TWENTY-THREE
The phone call from National Security Chief Steve Burkow was brief and surprising.
“The President is considering a radical shift in Administration policy toward Spain,” Burkow informed Paul Hood. “Be at the White House situation room at eleven-thirty tonight. And would you please have the latest intelligence on the military situation sent over?”
It was less than an hour since the conference call with U.N. Secretary-General Manni. It had been decided, then, that the status quo was going to be maintained. Hood had been able to lie down and take a short nap. He wondered what could have changed since the call.
Hood said he’d be there, of course. Then he went into the small private washroom in the back of his office. He shut the door. There was a speakerphone set in the wall under the light switch. After splashing water on his face he called Bob Herbert. Herbert’s assistant said that he was talking to Darrell McCaskey and asked if this were a priority call. Hood said it wasn’t and asked for Herbert to call back when he got off.
Hood had already finished washing his face and straightening his tie when the internal line beeped. Hood was glad to hear it. Like a scavenger drawn to carrion, his tired mind had padded back to Sharon and the kids. He didn’t know why — to punish himself, he wondered? — but he didn’t want to think about them now. When a crisis was pending, it was not the best time to reassess one’s life and goals.
Hood hit the telephone speaker button and leaned on the stainless steel sink. “Hood,” he said.
“Paul, it’s Bob,” Herbert said. “I was going to call you anyway.”
“What’s Darrell’s news?”
“It’s pretty grim,” Herbert said. “NRO intelligence has confirmed that four helicopters, apparently sent by General Amadori, attacked the Ramirez factory at 5:20 A.M., local time. Aideen Marley and Maria Corneja were in the parking lot, hunkered down in their car, during the attack. The Spanish troops gunned down about twenty people before taking control of the factory and rounding up others. According to Aideen — who’s still in the car and in contact with Darrell — Maria surrendered to the soldiers. Her hope is that she can find out where Amadori is headquartered and get that information back to us.”
“Is Aideen in any immediate danger?”
“We don’t think so,” Herbert said. “The troops aren’t making a sweep of the parking lot. It looks to her like they want to finish rounding up a few people and get the hell out.”
“What about Maria?” Hood asked. “Will she try to stop Amadori?” He knew that the White House would have some of this information. That was probably one of the reasons for the hastily called meeting. He also knew that the President would ask the same question.
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “As soon as I hang up I’m going to ask Liz for the psychological workup she did when Maria was working here. Maybe that’ll tell us something.”
“What does Darrell think?” Hood asked impatiently. “If anyone would know Maria Corneja, he’s the man.” Hood didn’t put much trust in psychoanalytical profiles. Cold, paint-by-number studies were less valuable to him than human feelings and intuition.
“What man knows any woman?” Herbert asked.
Hood was about to tell Herbert to spare him the philosophy when his mind flashed to Sharon. Hood said nothing. Herbert was right.
“But to answer your question,” Herbert continued, “Darrell says he wouldn’t put it past her to kill him. She can be single-minded and very, very focused. He says she could find a handy pen or paperclip and rip a hole in his femoral artery. He also says he could see her hating his barbarity but also applauding his courage and strength.”
“Meaning?”
“She could think too much or too long,” Herbert said. “Hesitate and miss an opportunity.”
“Would she ever join him?” Hood asked.
“Darrell says no. Emphatically no,” Herbert added.
Hood wasn’t so sure, but he’d go with Darrell on this one. Herbert didn’t have any additional information on Serrador’s death or outside confimation of his involvement with Martha’s murder. But he said he’d keep working on both. Hood thanked Herbert and asked him to send all of the latest data to the President. Then he headed out to the White House.
The drive was relaxed at this hour and he made the trip in just under a half hour. Hood turned off Constitution Avenue, turned onto 17th Street, and made a right onto the one way E Street. He made a left and stopped at the Southwest Appointment Gate. He was passed and, after parking, he entered the White House through the West Wing. He walked down the spacious corridors.
Whatever his state of mind, whatever the crisis, whatever his levels of cynicism, Hood never failed to be moved and awed by the power and history of the White House. It was a nexus for the past and future. Two of the Founding Fathers had lived here. Lincoln had preserved and solidified the nation from here. World War II had been won from here. The decision to conquer the moon was made here. Given the right mix of wisdom, courage, and savvy, this pulpit could drive the nation — and thus, the world — to accomplish anything. When he was here, it was difficult for Hood to dwell on the failings of any of our nation’s leaders. There was only the fire of hope fueled by the mighty bellows of power.
Hood rode the main access elevator down to the situation room on the first sublevel. Beneath this level were three other subbasements. These included a war room, a medical room, a safe room for the first family and staff, and a galley. Hood was greeted by a sharp young guard who checked his palm print on a horizontal laser scanner. When the device chimed, Hood was allowed to pass through the metal detector. A Presidential aide greeted him and took him to the wood-paneled situation room.
Steve Burkow was already there. So were the imposing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Kenneth VanZandt, Carol Lanning — sitting in for Secretary of State Av Lincoln, who was in Japan — and CIA Director Marius Fox. Fox was a man in his late forties. He was of medium height and build, with close-cropped brown hair and well- tailored suits. There was always a brightly colored handkerchief in his breast pocket, though it never managed to outshine his brown eyes. He was a man who truly enjoyed his work.
There was a long, rectangular mahogany table in the center of the brightly lit room. An STU-3 secure telephone and a computer monitor were positioned at each of the ten stations, with slide-out keyboards underneath the table. The computer setup was self-contained. Software from outside, even from the Department of Defense or State Department, was debugged before it was allowed into the system. On the ivory-colored walls were detailed color maps showing the location of U.S. and foreign troops, as well as flags denoting trouble spots. Red flags for ongoing problems and green for latent. There were no flags in Spain and a single green one offshore. Apparently, the change in Administration policy did not include sending American land troops to the region. The offshore marker was most likely for a carrier to airlift U.S. officials if it became necessary.
No one had had a chance to do more than say hello to Hood before the President arrived.
President Michael Lawrence stood a broad-shouldered six-foot-four. He both looked and sounded presidential. Whatever combination of the three Cs — charisma, charm, and calm — created that impression, Lawrence had them. His longish silver hair was swept back dramatically and his voice still resonated as though he were Mark Antony on the steps of the Roman Senate. But President Lawrence also looked a great deal wearier than he had when he took office. The eyes were puffier, the cheeks more drawn. The hair looked silver because it was more white than gray. That was common among U.S. presidents, though it wasn’t just the pressures of the office which aged them tremendously — it was the fact that lives were deeply and permanently affected by every decision they made. It was also the steady flow of early morning and late night crises, the exhausting travel abroad, and what Liz Gordon once described as “the posterity effect”: the pressure of wanting to secure a positive review in the history books while pleasing the people you were elected to serve. That was a tremendous emotional and intellectual burden that very few people had to deal with.
The President thanked everyone for coming and sat down. As he poured himself coffee, he offered his
