“The drawdown is proceeding,” he said. “We’re shipping soldiers back home and discharging them, but we’re still paying their wages for the next three months while they look to find civilian employment. The President has ordered the creation of a number of schemes to keep the former soldiers gainfully employed, but some of those schemes are meeting powerful opposition in Congress. I must add that military morale isn’t particularly high at the moment and that there is a great deal of bad feeling — which will only get worse as the effect of soldiers entering the workforce in large numbers make themselves felt…”
“That doesn’t matter,” McGreevy informed him. She waved him to a seat and sat down facing him. There was something uncannily intimate about her position. “The important thing is satisfying the Galactic Federation. The Welcome Foundation predicts that we will be in a position to take advantage of the Federation-sponsored economic boom and we will see full employment not long afterwards. And then we will go to the stars.”
Toby wasn’t so sure. All of the projections were based upon factors outside humanity’s control. The research programs had yet to find a way to duplicate alien drive fields — or however they lifted cargos from planetary surfaces to orbit — and without that technology, there were limits to how much could be lifted into space. And if the Galactic Federation refused to share, for whatever reason, the economic depression would become far worse very quickly. And all of that depended upon the Galactic Federation living up to its own words. If they had darker motives in visiting Earth, all of the projections would be useless.
“So we are told,” he said, neutrally.
“So we are told,” McGreevy agreed. She looked up at him, her bright eyes fixed on his face. “I’ve been studying your record, Mr Sanderson. You’re quite determined to stay out of the public eye.”
Toby felt a flicker of unease. Where was this leading? “I find that my work is easier without public recognition,” he said, finally. “I have never sought to be a political leader.”
“But you have had influence behind the scenes, as it were,” McGreevy pressed. It wasn’t really a question. “The President’s campaign was largely run — and won — by you. You were able to create a President who appealed to just enough of the voters to scrape into the White House. He was almost your tame monkey.”
“The President is his own man,” Toby said, tightly. Even if she’d been entirely accurate, he wouldn’t have said anything else. The Presidency was surrounded by a host of contradictions; Americans disliked strong leaders, and yet they wanted them. Toby suspected that it was because they both wanted someone in charge and yet feared the damage a bad President could do to the country. The President had little power to make things better — a point that was conveniently forgotten by his opponents — but he had a lot of power to make things worse. “I would not presume to advise him on anything.”
“And yet you do,” McGreevy said. She placed one hand on Toby’s knee, just for a second. “Let’s not mince words. You advise the President on matters political. You serve as his representative on matters that he finds uncomfortable — secret intelligence, for example. You may not be the power behind the throne, but he listens to you — and so do others, who know that you are close to the President.”
Toby said nothing, waiting to see where she would go. If he’d been as immoral as her, he realised, he would have accepted the unspoken offer immediately. But then, it wouldn’t have been a wise choice. There was no way that McGreevy would trust him so close to her, not completely. It wouldn’t be long before he was removed from his position. An assassination in Washington didn’t have to leave someone injured or dead to be effective. And character assassination was an old art in Washington.
“I would like you to come and work for me,” McGreevy continued. “Let’s face it; the President is not going to run again. You’ve seen how he’s having trouble coping with the brave new world; I doubt he’d want to remain in his post for another four years. And besides, the National Committee isn’t going to re-nominate him. They’re going to put me forward instead.”
Toby considered it, thinking hard. The National Committee had quite a few of her supporters sitting on it, but there were also members who hated her, or feared her ambition. And yet… she might be right. Her work with the aliens had won her a large base of support within the party itself, something she could probably parlay into a nomination to run for President. And if the President refused to even try to run again…
“You may be right,” he conceded. He was mentally running through a list of committee members who could have their arms twisted. Perhaps he could built a counterweight… but it would all depend on the President being willing to stand again. It would be the political catfight of nightmares. The contest between Hilary Clinton and Obama would be nothing in comparison. “What do you have to offer me if I abandon the President?”
“Oh, I don’t want you to abandon the President just yet,” McGreevy assured him. “I want you to report to me on his activities… to prove your loyalty, so to speak.”
And get thrown under a bus when my usefulness runs out, Toby thought, wryly. Knowing McGreevy, it might even be literal. And the aliens had killed the Vice President…
“I will certainly take it under consideration,” he said, finally. “And I will expect a token of your loyalty in return.”
McGreevy smiled and they got down to bargaining. Afterwards, Toby felt dirty, even though there was little choice. The resistance would need a spy in the enemy’s camp — and McGreevy was unquestionably the enemy. Toby’s position could make the difference between life and death for millions of people. The thought didn’t help. He still felt dirty.
He was still fighting the urge to shower when he returned to his office and discovered that one of his phones was blinking alarmingly. Picking it up, he heard a message from Jason Lucas, the Discoverer. He wanted an immediate meeting. Nodding to himself, Toby called back, made the arrangements and then left the office. Whatever it was, it had to be better than worrying about McGreevy’s vaunting ambition, or if he’d sold her his soul.
Blake’s Pizzeria was a small building just outside official Washington. The owner, who claimed descent from the great pizza cooks of Italy, didn’t advertise. Much of his clientele were federal employees working in the CIA or another intelligence agency who found the simple restaurant a convenient place to catch up with friends and — unofficially — share information from one agency to another. It worked about as well as could be expected, Toby knew; the FBI and the CIA still didn’t get along, even though their failure to coordinate had led to disaster on 9/11. The Pizzeria was secure, at least. It was regularly swept for bugs and its owner and his staff had been vetted by the CIA.
He saw Jason at once, waiting outside. The owner tended to be surly with visitors who didn’t come from Official Washington, particularly the media. Blake’s Pizzeria was an open secret to those in the know, but it had never slipped out into the public domain. Toby nodded to Jason, beckoned for him to follow Toby into the building and stopped in front of the counter. The waitress, a young woman with bright red hair and a wide smile, grinned up at them and then recognised the Discoverer. Toby had to smile at her expression. Compared to Jason, he was unnoticeable. But that was how he liked it.