx from supporters who wanted to see the Andrada name carried to the presidency had lifted the son into the office.
“You’re doing an admirable job tending to the president you inherited.”
“He’s not the politician his father was, but he has his gifts,” Navarro said. “In front of a camera, he is magical. And from his corporate management experience, he understands how to value assets and liabilities, including favors.”
“I appreciate your candor.”
As the chief’s back stiffened and his stare returned, Renard felt Navarro ascertaining his mettle.
“I brought you here for more than my candor,” he said. “I need to share information with you that is highly sensitive. I need to trust you.”
Renard broke the stare and reached for the ashtray on the desk. He doused his Marlboro in it, clasped his hands on his lap, and resubmitted his gaze to Navarro for inspection.
“I am a man of my word,” he said. “My actions have earned me enough enemies that I can ill afford to compound my situation with lies and deceit. Honesty with my clients is a policy I must follow.”
“I am not your client. My president is.”
Renard wondered if Navarro established a separation with Andrada to protect the president, or if he meant for it to protect himself.
“My truthfulness extends from my clients to their agents. As long as you are true to Andrada, I will be true to you. If, however, you deviate from my agreements with him, my loyalty to him shall trump any agreements you and I may reach.”
“Then I offer you a gentleman’s agreement,” Navarro said. “I will share information with you that I need you to keep secret from the president. If you determine that the information is in keeping of the spirit of your agreement with the president and that protecting him from such information is also necessary, then you will adjust your planning to account for the new information I share.”
“Agreed. But if I determine otherwise?”
“Then I will have a difficult decision.”
“As long as the burden of choice is upon you,” Renard said, “you may as well tell me what you want me to hear.”
Navarro leaned back in his chair.
“I want you to bring a second submarine into the operation.”
Renard measured his response. He had just doubled his fleet with the theft of the Wraith from its prior Malaysian owners, and he would hesitate to risk both it and his Specter in a single operation.
“May I ask why?”
“Increased intelligence,” Navarro said. “I know that the Wraith can defend a given location from the Chinese, but a second submarine allows insurance.”
Renard was recruiting a new crew to staff the Specter, and the ship needed a year to be ready for action. He stretched the truth but made sure to avoid lies in this new, growing relationship.
“The Specter is in transport at the moment, but I could transport it here within a week. However, for the added risk of involving my other submarine, I would have to demand a very high premium.”
“I didn’t mean the Specter,” Navarro said. “I meant the Rankin.”
The Frenchman accessed his mental checklist of the world’s submarine fleets.
“An Australian Collins class?” he asked. “Why? How?”
“Because I’ve identified my allies,” Navarro said. “To my north, I have Taiwan. They are, as you say, de facto allies. And though I believe they are too far away to have any business in the Spraltys, they have a stronghold at Taiping Island, and they will continue to stand against the Chinese regardless of anything I do.”
“Agreed. But the Australians?”
“My allies to the south. Getting their attention required reaching out them.”
The news alarmed Renard. It felt like a betrayal.
“So you simply approached them? Depending on what you’ve shared, you may have overstepped the boundaries of my agreement with President Andrada.”
“I did not approach the Australians. Olivia McDonald did. She arranged my first discussion with the Minister for Defence, and I shared nothing with the minister without clearing it first with her. I trust that you trust her, given that you called upon her to arrange for the tracking of the Malaysian submarine that is now in your possession.”
Scenarios of duplicity ricocheted off the insides of Renard’s skull. When he had met her a decade ago, Olivia was a young officer trying to nourish her budding career within the CIA by bringing him and Jake Slate to justice. She had found him, but he had proven that he and Slate could serve American interests better as mercenaries operating under CIA control than as trophies behind prison bars.
News of her working further behind his back than he could have imagined — involving the Australians — worried him. But it also clarified parts of a murky puzzle. It told him that the Australian submarine Rankin had tracked the Malaysian submarine, sharing its location and making possible its theft and conversion to the Wraith.
He tucked away a mental debt of gratitude for the Australians, filing it next to his reminder to watch for signs of growing, unchecked power from Olivia McDonald.
He forced a smile as he reached under his blazer for a fresh Marlboro.
“Miss McDonald and I have traded favors for eight years,” he said. “I trust her implicitly. If she has approved the involvement of the Australians, then I shall make every effort to accommodate them into this operation.”