Sunday, 6:32 p.m.
Sixty-one-year-old First Lady Megan Catherine Lawrence paused before the
late-seventeenth-century gilded pier mirror over a matching commode. She
gave her short, straight, silver hair and ivory satin gown one last
check before picking up her white gloves and leaving her third-floor
salon. Satisfied, the tall, slender, elegant woman crossed the South
American rug collected by President Herbert Hoover and entered the
private presidential bedroom. The president's private dressing room was
directly across from her. As she stepped out, she looked out at the
lamp-lit white walls and light-blue Kennedy curtains, the bed that was
first used by Grover and Frances Cleveland, the rocking chair where
delicate, devoted Eliza Johnson awaited word of her husband Andrew's
impeachment trial in 1868, and the bedside table where each night the
seventh president, Andrew Jackson, would remove a miniature portrait of
his dead wife from its place beside his heart, set it on the table next
to her well-read Bible, and made certain that her face was the first
thing he saw each morning.
As she looked out at the room, Megan smiled. When they first moved into
the White House, friends and acquaintances would say to her, "It must be
amazing having access to all the secret information about President
Kennedy's missing brain and the Roswell aliens."
She told them the secret was that there was no secret information. The
only amazing thing was that, after nearly seven years of living in the
White House, Megan still felt a thrill to be here among the ghosts, the
greatness, the art, and the history.
Her husband, former Governor Michael Lawrence, had been president of the
United States for one term when a series of stock market tumbles helped
the moderate conservative lose a close election to Washington outsiders
Ronald Bozer and Jack Jordan. Pundits said it was as much the family
lumber fortune of the Oregon redwood that had made the president a
target, since he was largely unaffected by the downturn. Michael
Lawrence didn't agree, and he was not a quitter. Rather than become a
token partner in some law firm or join the board of directors of his
family corporation, the former president stayed in Washington, set up a
nonpartisan think tank, American Sense, and was a hands-on manager.
He used the next eight years to find ways to fix or fine-tune what he
perceived had been wrong with his first term, from the economy to
foreign policy to social programs. His think tank members did the
Sunday morning talk show circuit, wrote op-ed pieces, published books,
and gave speeches. With a weak incumbent vice president to run against,
and a new vice president on his own ticket--New York Senator Charles
Gotten--Michael Lawrence decisively won reelection. His popularity
rating remained in the 60 percent region, and reelection was considered
a fait accompli.
Megan crossed the room to the president's dressing room. The door was
shut, which was the only way to keep the bathroom warm, since draftiness
came with the old walls and history. That meant her husband was
probably still in the shower, which was surprising. Selected guests
would be arriving at the second-floor study for a small, private
half-hour cocktail reception at seven. Her husband usually liked to be
ready fifteen minutes before that to sit with his thick personnel folder
and review the likes, dislikes, hobbies, and family data of foreign
guests. Tonight, he had the newly appointed acting ambassadors from
Sweden and Italy coming up before a state dinner for key United Nations
delegates. Their predecessors had been assassinated during the recent
siege, and the replacements had been named quickly to show the world
that terrorism could not stop the pursuits of peace and diplomacy. The
president wanted a chance to meet the two men privately. After that,
they'd go down to the Blue Room for a formal pre dinner reception with
other influential United Nations delegates. Then it was on to the dinner
itself, which was designed to show unity and support after the attack
the previous week.
The president had come up shortly before six o'clock, which should have
given him plenty of time to shower and shave. Megan couldn't understand
what was keeping him. Perhaps he was on the phone. His staff tried to
more and more calls over the past few days, sometimes in the small hours
of the morning. She did not want to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms,
but she wasn't a youngster anymore. Years ago, when they first started
campaigning for public office, she used to be able to get by on two or
three hours of sleep. No more. It had to be even worse on her husband.
He was looking more tired than usual and desperately needed rest. The
crisis at the United Nations had forced them to cancel a planned
vacation in the northwest, and they had not been able to reschedule it.
The First Lady stopped by the six-panel door and listened.
The shower was not running. Neither was the water in the sink. And it
didn't sound as if he was on the phone.
"Michael?"
Her husband did not answer. She turned the bright brass handle and
opened the door.
There was a narrow anteroom before the bathroom.
In an alcove to the right was a stand-alone cherry wood wardrobe where
the president's valet left his clothes for the day. In an alcove to the
left was a matching cherry wood dressing table with a large, brightly
lit wall mirror above it. The president was dressed in a royal blue
bathrobe.
He was standing there, breathing heavily, a look of rage in his narrow
blue eyes. His fists were white knuckle tight at his sides.
"Michael, are you all right?"
He glared at her. She had never seen him look so angry and--disoriented
was the word that came to mind.
It frightened her deeply.
"Michael, what is it?"
He looked back at the mirror. His eyes softened and his hands relaxed.
His breathing came more easily. Then he slowly lowered himself into a
walnut side chair in front of the dressing table.
"It's nothing," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"A moment ago, you looked like you wanted to take a bite out of
something," Megan told him.
He shook his head.
"That was just leftover energy from my exercises," he said.
"Your exercises? I thought you were at a meeting before."
"I was just doing isometrics," he told her.
"Senator Samuels does them for ten minutes every morning and evening. He
says they're a great tension releaser when you can't get to the gym."
Megan did not believe him. Her husband perspired easily when he
exercised. His forehead and upper lip were dry. Something else was
happening here. He had seemed increasingly distant the past few days,
and it was starting to scare her.
She stepped forward, coming to his side, and touched his face.
"Something
's bothering you, hon," she said.
"Talk to me."
The president looked at her.
"It's nothing," he said.
"These past couple of days have been rough, that's all."
"You mean the calls at night--" "That, plus everything else that's going
on," the president said.
"Is it worse than usual?"
"In some ways," he said.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not right now," he said, forcing a little smile. His deep voice had
regained some of its vigor and confidence, and his eyes had a little
sparkle now. The president took her hands in his and rose. He stood
just over six-foot-four. He looked down at her.
"You look beautiful."
"Thank you," Megan said.
"Don't be," he said. He looked to his right. There was a shelf with a
gold clock that had belonged to Thomas Jefferson.
"It's late," the president said.
"I'd better get ready."
"I'll wait for you," she told him.
"And you'd better do something about your eyes."
"My eyes?" he said, glancing at the mirror. He'd gotten up even
earlier than she had that morning, and his eyes were severely bloodshot.
It was bad for an individual in a position of great responsibility to
look weak or tired.
"I didn't sleep very well last night," he said, touching and tugging on
the skin around them.
"A few eye drops will take care of that." The president turned back to
his wife and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"It's all right, I promise," he said, then smiled again and turned away.
Megan watched as her husband walked slowly toward the bathroom and shut
the door. She heard him turn on the shower. She listened. Michael
usually hummed rock and roll oldies when he showered. Sometimes he even
sang. Tonight he was silent.
For the first time in a long time, Megan didn't believe what her husband
had told her. No politician was entirely truthful on the outside.
Sometimes they had to say what voters and political rivals wanted to
hear. But Michael was an honest man on the inside, at least with Megan.
When she looked into his eyes, she knew whether or not he was hiding
something. When he was, Megan could usually coax him into telling her
about it.
But not today, and that bothered her deeply. She was suddenly very
scared for him.
Slowly, Megan walked back toward her own dressing room. She pulled on
her gloves and tried to concentrate on what she had to do for the next
four hours. She had to be an outgoing hostess. She had to be gracious
and complimentary to the delegates' wives. At least she would be with
people she didn't know. It was easier to hide her feelings when she was
with strangers. They would not know that she was putting on an act.
But it would be an act.
Megan went back into the bedroom. There was a small,
early-nineteenth-century mahogany Tambour writing cabinet on her side of
the bed. She picked up a folder from her executive secretary and went
over the guest list, paying particular attention to the names of the
foreign delegates and their wives. There was a phonetic guide beside
each name, and she reviewed the pronunciation aloud. The names came
easily to the First Lady.
She had an affinity for language and had planned on becoming a
translator when she met and married her husband. Ironically, she had
wanted to work for the United Nations.
Megan closed the folder and set it down. She looked around the room.
The magic was still here, the lurking spirits and the resonance of great
drama. But she was also acutely aware of something she didn't often
feel here. Here, in a house that was literally watched by every eye in
the world.
She suddenly felt a great sense of isolation.
Baku. Azerbaijan Monday, 2:47 a.m.
David Battat awoke slowly.
The sea air was chilly and becoming raw. David was lying on his belly,
his face turned to the reeds in front of the water. There was cool
moisture on his cheeks, condensation from the Caspian.
He tried to move, but his head felt as if it were made of concrete. His
throat was raw, and his neck hurt. He touched it gently and winced. The
skin was bruised and extremely sore. His camera was gone. The CIA team
back in Moscow wouldn't be able to study the photographs he took to see
who else might have been on the boat, or calculate how much weight it
was carrying by where the waterline reached. Artillery and missiles
weighed a lot more than explosives, currency, or drugs.
Battat tried to push himself off the ground. As he did, he felt as
though a spike had been hammered through the back of his neck. He
dropped, waited a few seconds, then tried again even more slowly. He
managed to get his knees under him, then sat looking out across the dark
water.
The Rachel was gone. He'd blown this big time. Like it or not, he'd
have to let Moscow know as soon as possible.
Battat's head throbbed, and he lowered himself back to the ground. He
rested on his forearms, placed his forehead on the cool earth, and tried
to get a handle on the pain. He also tried to make sense of what had
happened.
Why was he still alive? Battat wondered. The Harpooner had never let
anyone live. Why him?
Then it occurred to him that maybe he went down before the Harpooner
even arrived. Maybe some waterfront thug had happened by, saw his
camera and backpack, and decided to steal them. Battat couldn't decide
which was worse: letting his target sneak up on him or being mugged. Not
that it mattered. They were both bad.
The operative took a long breath, then rose slowly, first to his knees
again and then to his feet. He stood unsteadily as his head pounded. He
looked around for his backpack. That was gone, too. No flashlight, no
chance to look around for footprints or other clues.
He looked at his watch. His wrist was trembling, and he used his free
hand to steady it. It would be dawn in less than three hours. Fishermen
would be setting out soon, and Battat didn't want to be seen here. Just
in case he wasn't meant to survive, he didn't want anyone to know that
he had. He walked slowly from the shore, his head drumming. Each
swallow was painful, and the collar of his turtleneck chafed his bruised
neck.
But the worst pain was none of those.
The worst pain was the knowledge that he'd failed.
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 8:00 p.m.
As he entered the White House through the East Appointment Gate, Paul
Hood remembered the first time he brought his children here. Hood had
come to Washington for a conference of mayors. Harleigh was eight at
the time, and Alexander was six. Alexander was not impressed by the
imposing G. P. A. Healy painting of Abraham Lincoln or the magnificent
Blue Room chairs bought by James Monroe or even the secret service
officers.
Alexander had seen paintings and chairs and police officers in Los
Angeles. The spectacular chandelier in the Sta
te Dining Room was barely
worth an upward glance, and the Rose Garden was just grass and flowers.
But as they crossed the lawn toward E Street, the young boy finally saw
something that impressed him.
Horse chestnuts.
The dark green chestnuts growing from the stout trees resembled nothing
so much as little floating mines with Herz horns projecting from all
sides. Alexander was convinced that they were little bombs to keep
prowlers out. They'd bump their heads, and the chestnuts would explode.
Alexander's father played along with the idea, even snatching a few of
the chestnuts--carefully, of course--so they could plant them in the
ground back at home. Harleigh finally busted her dad by stepping on one
of the newly planted chestnuts and failing to blow up.
Sharon had never approved of the deception. She felt that it encouraged
militarism. Hood felt that it was just a boy's imagination at work,
nothing more.
It was rare that Paul Hood came to the White House without thinking of
the horse chestnut trees. Tonight was. no different, except that for
the first time in years. Hood had the strong desire to go out back and
pluck a few.
Bring them to his son as a token, a memory of a good time shared.
Besides, walking around the grounds would have been preferable to what