Wilson smiled. “I hope you’re right. What else?”
Cooke nodded and then took his time. He took another small sip, set his glass down on a cork coaster sitting atop a small wood side table, and leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. “I’m not sure how to put this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Is there something between you and Stansfield you haven’t told me about?”
Wilson gauged that Cooke was in possession of some information that had caused him to ask the question. Being an attorney by trade, he did what all good attorneys do: Rather than answer the question he asked one. “What do you mean?”
“I mean some problem . . . some bad blood between the two of you?”
Wilson shook his head, gazed into his drink for a moment, and then said, “Other than the fact that I don’t trust the man, and that I think he should be tried and thrown in jail, no . . . there’s nothing I can think of.”
“Nothing specific?”
“Paul,” Wilson said, his tone turning testy, “if you have some information come out and say it. There isn’t anything that I can specifically think of that has transpired between Thomas Stansfield and me. He is my subordinate and has always been. When I was a senator, and I sat on the Intelligence Committee, we had our brawls, but so did every other senator. It was our job to push him, and in light of his uncooperative nature, there were a lot of heated moments.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“And now that I’m secretary of state, and one of the president’s closest advisors, he is, well, so far beneath me, he would hardly warrant a thought if it wasn’t for the fact that I fear he is ruining our relationship with one of our closest allies.”
Cooke nodded as if he only half bought Wilson’s explanation. “You might spend very little time thinking about him, but it doesn’t go both ways.”
“What do you mean?”
Cooked hemmed and hawed for a moment and then just said it. “I don’t think the man likes you.”
Wilson smiled as if he was proud of the information. “There are a lot of people in this town who are jealous of me. I don’t doubt for a moment that Thomas Stansfield is one of them.”
Cooke decided to push him a little. “Thomas Stansfield isn’t some amateur, and you’re not the first cabinet member to go after him. He’s outlasted more directors and presidents and Senate oversight committees than we could begin to count.”
Wilson shifted in his leather chair and straightened his back a few degrees. “Your point?”
“You’d be a fool to underestimate him.”
“I never underestimate my enemies and I have a strategy that will prevail.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to win because I will refuse to play Stansfield’s games. I don’t operate in the shadows. I work in the harsh light of day where the truth can flourish. These others who have gone after him were foolish enough to think they could beat him at his own game. I’m not so naive.”
“Fine,” Cooke said, even though he was thinking the exact opposite. The only way to take on Thomas Stansfield was to plot so carefully, walk so softly, that he never saw you coming until you shoved the knife in his back. “Well, either you have him scared or you did something to really piss him off, because I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Like what?”
“I stopped by his office this morning to ask him about Paris.”
“And?”
“He denied any involvement, of course . . . not that I expected anything different.”
“So it was an unremarkable meeting?”
“I would say yes . . . at least until your name came up, and then he became uncharacteristically heated.”
Wilson liked this. He’d never seen so much as a crack in Stansfield’s sphinxlike demeanor. “What did he say?”
Cooke cleared his throat and started with his first lie. “He said that you should worry about managing all the dilettantes at the State Department and leave the espionage game up to us.”
Wilson didn’t flinch. “What else did he say?”
“Do you want the sanitized version or the unvarnished?”
“Unvarnished.”
Cooke had tried to figure out the best way to deliver this next part. With the right embellishment of Stansfield’s own words and a few lies, he would cut close to Wilson’s heart. “He said that you’ve turned into a bitter, angry man.”
Wilson laughed a little, thought about the comment, and then asked, “Why would I be bitter? I’ve had an amazing life. I’m one of the most powerful men in this country. What could I possibly be bitter about?”
Cooke tried his best to look uncomfortable. He stared at his own shoes for a moment and then he stared at Wilson’s. When he thought the proper amount of embarrassment had been conveyed, he said, “Your wife.” The words seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Cooke could see that he was on the right track. Just the mention of the wife had put Wilson on edge.
“What about my wife?”
“Well . . .” Cooke shook his head. “I don’t like repeating this, but as I said, it’s so out of character that I
