A slow smile spread across his tired face. Which made it fortunate that was probably precisely what Major General Kurakin and President Gryzlov had in mind.
Thirteen
President Stacy Anne Barbeau had spent decades mastering the art of charming powerful men she otherwise loathed. For all their supposed intelligence and sophistication, a great many members of Washington, D.C.’s self-proclaimed elite were surprisingly easy to manipulate — at least by an attractive woman willing to use every weapon at her disposal, including her sexual favors, if that became necessary. Flattering useful idiots who weren’t fit to kiss her dirty high heels had required an enormous amount of self-control. Screwing them while smiling took even more.
Unfortunately, former U.S. president Kevin Martindale was one of the very few men who’d seen through her right from the start. He’d immediately perceived her ruthless willingness to do whatever was necessary to achieve her desires. Well, of course, he pegged me early on, she thought viciously. For all his bullshit about protecting the free world, Martindale was just as much a Machiavellian manipulator as she was. That was one of the reasons she’d always hated, and secretly feared, the devious son of a bitch. So it was a relief now to be able to drop the mask and confront him openly.
Even if it was only via a secure video link to Warsaw.
She’d condescended to listen to Martindale’s pitch only after several urgent requests by the Polish government made through diplomatic back channels. She’d hoped it would give her a chance to learn more about his latest schemes — with a special emphasis on figuring out just how far he was prepared to go to help John D. Farrell beat her in November. But within the first couple of minutes, she’d realized this call was a waste of time.
“The intelligence my people have gathered is clear and undeniable, Madam President,” Martindale said quietly. “It’s highly probable that Gennadiy Gryzlov is organizing his own mercenary force on the sly. Coupled with his reckless personal nature and worldwide geopolitical ambitions, that’s an extremely unsettling and dangerous development. I’ve no doubt that Gryzlov will use these mercenaries against his enemies — against us — while claiming his own hands are clean.”
Oh, Christ, I should have known better, Barbeau thought with unconcealed disdain. For all his celebrated cleverness, ultimately, Kevin Martindale was just a one-trick pony. The Russians, the Russians, the Russians. It was always the goddamned Russians.
“Spare me the histrionics, Mr. Martindale,” she retorted. “What’s your proposition?”
“It’s high time we set our personal and political differences aside,” Martindale replied without any evident hesitation, somehow managing to sound surprisingly sincere. “Wherever he intends to strike first, Gryzlov poses a serious and growing threat to all of us — to NATO, to the Alliance of Free Nations, and to the United States itself. But if we openly pool our military and diplomatic resources and fully share our respective intelligence assets and information, we might be able to deter the Russians from acting rashly. At a minimum, our combined forces would be strong enough to—”
That was enough, she decided.
“Cut the Cold War crap, Martindale,” Barbeau snapped, interrupting him in midsentence. “Do not expect me to fall for your old and very tired line of bullshit. And don’t come crying to me because you and your hired killers — and the morons in Warsaw who pay you — are suddenly running scared. Did you really think you could end-run international law with your own goddamned private army and air force without anybody else deciding to follow your lead?”
Angrily, she shook her head. “My number one priority is to protect the citizens and national security interests of the United States. It sure as hell isn’t to save your sorry old playboy ass when the bear you’ve been batting around suddenly bites back.”
Visibly annoyed, Martindale leaned forward. “Madam President, I can assure you that saving my sorry old ass, as you so eloquently put it, is not what this is about—”
“Bull! You and that lunatic Patrick McLanahan set an incredibly dangerous precedent when you decided you could play toy soldiers with real people and real countries,” Barbeau continued, overriding him. “Well, that was a fucking stupid game to play and it ended up killing McLanahan. Now it may be your turn. Tough shit. I guess you and the Poles are just going to have to learn to live with the consequences of your own illegal actions. In any case, you can sure as hell forget about hiding under my skirts! If Gryzlov really does send his own mercenaries after you and Piotr Wilk and the rest of your gang, you’re on your own.”
Contemptuously, she tapped a control on the keyboard at her elbow, cutting the secure link to Warsaw.
The wall-sized screen went black.
Barbeau swiveled her chair to look at Luke Cohen and Ed Rauch. Her chief of staff and national security adviser were the only two people she’d trusted to hear what passed between her and Martindale. Bringing more staffers into the loop only multiplied the odds of a leak to the press and that was something she simply could not risk. Rumors from Warsaw wouldn’t gain any traction. Nobody important would believe them.
But at this stage of the campaign, having anonymous, high-level White House sources confirm that she’d been in secret contact with Martindale and the Polish government could be disastrous. Public and congressional support for her foreign policy in Europe hinged on a belief that cutting ties with Poland and its half-baked Alliance of Free Nations was a rational move — one in America’s best interests. Anything that suggested she might be rethinking that could seriously damage her credibility… and lay her wide open to Farrell’s political attacks.
Barbeau snorted in disgust. Did Martindale really think she was that dumb? Reversing course now to forge new defense and intelligence links with Poland and its allies would be political malpractice of the highest order. It would split her own party right down the middle — dividing it between those who would loyally toe whatever line she took and those who genuinely wanted a new détente with the Russians. That kind of division could easily cost her a closely contested election. If she’d ever doubted the former president was in bed with her opponent, there was her answer.
She could rely on Cohen keeping his mouth shut about this aborted conversation because the lanky New Yorker’s political future was entirely tied to hers. Without her, he would be nothing… just another washed-up White House toady who’d be lucky to land a paying gig at some rinky-dink cable news network.
And Rauch was trustworthy because he was smart enough to know that he could never spill anything like this to reporters and get away with it. Leaking confidential and classified information was a federal crime. The general rule in D.C. was that leakers never paid a price. But Barbeau was willing to bet that her skinny, gray-haired national security adviser knew damned well she was vengeful enough to make him the exception.
“Comments?” she snapped.
“Assuming the intelligence information he shared is accurate, former president Martindale could be right,” Rauch said reluctantly. “At least about the potential danger a deniable Russian mercenary force represents.”