'Talk to me.'
The president looked at her.
'It's nothing,' he said.
'These past couple of days have been rough, that's all.'
'You mean the calls at night--' 'That, plus everything else that's going on,' the president said.
'Is it worse than usual?'
'In some ways,' he said.
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'Not right now,' he said, forcing a little smile. His deep voice had regained some of its vigor and confidence, and his eyes had a little sparkle now. The president took her hands in his and rose. He stood just over six-foot- four. He looked down at her.
'You look beautiful.'
'Thank you,' Megan said.
'But you've still got me worried.'
'Don't be,' he said. He looked to his right. There was a shelf with a gold clock that had belonged to Thomas Jefferson.
'It's late,' the president said.
'I'd better get ready.'
'I'll wait for you,' she told him.
'And you'd better do something about your eyes.'
'My eyes?' he said, glancing at the mirror. He'd gotten up even earlier than she had that morning, and his eyes were severely bloodshot. It was bad for an individual in a position of great responsibility to look weak or tired.
'I didn't sleep very well last night,' he said, touching and tugging on the skin around them.
'A few eye drops will take care of that.' The president turned back to his wife and kissed her gently on the forehead.
'It's all right, I promise,' he said, then smiled again and turned away.
Megan watched as her husband walked slowly toward the bathroom and shut the door. She heard him turn on the shower. She listened. Michael usually hummed rock and roll oldies when he showered. Sometimes he even sang. Tonight he was silent.
For the first time in a long time, Megan didn't believe what her husband had told her. No politician was entirely truthful on the outside. Sometimes they had to say what voters and political rivals wanted to hear. But Michael was an honest man on the inside, at least with Megan. When she looked into his eyes, she knew whether or not he was hiding something. When he was, Megan could usually coax him into telling her about it.
But not today, and that bothered her deeply. She was suddenly very scared for him.
Slowly, Megan walked back toward her own dressing room. She pulled on her gloves and tried to concentrate on what she had to do for the next four hours. She had to be an outgoing hostess. She had to be gracious and complimentary to the delegates' wives. At least she would be with people she didn't know. It was easier to hide her feelings when she was with strangers. They would not know that she was putting on an act.
But it would be an act.
Megan went back into the bedroom. There was a small, early-nineteenth-century mahogany Tambour writing cabinet on her side of the bed. She picked up a folder from her executive secretary and went over the guest list, paying particular attention to the names of the foreign delegates and their wives. There was a phonetic guide beside each name, and she reviewed the pronunciation aloud. The names came easily to the First Lady.
She had an affinity for language and had planned on becoming a translator when she met and married her husband. Ironically, she had wanted to work for the United Nations.
Megan closed the folder and set it down. She looked around the room. The magic was still here, the lurking spirits and the resonance of great drama. But she was also acutely aware of something she didn't often feel here. Here, in a house that was literally watched by every eye in the world.
She suddenly felt a great sense of isolation.
Baku. Azerbaijan Monday, 2:47 a.m.
David Battat awoke slowly.
The sea air was chilly and becoming raw. David was lying on his belly, his face turned to the reeds in front of the water. There was cool moisture on his cheeks, condensation from the Caspian.
He tried to move, but his head felt as if it were made of concrete. His throat was raw, and his neck hurt. He touched it gently and winced. The skin was bruised and extremely sore. His camera was gone. The CIA team back in Moscow wouldn't be able to study the photographs he took to see who else might have been on the boat, or calculate how much weight it was carrying by where the waterline reached. Artillery and missiles weighed a lot more than explosives, currency, or drugs.
Battat tried to push himself off the ground. As he did, he felt as though a spike had been hammered through the back of his neck. He dropped, waited a few seconds, then tried again even more slowly. He managed to get his knees under him, then sat looking out across the dark water.
The Rachel was gone. He'd blown this big time. Like it or not, he'd have to let Moscow know as soon as possible.
