Red Phoenix

importantly, press releases. Given two or three days and some good staff support, and he could flood the Hill and the airwaves with talk about Representative Barnes’s new South Korean sanctions bill.

Then he frowned at the outline taking shape on his screen. Any bill drawn up along those lines should be a real vote-getter. The trouble was it touched on everything from trade and taxes to defense and foreign affairs. And that opened the door for practically every major committee in both the House and Senate to demand a piece of the action.

Mitchell wasn’t sure who had first called committees “God’s gift to procrastination, sloth, and delay,” but it could be a completely accurate picture at times. With only a few weeks left until the Congress was scheduled to adjourn, there just wasn’t time to waste while every committee held hearings, tossed in its own favorite amendments, and issued its own thousand-page report. He was going to have to get Barnes to cut enough deals with the other committee chairmen to win expedited consideration for the bill. Even worse, he was going to need a senator to do the same thing over on the other side of the Hill.

Okay, it wasn’t going to be easy — but it could be done. And if he could pull this off, his reputation as a top- notch legislative strategist would be made forever. That was something worth working for. He just hoped that the South Koreans didn’t get smart and stop killing each other before they could get the bill through.

Mitchell turned away from his computer screen and started flipping through his Rolodex. It was time to start calling in a few favors. For years he’d made sure that Barnes carried water for liberal political action groups and for the unions. Now he was going to cash in. Besides, they’d all probably jump at the chance.

He pulled a card out of his Rolodex and started dialing. It had begun.

SEPTEMBER 11 — THE CBS EVENING NEWS

The reporter stood framed against the Capitol dome.

“This is Phil Smith, reporting from Capitol Hill. Just three days after the Seoul massacre, Congress has begun moving against the South Korean government.

“In a press conference held this afternoon, Representative Ben Barnes of Michigan, chairman of the House Subcommittee on Trade, and Senate Foreign Relations Committee Chairman James Farell of New York, announced the introduction of a stiff sanctions bill aimed at South Korea. More than one hundred congressmen and thirty senators have already announced their support for the measure.

“The bill calls on the South Korean government to institute major political reforms. Among other things, it demands an end to press censorship, freedom for all political prisoners, and the immediate reform of the entire South Korean security force.

“It also seeks the complete removal of all trade barriers aimed at U.S. exports to Korea, and a significant reduction in Korea’s trade surplus with the United States.

“If these conditions aren’t met within ninety days after the bill is signed into law by the President, the measure would automatically impose tariffs on almost all South Korean products coming into this country, end Korea’s most-favored-nation trade status, and cut U.S. military assistance. And in a move guaranteed to outrage congressional conservatives, it would also require the complete withdrawal of all U.S. forces now stationed in South Korea.”

The picture cut to footage of Ben Barnes speaking earnestly into the camera.

“We have no quarrel with the people of South Korea. Nor do we seek trade protectionism for its own sake. But we also know that America cannot be seen to side with oppression, tyranny, and ruthless terror. The South Korean government must learn that its brutality will not go unpunished. America will not condone cold- blooded murder. And the Congress cannot stand idly by while democratic reform is crushed underfoot in South Korea.”

The videotape of Barnes ended, cutting back to the CBS Evening News anchorman in New York.

“In other congressional news today, the House Foreign Affairs Committee continued its work on legislation aimed at improved Soviet-American relations by defeating an amendment that would have linked U.S.- Soviet ties with Soviet actions in Afghanistan.”

SEPTEMBER 12 — THE OLD EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Blake Fowler finished reading the telex from Seoul before tossing it onto the pile of papers on his desk. He leaned back, took his wire-frame glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. God, he was getting too old to stay up reading fine print all night. What you could do at twenty in college didn’t seem at all possible at thirty-five.

Fowler let his head drop onto his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe he could get away with a short in-office nap. People had to make allowances for you when you’d been up for almost twenty-four hours straight, didn’t they?

He already knew the answer to that question. National Security Council staffers were expected to be awake and alert for days on end, to brief politicians in a split second, to keep rival intelligence agencies from going to war against each other — and to leap tall buildings in a single bound for that matter. Just the kind of thing that getting a Ph.D. in Asian and Pacific Affairs prepared you for. Fowler squirmed, trying to get more comfortable. His damned desk chair must have been designed especially by the Spanish Inquisition.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Can I wake you with a kiss?” Fowler warily opened an eye to find his secretary hovering over him with a cup of coffee. She looked as tired as he felt. That wasn’t really surprising — she’d been working all night, too.

He sat upright. “Sure, Princess Charming. You can kiss me. But then you have to save me from my wife.”

Katie Morgan smiled. “No thanks, Beaut. I’d really rather go hunt a dragon for you. Have some coffee instead.” She set the cup on his desk, carefully avoiding the stack of documents still waiting to be read, and dropped an interoffice memo on top.

“And speaking of reptiles, Putnam wants to see you in his chambers at oh nine fifteen sharp.” She looked at her watch. “Which is in ten minutes. He wants to know what happened to the world while he slept, or attended the congressional prayer breakfast, or something.”

“Ah, sh … darn, I mean.” Fowler started leafing through the papers on his desk. “Katie, I’m going to need the latest Agency analysis and those NSA intercepts. Putnam probably won’t understand them, but they look impressive.” He stood up, stretching and yawning. This was a hell of a way to start the new day.

Walking outside over to the White House made him feel a lot better. He could have taken the tunnel over, but the crisp, cool morning air woke him up more than coffee ever could. A gentle breeze ruffled his straight, brown hair. It was getting long, he thought, and he’d have to try to find time to get it cut.

As Fowler strolled across Executive Drive, the early-morning sunlight threw his image against the windshield of a parked Volvo. He turned his head slightly while passing to study himself. And grinned when he became aware of the unconscious habit. Although he never changed much between glimpses, he could never quite break himself of the mannerism.

At only a tad over six feet, Fowler wasn’t any taller than the average man his age, it was just that he was slender enough to make himself seem taller. His wife, Mandy, called him lean and rangy, but she was prejudiced. The tight fit of the khaki slacks around his waist made him realize that some of that youthful slenderness was starting to disappear — the victim of too much desk work, too many wolfed-down junk-food meals, and an aversion to most forms of exercise. For the thousandth time, he made a mental note to start swimming laps again, and for the thousandth time he dismissed it from his mind.

At least his face didn’t show any immediate signs of falling apart on him. But not even Mandy would call it handsome. Instead, a long, thin nose, large green eyes, and mobile, arching eyebrows gave him a faintly professorial look — the quizzical, distracted air of someone always looking for more than the obvious.

He reached the White House, flashed his security badge to the Marine guard and Secret Serviceman on duty at the side door, and went in.

As the national security adviser, Putnam had an office just down the hall from the Oval Office itself — a fact that he was always careful to mention at cocktail parties. And Fowler noticed that he’d managed to get an even larger nameplate, GEORGE PUTNAM — NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER, plastered all over his door.

Putnam’s secretary looked up as he walked in. She smiled sympathetically. “Long night?”

He nodded, rubbing his chin and realizing he’d forgotten to shave again.

She looked apologetic. “His Excellency has asked that you take a seat for a few minutes. He’s on a very important call with one of his old Hill cronies.”