FOURTEEN
Washington, D.C. Monday, 2:59 p.m.
To most outsiders, the Capitol and the office buildings that serviced it denned the phrase corridors of power. For over a century, ideas that had first influenced the world, then dominated it, were debated here. Refined here. Presidents were humbled here or declared war here. Laws were passed or revoked here, causing ripples that affected every life in the nation, through every federal, state, and local court. Art and expression were financed here or restricted here.
What Mike Rodgers saw were not COPs. Whenever he had business here which was mercifully rare Rodgers felt as though he were entering an abattoir. Fortunately, until this morning, he had not been a very fat cow, so the blades did not usually affect him. But this was where budgets were hacked, policies were eviscerated, good ideas were whittled to nubs, and wise or well-intentioned men and women were cut down at the knees or decapitated.
Vietnam was lost here, not on the battlefield.
The Capitol was about power in the same way ice hockey was about travel. There was a lot of aggressive, muscular movement but very little progress. It was odd. Rodgers did not even see the white of the dome and columns as much as he saw the dark recesses and shadows that creased and abutted them.
Rodgers hoped that Senator Orr could change those impressions.
Military reservists were stationed outside the building, and Rodgers acknowledged their salutes as he was checked through. He went to Senator Orr's first-floor office and was buzzed in. He did not need to announce himself. A security camera above the door did that for him.
Maybe they should call it the corridors of paranoia, he thought. He glanced along the hall. Security was an important issue. But he did not think it was necessary to have a camera above each door. The money the government spent on this surveillance system would be better spent on one or two good Special Ops agents who could track and eliminate assassins.
Rodgers refused to let any of this flavor his opinion of Donald Orr.
Men could not be held accountable for the transgressions of their peers.
A sharp young female receptionist sat behind a mahogany desk in the small waiting area. The woman had already come from around the desk.
She welcomed Rodgers with a large smile and a strong handshake.
'General Rodgers, thank you for coming. The senator is expecting you,' she said. The woman entered a code into a keypad by the six-panel cherry wood door. This opened into the main offices. 'May I get you coffee or a soft drink?'
'Black coffee would be good. No sugar.'
She walked him through a short maze of desks and cubicles to the senator's closed door. She knocked and was told to enter. The big Texan rose and walked from behind his desk. His eyes were squarely on the general.
'The man who prevented World War III,' Senator On-said. 'Twice.'
'I'm hardly that, but thank you,' Rodgers said.
'General, modesty is forbidden on the Hill,' Orr said. 'We passed a law against it, I think.'
'I'm only visiting.'
'Doesn't matter,' Orr said as the men shook hands. 'I hear tin horns every damn day. When you've got Gabriel's trumpet, play it.'
Rodgers felt old calluses on the senator's palm and undersides of his fingers. He knew that the Orr family was in ranching. He was glad to see the senator had not been too privileged to work.
'Besides, I'm hoping we can convince you to stay,' the senator went on.
'Please, sit down,' he said, gesturing toward a leather armchair.
The receptionist returned with Rodgers's coffee. He had not even seen her slip away. She set it on a glass- topped teapoy in front of the chair. Steam rose from a navy blue mug with the Camp David logo in gold. The logo was set facing Rodgers. It was just a cornet semiquaver but unavoidable.
