'Might a change result from this incident?'
'I will not speculate on something so important as that. And now, with your permission, I have to get back to work.'
'Thank you, Mr. President!' Jack heard on his way out the door.
Just around the corner was a well-hidden gun cabinet. POTUS slammed it with his hand hard enough to rattle a few of the Uzis inside. 'God damn it!' he swore on the fifty-yard walk back to his office.
'Mr. President?' Ryan spun around. It was Robby, holding his briefcase. It seemed so out of place for an aviator to be toting one of those.
'I owe you an apology,' Jack said, before Robby could get another word out. 'Sorry I blew up.'
Admiral Jackson popped his friend on the arm. 'Next time we play golf, it's a buck a hole, and if you're going to get mad, do it at me, not them, okay? I've seen your temper before, man. Dial it back. A commander can only get pissed in front of the troops for show—leadership technique, we call it—not for real. Yelling at staff is something else. I'm staff,' Robby said. 'Yell at me.'
'Yeah, I know. Keep me posted and—'
'Jack?'
'Yeah, Rob?'
'You're doing fine, just keep it cool.'
'I'm not supposed to let people kill Americans, Robby. That's not what I'm here for.' His hands balled into fists again.
'Shit happens, Mr. President. If you think you can stop it all, you're just kidding yourself. And I don't have to tell you that. You're not God, Jack, but you are a pretty good guy doing a pretty good job. We'll have more information for you as soon as we can put it together.'
'When things settle down, how about another golf lesson?'
'I am yours to command.' The two friends shook hands. It wasn't enough for either of them at this moment, but it had to do. Jackson headed for the door, and Ryan turned back toward his office.
'Mrs. Sumter!' he called on the way in. Maybe a smoke would help.
'SO WHAT GIVES, Mr. Secretary?' Chavez asked. The three-page fax off the secure satellite link told them everything the President had. He'd let them read it, too.
'I don't know,' Adler admitted. 'Chavez, that thesis paper you told me about?'
'What about it, sir?'
'You should have waited to write it. Now you know what it's like up here. Like playing dodge ball as a kid, except it ain't a rubber ball we're trying to dodge, is it?' The Secretary of State tucked his notes into his briefcase and waved to the Air Force sergeant who was supposed to look after them. He wasn't as cute as the French attendant had been.
'Yes, sir?'
'Did Claude leave us anything?'
'A couple of bottles from the Loire Valley,' the NCO replied, with a smile. 'You want to uncork one and get some glasses out?'
'Cards?' John Clark asked.
'No, I think I'm going to have a glass or two, and then I'm going to get a little sleep. Looks like I have another trip laid on,' SecState told them. 'Beijing.' No surprise, John thought. 'It won't be Philadelphia,' Scott said, as the bottle and glasses arrived. Thirty minutes later, all three men pushed their seat backs down all the way. The sergeant closed the window shades for them.
This time Clark got some sleep, but Chavez did not. There was truth in what Adler had remarked to him. His thesis had savagely attacked turn-of-the-century statesmen for their inability to see beyond immediate problems. Now Ding did know a little better. It was hard to tell the difference between an immediate tactical problem and a truly strategic one when you were dodging the bullets on a minute-to-minute basis, and history books couldn't fully convey the temper, the feel of the times on which they supposedly reported. Not all of it. They also gave the wrong impression of people. Secretary Adler, now snoring in his leather reclining seat, was a career diplomat, Chavez reminded himself, and he'd earned the trust and respect of the President—a man he himself deeply respected. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't venal. But he was merely a man, and men made mistakes… and great men made big ones. Someday some historian would write about this trip they'd just taken, but would that historian really know what it had been like—and, not knowing, how could he really comment on what had taken place?
What's going on? Ding asked himself. Iran gets real frisky and knocks over Iraq and starts a new country, and just as America is trying to deal with that, something else happens. An event minor in the great scheme of things, perhaps—but you never knew that until it was all over, did you? How could you tell? That was always the problem. Statesmen over the centuries had made mistakes because when you were stuck in the middle of things, you couldn't step outside and take a more detached look. That's what they were paid to do, but it was pretty hard, wasn't it? He had just finished his master's thesis, and he'd get hooded later this year, and officially proclaimed an expert in international relations. But that was a lie, Ding thought, settling back into his own seat. A flippant observation he'd once made on another long flight came back to him. All too often international relations was simply one country fucking another. Domingo Chavez, soon-to-be master in international relations, smiled at the thought, but it wasn't very funny, really. Not when people got killed. Especially not when he and Mr. C. were front-line worker-bees. Something happening in the Middle East. Something else happening with China… four thousand miles away, wasn't it? Could those two things be related? What if they were? But how could you tell? Historians assumed that people could tell if only they'd been smart enough. But historians didn't have to do the work…
'NOT HIS BEST performance,' Plumber said, sipping his iced tea.
'Twelve hours, not even that much, to get a handle on something halfway 'round the world, John,' Holtzman suggested.
It was a typical Washington restaurant, pseudo-French with cute little tassels on a menu listing overpriced dishes of mediocre quality—but, then, both men were on expense accounts.
'He's supposed to handle himself better,' Plumber observed.
'You're complaining that he can't lie effectively?'
'That's one of the things a President is supposed to do—'
'And when we catch him at it…' Holtzman didn't have to go on.
'Who ever said it was supposed to be an easy job, Bob?'
'Sometimes I wonder if we're really supposed to make the job harder.' But Plumber didn't bite.
'Where do you suppose Adler is?' the NEC correspondent wondered aloud.
'That was a good question this morning,' the Post reporter granted, lifting his glass. 'I have somebody looking into that.'
'So do we. All Ryan had to do was say he was preparing to meet with the PRC ambassador. That would have covered things nicely.'
'But it would have been a lie.'
'It would have been the right lie. Bob, that's the game. The government tries to do things in secret, and we try to find out. Ryan likes this secrecy stuff a little too much.'
'But when we burn him for it, whose agenda are we following?'
'What do you mean?'
'Come on, John. Ed Kealty leaked all that stuff to you. I don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Everybody knows it.'
Bob picked at his salad. 'It's all true, isn't it?'
'Yes, it is,' Holtzman admitted. 'And there's a lot more.'
'Really? Well, I know you had a story working.' He didn't add that he was sorry to have scooped the younger man, mainly because he wasn't.
'Even more than I can write about.'
'Really?' That got John Plumber's attention. Holtzman was one of the younger generation in relation to the TV correspondent, and one of the older generation for the newest class of reporters—which regarded Plumber as a fuddy-duddy even as they attended his seminars at Columbia University's journalism program.
'Really,' Bob assured him.
'Like?'
