It could also be less sinister than that. The First Lady said her husband wasn't himself. What if she was right?
Lawrence had spent four tough years in the White House and then eight tough years winning it back. Now he was in the hot seat again. That was a lot of pressure.
Hood was aware of several presidents who had showed signs of breaking during extended periods of stress: Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, and Bill Clinton. In the case of Nixon, his closest advisers encouraged him to resign not just for the health of the nation but for his own mental well-being. With Clinton, the president's staff and friends decided not to bring in doctors or psychiatrists but to keep a careful watch and hope he came through the impeachment crisis.
He did.
But in at least two cases, allowing the president to carry the full burden of decision making and politicking was not the best policy. Wilson ended up with a stroke trying to push the League of Nations through Congress.
And toward the end of World War II, burdened by the pressure of winning the war and drawing up plans for a postwar world, Roosevelt's closest advisers feared for his health. Had they impressed on him the absolute need to slow down, he might not have died of a cerebral hemorrhage.
Any of those scenarios could be correct, or they could all be dead wrong. But Hood had always believed that it was better to consider every option, even the least likely, rather than be surprised. Especially when the result of being right could be cataclysmic. He would have to proceed carefully. If he could get to see the president, he would have an opportunity to lay his few cards on the table and also observe Lawrence, see whether Megan's concerns had merit. The worst that could happen was the president would ask for his resignation. Fortunately, he still had his last one on file.
'What are you thinking?' Herbert asked.
Hood reached for the telephone.
'I've got to see the president.'
'Excellent,' Herbert said.
'Straight ahead has always been my favorite way, too.'
Hood punched in the president's direct line. The phone beeped at the desk of his executive secretary, Jamie Leigh, instead of going through the switchboard.
Hood asked Mrs. Leigh if she could please squeeze him in for a few minutes somewhere. She asked him for a log line for the calendar to let the president know what this was about. Hood said that it had to do with Op Center having a role in the United Nations intelligence program.
Mrs. Leigh liked Hood, and she arranged for him to see the president for five minutes, from four-ten to four fifteen
Hood thanked her then looked at Herbert.
'I've got to get going,' Hood said.
'My appointment's in forty minutes.'
'You don't look happy,' Herbert said.
'I'm not,' Hood said.
'Can we get someone to nail down who Fenwick is meeting in New York?'
'Mike was able to connect with someone at the State Department when you two were up there,' Herbert said.
'Who?'
'Lisa Baroni,' Herbert told him.
'She was a liaison with the parents during the crisis.'
'I didn't meet her,' Hood said.
'How did Mike find her?'
'He did what any good spymaster does,' Herbert said.
'When he's someplace new, he looks for the unhappy employee and promises them something better if they deliver. Let's see if she can deliver.'
'Good,' Hood said as he rose.
'God. I feel like I do whenever I go to Christmas Eve Mass.'
'And how is that?' Herbert asked.
'Guilty that you don't go to church more often?'
'No,' Hood replied.
'I feel like there's something going on that's much bigger than me. And I'm afraid that when I figure out what that is, it's going to scare the hell out of me.'
'Isn't that what church is supposed to be about?' Herbert asked.
Hood thought about that for a moment. Then he grinned as he left the office, 'louche,' he said.
'Good luck,' Herbert replied as he wheeled out after him.
Gobustan, Azerbaijan Monday, 11:56 p.m.
