“No, that can’t be—”
“Not only has your mistake put us behind schedule, but now we have to cover it up before we have swarms of Western media digging around,” Xiang said.
The older man found his voice. “Is that all you care about? Public relations? You heartless—”
“This goes beyond public relations! We’re talking about the future of China. The deaths of a few peasants is inconsequential. In fact, it’s so inconsequential that one more won’t make any difference.”
In one fluid motion, Xiang drew his side arm, pressed it to the director’s forehead, and fired. The back of the man’s head exploded. He crumpled to the ground. Xiang reholstered his pistol, then placed his foot on the corpse’s hip and rolled the body down the slope.
Mouth agape, the younger man watched the body land in a heap atop those of the villagers.
“You’ve just been promoted,” Xiang said. “See that you do better than your predecessor.”
Ten months to retirement, thought President John Haverland, staring out the window of the Oval Office. Ten months left in a career that had spanned forty years. After November he’d serve out his last days as a lame duck, a glorified house sitter. Even now, his official duties were becoming fewer and fewer, which, truth be told, didn’t bother him much. It gave him time to think.
In all, he decided, he’d done a fair job. He’d made his mistakes, but that was life. He’d learned from them, however, and worked hard to base his decisions in that wisdom. Most of them, at least.
His own vice president was such a case. He’d never liked Phillip Martin, not when they worked together in the Senate, and not when his campaign advisors had put his name at the top of the list for vice presidential running mates. He’d argued against it, but in the end the choice was simple: Martin’s inclusion on the ticket would secure the votes Haverland needed to win. Of course, if the only issue had been victory, he would have told his advisors to shove it.
Quite simply, John Haverland believed in the power of service and he believed he could make a difference to the welfare of his country. Four years ago, Americans didn’t trust such sentiments. They were tired and mistrustful. Even so, by the time the election entered the final stretch, Haverland had changed a lot of minds. It still wasn’t going to be enough, his staff told him. Without Martin, we lose.
They had the statistics to support their claim. He reluctantly assented, and two months later he was elected president. Martin had played his role well enough, but the irony of their partnership was never lost on Haverland. He, the faithful, buck-stops-here president; and Martin, the polished, self-serving, chameleonlike vice president.
And now the son-of-a-bitch is making a run for the presidency.
“Not if I can help it,” he muttered. He pressed his intercom button. “Joanne, please call Vice President Martin and tell him I need to see him.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Martin arrived ten minutes later. He flashed his plastic smile at Haverland and strode across the carpet. “John, how are you today?”
“Sit down, Phil.”
Martin’s smile never faltered, but Haverland saw a flash of uncertainty in his VP’s eyes. The perfect political animal, Haverland thought. God help us. …
“Phil, I’ll come to the point: Your secretary has accused you of sexual harassment.”
“What?” Martin cried. “Peggy Manahan? That’s ridiculous, John. I would never—”
“In fact, Phil, what she describes sounds more like sexual assault.”
Martin chuckled. “Oh, come on. …”
“She claims you had her pinned against the wall, that you were pulling up her skirt.”
“That’s not true.”
“What part?”
“All of it, John. For God’s sake—”
“It never happened?”
“No.” Martin spread his hands. “She’s confused, John. Perhaps she had ideas about us. …”
Oh good Christ, Haverland thought. “So it never happened and Peggy Manahan, a solid, faithful White House employee for eighteen years is either lying, or she’s caught in the throes of an obsessive fantasy about you. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Martin smoothed out his tie. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating.”
“We’re well beyond insinuation, Phil. I believe her. I believe every word of it. But the truth is, this is my fault. I knew what and who you were when I brought you aboard. I buried it, called a lesser evil to do a larger good. But that’s crap. I put you where you are because I needed you to win. I put you in the running for the presidency.”
“That’s right! That’s exactly right!” Martin shot back. “And whether you believe it or not, I’ve earned it. Now it’s my turn. You’ve had your shot. Now I get mine!”
Haverland stared hard at Martin, gauging him, waiting.
Martin cleared his throat. “So where does this leave us? What are you going to do with this?”
“Nothing. I’ve spoken with Peggy. She’s retiring. It was her choice. She wants to get as far away from you as possible and forget it ever happened.”
“Good. Good for her. Best we all put this behind us.”
“Not quite, Phil.” Haverland reached into his drawer and pulled out a spiral-bound address book. He plopped it onto the desk. “This is forty year’s worth of names: CEOs, senators, ambassadors, PACs, jurists, lobbyists, newspaper editors, investment bankers. … Starting this afternoon, I’m calling in every marker I own. By this time next week, the tap on your campaign is going to start drying up.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Watch me.”
“Come on, John. Can’t we work this out—”
“No.”
“Without that money I haven’t got a chance in hell of winning!”
“Exactly. You don’t deserve the office. More to the point, America deserves better than you.”
Martin’s face turned purple. “You bastard! This is not fair! What gives you the right—”
Haverland stood up, turned his back on Martin, and walked to the window. “We’re done, Phil. Get out of my office. If there’s any justice, you’ll never see it again.”
Sunil Dhar enjoyed his work. Kashmiri by birth, Dhar was more sympathetic to his Indian customers, but beyond that he was an equal-opportunity agent. Such was the beauty of his vocation. As long as the customer paid, their nationality and cause were of no concern to him.
This would be his second meeting with the client, and he’d chosen the café for its many exits and open facade. If there were watchers, he would see them. Not that he expected problems. His client seemed genuine in his intention, if not in his presentation.
The client certainly looked Japanese, but Orientals all looked alike to him. Even so, Dhar had dealt with JRA terrorists before, and there was something wrong with this one. But what? The man wasn’t with any police or intelligence agency; his network of contacts had told him that much.
If he’s not JRA, who is he? There were two likely scenarios: a rival group looking to insulate themselves should the transaction fail; or a go-between trying to establish cover for a larger operation.
Wheels within wheels, Dhar thought. His line of work was much more satisfying — not to mention simple. Most of the time, that is. This job would require some delicacy. Sarin was the king of nerve agents, so toxic it could kill a theaterful of people. He idly wondered what they (whoever “they” were) wanted it for, but quickly pushed the question from his mind. Not his business.