Sea of Fire

Coffey, who knew the family of her former husband, attorney Gregory Packing, Jr.

The name of Daphne's firm appealed to Washingtonians. Especially to the military. The blond-haired Daphne also appealed to Beltway insiders. She had the stylish poise and intensity of a CNN anchorwoman. In addition to handling various Army accounts, she represented hotels and restaurants, including this one. That was how they managed to get a reservation.

Daphne was quite a contrast to Hood, whose job as the director of Op-Center demanded quiet, steady leadership. The husky-voiced woman was extremely high-energy. She reminded Hood of the late Martha Mackall, Op-Center's go-get-'em political liaison. Martha had been confident, poised, and always stalking. He didn't know what she was hunting or why. He was not sure she did, either. But she never stopped.

Maybe that's what Martha was really searching for, Hood thought. Understanding.

Tragically, terrorist bullets ended the life of the forty-nine-year-old African-American woman. Hood was sorry he had not gotten to know her better. From a strictly managerial point of view, he also wished he could have learned how to harness her intensity.

Hood tried to keep up with the hard-driving Daphne as she described how she established her agency in college with commissions she earned from selling ad space in university newspapers. She told him how it had grown to a global organization that employed over 340 people in the United States alone. In ten minutes she must have used the words push and drive a dozen times each. Hood found himself wondering how their respective organizations would fare if they switched jobs. His guess was that Daph- Con would end up being sold to some insipid conglomerate and homogenized. Op-Center would probably swallow the NSA, the CIA, and possibly Interpol.

Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting — not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.

'Paul?' Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.

'Yes?'

'I've been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone's brain is wandering,' she said.

'No, I'm here,' Hood replied with a smile.

She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.

'You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected.'

The woman relaxed slightly. 'All right, you heard me. But that still doesn't mean you were listening.'

'I assure you, I was,' he said. 'That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts.'

'I see,' Daphne said. She smiled now. 'I understand. Totally.'

Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called 'floating' lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and — yes — wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.

Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. 'Paul, I have to confess something.'

'Why?'

She laughed. 'Funny. Most people would have asked, 'What?' '

He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.

'I haven't been on a date in seven years,' Daphne said, 'and I'm afraid I've turned this into something of a dog and pony show.'

'If it helps, I'm enjoying what you have to say.'

'You're sweet, but I don't like it,' Daphne said. 'I'm acting like I'm at a client pitch. I'm trying too hard to sell myself.'

'No—'

'Yes,' she insisted. 'You've been very patient for the last half hour.'

'I told you, I'm interested,' he answered truthfully. 'I don't meet many people who run businesses.'

'No, you meet people who run countries,' Daphne said.

'Most of whom are not as interesting as you are,' Hood replied. 'And that wasn't a line,' he added.

That caught her with her guard down. 'Talk to me about that.'

'Most of them had to sandblast their most distinguishing features, make everything smooth to get where they are,' Hood told her. 'What's left is guided by constitutions or surrounded by domestic and international watch-dogs, constituents, and special interests.'

'Is that a bad thing?' she asked.

'Not necessarily,' Hood replied. 'It prevents dictatorships. But it also slows progress to a glacial pace. The individual leader can't move without the entire system moving with him or her.'

'Still, what they do affects more than the bottom line of a very minor privately held company.' She sat back. 'What about you?'

'What do you want to know?' he asked.

'How you do it,' she replied. 'You don't seem to be one of those bureaucrats who's always on the make, looking for access.'

Hood selected a bread stick from the basket. He dabbed it in a dish of olive oil and took a bite. He was not good at this either. When Sharon used to ask him how his day went, he never said much. There was no point starting a lengthy conversation because there were always interruptions. The phone, the kids, something on the stove or in the oven.

'I'm interested in having the access it takes to do my job, not in collecting it,' Hood replied.

'An idealist.'

Hood shrugged a shoulder.

'Is that a yes?' Daphne pressed.

Hood looked at her. Daphne had a nice smile. It started at the eyes and made its way down. 'Let's say I try to do what's right,' he replied. 'When I screw up, it's not out of malice.'

'So you don't possess the revenge gene that most people in big government have,' she said.

'No,' he said. 'Bastards invariably cause their own downfall.'

'And that really works for you?' she asked.

'It leaves me free to do more constructive things,' Hood said.

Daphne laughed. 'Lord, we are very different people. I hate SOBs or discourtesy or people who beat me at anything.' She regarded him. 'I still don't believe you have absolutely no bloodlust. Tell me if I'm overstepping some kind of first-date rule with this, but I read about those men who took the children hostage in New York. The ones you and your team killed. Didn't you hate them?'

'That's a good question,' Hood replied.

Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood's daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

'I certainly hated what they did,' he told her.

'But not them?' she asked.

'No,' he answered truthfully. 'They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.'