Shadow Command

take care of yourself — I see that’s true.”

“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”

“After you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I’m not going to repeat myself!”

“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we’ve both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”

“Sir—”

“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”

Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I’m going to keep fighting.”

Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”

“Don’t take too long, Highness. Salam aleikom.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two more soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.

“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.

Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”

THE WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE

THAT SAME TIME

Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President’s sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She’s here.”

President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened — he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”

“You said you didn’t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room — I thought that was appropriate.”

“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”

Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She’s the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It’s got to remain business…”

“This is business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.

A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”

“Nope. I think we’re done for the night. Thanks, Walt.” He breezed past the chief of staff and entered the Treaty Room. “Hello, Senator. Thanks for meeting me at this ungodly hour.”

She was standing beside the immense mahogany U. S. Grant Cabinet table, lovingly running her long fingers across the inlaid cherry features. The steward had placed a tray of tea on the coffee table on the other side of the room. Her eyes widened and that camera-magnetizing smile appeared when she saw Gardner enter the room. “Mr. President, it is certainly my honor and privilege to be with you tonight,” Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau said in her famous silky Louisiana accent. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” She stood, embraced the President, and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white low-cut business suit which subtly but effectively displayed her breasts and cleavage, accented for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if motorized in tune with her smile and batting eyelashes, and her green eyes flashed with energy. “You know that you may call upon me at any time, sir.”

“Thank you, Senator. Please.” He motioned to a Victorian couch and took her hand as he led her to it, then took an ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.

“I hope you give my best to the First Lady,” Barbeau said as she arranged herself just so on the couch. “She’s in Damascus, if I’m not mistaken, attending the international women’s rights conference?”

“Exactly, Senator,” the President said.

“I wish my duties in the Senate would have allowed me to attend,” Barbeau said. “I sent my senior staffer Colleen to attend, and she’s bringing a resolution of support from the full Senate for the First Lady to present to the delegates.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Senator.”

“Please, sir, will you not call me ‘Stacy,’ here in the privacy of the residence?” Barbeau asked, giving him one of her mind-blowing smiles. “I think we’ve both earned the right to a little downtime and relief from the formalities of our offices.”

“Of course, Stacy,” Gardner said. He did not offer to let her call him “Joe,” and she knew enough not to ask. “But the pressure is never really off, is it? Not in our lines of work.”

“I’ve never considered what I do ‘work,’ Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then sat back and crossed her legs as she sipped hers. “It’s not always pleasurable, to be sure, but doing the people’s business is never a chore. I suppose the stress is part of what makes one feel alive, don’t you agree?”

“It always seemed to me you thrive on the pressure, Senator,” Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after he sipped the tea. “In fact, if I may say so, it looks to me like you enjoy creating a bit of it.”

“My responsibilities many times dictate that I do things above and beyond what most folks might call ‘politic,’” Barbeau said. “We do whatever we need to do in the best interest of our constituents and our country, isn’t that right, Mr. President?”

“Call me Joe. Please.”

Barbeau’s green eyes flashed, and her head bowed without her eyes leaving his. “Why, thank you for the honor…Joe.”

“Not at all, Stacy,” Gardner said with a smile. “You’re right, of course. No one likes to admit it, but the end often justifies the means, as long as the end is a safer and more secure nation.” He picked up a telephone sitting on the Monroe desk. “Could you have the libation table brought to the Treaty Room, please?” He hung up the phone. “It’s after nine P.M., Stacy, and I’m not in the mood for tea. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Joe.” The smile was back, but it was more introspective, more reserved. “I may just join you.”

“I know what might convince you.” A steward brought a rolling table with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of Bacardi Dark on ice and fixed Barbeau a drink. “I thought I read in People magazine that you preferred a ‘Creole Mama,’ correct? I hope I got it right… bourbon, Madeira, and a splash of grenadine, topped with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green.”

“You are a real surprise sometimes, Joe,” she said. They touched glasses, their eyes locked together. She tasted hers, her eyes glistened again, and she took a deeper sip. “My my, Mr. President, a little intelligence work, even after hours, and a skilled hand at the bar. I’m again impressed.”

“Thank you.” Gardner took a deep sip of his drink as well. “Not as sophisticated as a Creole Mama, I’m sure, but when you’re a politician from Florida, you’d better know your rum. Cheers.” They touched glasses and sipped their drinks once more. “Do you know the origin of touching glasses, Stacy?”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Barbeau replied. “I didn’t even realize there was an origin to it. It’s not just a cute little noisemaker then?”

“In medieval times, when adversaries met to discuss terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after negotiations were concluded they tipped a bit of the contents of their cups into the other’s to show neither was poisoned. The custom evolved into a sign of friendship and camaraderie.”

“Why, how fascinating,” Barbeau said, taking another sip, then letting her tongue run across her full lips. “But