him.
“I understand you have an incredible story,” he told her as they waited for their drinks — she’d ordered seltzer.
“Yes, but I don’t want to tell it.”
He blinked behind his glasses. She couldn’t tell if it was a habit or astigmatism.
“The president sees this as an important thing,” said Jablonski. “You’re made for TV You, our scientist, and the little girl.”
“They’re made for TV I’m not that pretty.”
“You’re not bad-looking.”
“Thanks.” She wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not.
“You’re real. That’s what’s important. And you’re not the Wicked Witch of the West. You don’t have a model’s body — ”
“Thanks.” That one definitely wasn’t a compliment.
“You don’t have a model’s body, but you’re young, athletic. You’re good-looking,” said Jablonski quickly.
“You’re trying to flatter me.”
“I will if I have to.” The speechwriter had kind of a Donald Duck lisp when he talked too fast. He breathed and swallowed his words. “Why don’t you want to talk?”
“I’ll blow my cover.”
“That’s not already blown?”
“No. Not the way it would he blown if I went on television. My career will be over.”
“Nonsense. The president will take care of you.”
“How long will he be in office?”
The question was more pointed than Mara realized. Jablonski frowned, then looked up to get his beer. It had a lemon slice wedged into the top of the glass. He dropped the slice into the drink and took a sip, the froth sticking to his lips.
“It’s a real uphill battle to convince people how critical the situation is,” he told her. “A story like yours would be dramatic and help a great deal. You’ll be on all the talk shows.”
“You can tell the story with Josh and M?. He’d be happy to go on the talk shows.” Probably he wouldn’t, she thought, but that was Jablonski’s problem. “Or the SEALs who were with us.”
“The SEALs?”
“They should get the lion’s share of the credit. Ric Kerfer got shot in Ho Chi Minh City, getting us out. They lost two guys there. He’s a hero.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t SEALs be a better story? People love talking to SEALs.”
“Hmmm.”
Jablonski took another sip of his beer, then pressed his lips together, thinking about it. “Everybody expects the SEALs to be heroes. This is better,” he told her.
“Not if it kills my career.”
“I’d have to talk to George,” he said.
“You mean the president?”
“I’ve known him awhile. Before he ran for Congress, actually.”
“I want to talk to him, too.”
Jablonski frowned, then sighed, then frowned again. Finally he took another sip of his beer. “This isn’t bad,” he told her.
Jablonski grimaced. “Josh — you mind if I call you Josh?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not asking you to lie,” Jablonski said. “Some of the blanks will need to be filled in, that’s all.”
“I need a break,” said Josh.
He got up from the couch and walked to the door. After meeting them at the restaurant, Jablonski had taken them to a building two blocks away. The twenty-third and twenty-fifth floors of the office building were leased by a law firm friendly to the president, and he’d arranged to use this conference room. It seemed an unusually quiet law firm, Josh thought; aside from the receptionist at the door, he hadn’t seen anyone on the entire floor.
Broome was standing outside the door, slumped against the wall, eyes glazed into a spaced-out stare.
“Just going to the john,” said Josh, walking down the hall.
“You’re gonna need a key,” said the marshal.
They reversed course and walked down to the reception area, where a woman in a short black skirt presided over a glass-topped desk that was twice as long as most kitchen counters. The only things on the desk were a telephone and a small platinum-cased Macintosh laptop. She swung around in her chair and reached down to the bottom drawer of the credenza behind her, flashing a good amount of leg and cleavage in the process. She fished out the key, which was attached to a large, oddly shaped piece of Plexiglas. It wasn’t until they were down the hall that Josh realized the Plexiglas was shaped in the letters of the law firm’s partners, J&H.
“What a set of knockers, huh?” said Broome.
“I didn’t notice.”
“I’ll bet.”
Josh pushed into the restroom. Broome followed.
“You don’t have to watch me this close, do you?” Josh asked.
“Gotta hit the can myself.”
Josh went into one of the stalls. He wanted privacy above anything else.
He wasn’t going to get any, was he? Once he went public, he was going to get more attention than he’d ever dreamed possible.
And they wanted him to lie. Or not “lie.” Present the truth in a dramatic fashion.
Bullshit.
He was a scientist. He didn’t lie. Or shade the results.
But he did have to help those people. He had to.
And M?. He had to help her. Her whole family had been wiped out.
Was that why he had shot the soldiers in the train? To help them?
Josh shook his head. He
He’d shot the person trying to kill them getting on the chopper. It was different. The Chinese soldiers earlier — all different.
Why did he even think he’d shot anyone in the train?
He didn’t think it. But it seemed almost like a memory, an intrusion.
Guilt, maybe.
The person he’d shot at the helicopter had been a woman, a Chinese agent. She’d had to be killed.
For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Josh wondered how M? was doing. Did she have nightmares? Were they doing this to her?
She shouldn’t testify, he thought suddenly. It would be too much for a kid.
Maybe not. Maybe being a kid made it easier — she probably didn’t go over and over it in her head.
He wasn’t going to lie. That was for damn sure. The real story was dramatic enough. And important enough.
At least he was feeling better. It didn’t hurt to piss anymore.
Josh flushed the toilet, went out, and washed his hands. Broome had gone outside to wait.
All Josh really wanted to do was rest. Sleep for ten years.
And maybe lie down next to Mara.
“I gave you the wrong impression,” he said. “I want you to be completely and totally honest. This works only
