crouched atop the mantel, chimed the time.
Two men sat in facing Queen Anne chairs, between which was a coffee table laden with a chased silver coffee service for three. To one side stood a hotel-style server’s cart. The moment Paull walked in the two men rose as one. He recognized them immediately: Miles Benson, former director of the CIA, and Morgan Thomson, the national security advisor during the previous administration. Benson was one of those leather-necked battle vets for whom posters were invented. His face, though dented and deeply scored, was the more powerful and commanding for its battered mien. He had high cheekbones and a fierce Clint Eastwood squint. His manner was no-nonsense, even his glance was brusque, and yet Paull was willing to bet that he saw everything. Thomson was slender, ferret-faced, with a long, sharp-edged nose and hooded rodent eyes that looked out on the world with inveterate suspicion. He was virtually lipless, the better to show bright, white teeth, which were as sharp as his erudite tongue. His intellectual prowess was legendary in neocon circles, and even beyond, which made him the quintessential pundit on talking-head TV.
These two seemingly had nothing in common, and yet during the two terms in which they had been in power they had forged an unshakable alliance on which, until near the end, the former president had relied. These two had shaped his policy and were responsible for the shambles of his legacy. Unrepentant and every bit as arrogant as the day they had assumed their respective posts, they refused to believe that any decision they had made was wrong or misguided. The world, in other words, was their world, reality to the contrary. Complete control had been their aim as well as their hubris, because nothing so grandiose could be controlled by two men, a hundred, or even a hundred thousand.
All of this recent history flashed through Paull’s mind in the three seconds it took for the two men—Edward Carson’s archenemies, who plotted his destruction—to reach him and, with smiles a millimeter thin, pump his hand.
A moment later, Paull said, “Your behavior is outrageous, bordering on the criminal. I’ll have my car keys now.”
“Of course,” Benson said, dropping them into his palm.
Without another word Paull turned to go. He was almost at the door when Thomson said in the plummy tones of his television voice, “Of course you’re free to leave, Mr. Secretary, but it will be a pity if you don’t get to see your daughter and grandson.”
Paull stood frozen for the space of several thunderous heartbeats, after which he was compelled to turn back to face them. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your daughter, Claire, is in the room across the hall. Your grandson is with her.”
Paull was virtually stupefied. “Why are they here?”
Thomson had clearly taken point. “They came to see you.”
“Don’t make me laugh. My daughter hasn’t wanted to see me since before my grandson was born.”
“She does now,” Thomson assured him. “We told her that you were terminal.”
“You people are insane.” Turning away, Paull put his hands on the grips of the sliding doors and began to push the doors apart.
“Aaron,” Thomson said in his richest tone. “Your grandson’s name is Aaron.”
Paull, filled with conflicting emotions, whirled on his tormenters. “None of this will mean a damn to me when you’re taken into custody. Kidnapping a member of the United States government is a federal offense punishable by—”
“No one’s being arrested,” Benson said sharply. “No one’s going to jail.”
“He can’t help himself, the military has marked him for life.” Thomson said this in an equable, almost a kindly manner. He raised a hand. “Why don’t we all sit down. Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to why we want to talk with you?”
Turning, Thomson sat down on one of the chesterfields and poured coffee into the three cups. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Secretary, but I’m famished.” He looked up expectantly. “Is your opinion of us so set in stone that you won’t give us a chance to explain the . . . unorthodox method by which you were brought here?”
“Unorthodox?” Paull echoed.
Thomson shot Benson a significant look. In response the ex-military man cleared his throat before saying, “I apologize for the extreme methodology that brought you here.” He crossed to the chesterfield, accepting the cup Thomson offered. “However—and here I think you’ll agree—I seriously doubt that we could have induced you to come here any other way.”
Thomson nodded at his compatriot’s conciliatory tone. Taking up another cup, he lifted it as a token offering to Paull. “Please believe us, Mr. Secretary, you’re a guest here. An honored guest.”
Paull, his best dubious face forward, slowly settled himself on the chesterfield across from the two men. He put three sugars in his coffee, a dollop of half-and-half, and stirred with a tiny spoon. While he did this Benson opened the warming cart and produced plates of croissants, eggs, bacon, and small, precise triangles of buttered toast. All very civilized, Paull thought, as he sipped his coffee, which was strong and rich, much better than the swill he would have bought at McDonald’s or Denny’s.
“If I may,” Thomson said, “your mistake was in hacking into General Brandt’s bank account. We monitor it twenty-four-seven.”
“But, as it happens,” Benson said, “your mistake was our good fortune, and I’ll tell you why.” He added Tabasco sauce to his eggs, took a bite, and nodded appreciatively before setting down his fork as if he were already full. “Brandt is our man on the inside.”
“Brandt isn’t a member of the cabinet,” Paull said.
“He’s in an even better position, he’s an advisor who has Carson’s ear, especially on all matters Russian.” He shrugged. “Given what you’ve been up to the last several days I don’t suppose that comes as much of a shock to you. However, we’ve become increasingly concerned with the General.” He pursed his lips, as if he’d just bitten down on something acrid. “You remember Colonel Kurtz, I imagine.”
“
“Thank God your frame of reference isn’t
“Back to Kurtz,” Paull said. “Are you trying to say that General Brandt is insane?”
“Well, if not,” Benson said sourly, “he’s certainly in his own private heart of darkness.”
For the first time Thomson looked disconcerted. He lifted a hand and scratched his eyebrow with the back of his thumb, a gesture that eerily mimicked the intelligence officer played by G. D. Spradlin, who briefs Captain Willard on his assignment to terminate Kurtz in a memorable scene near the beginning of the film.
Benson, who Paull could tell wasn’t prepared to deliver what he intuited as bad news, cleared his throat again. “In point of fact, and despite what my esteemed colleague said, the allusion to
“During the war in Vietnam,” Paull said, digging back in his memory. “Wasn’t Rheault relieved of his command?”
“That’s right,” Benson said, sitting ramrod straight. “He was accused of murder.”
A small but terrible finger of ice seemed to pierce Paull’s gut. “What does that have to do with General Brandt?”
Thomson, sitting stonily beside Benson, was positively white-faced.
Benson briefly glanced at him before he said heavily, “General Brandt has issued an immediate sanction on Jack McClure.”
Paull knew this, of course, but he saw no advantage in letting them know it. In fact, quite the contrary. He was now sure that he had more information about Brandt’s latest activities than they did, which meant that, like Kurtz, like Rheault, Brandt had lost touch with his superiors, or at least his coconspirators. As Benson had said, the General was now in his own private heart of darkness. What this meant for all of them he had no idea, but much to his own consternation, he became aware of a subtle shift in how he perceived these two men. Not that enemies had suddenly, recklessly morphed into friends, but the polar opposites of black and white seemed to be breaking down into shades of gray.
At length, he said, “How the devil does General Brandt think he can order a sanction?”
“That,” Thomson said, at last unthawing, “is what we’ve brought you here to discuss.”
