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 Cotten—Mi—chael 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 predinner 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 keep calls to the private residence to a minimum, but he’d been getting 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. “But you’ve still got me worried.”
“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 eyedrops 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.
FOUR
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.
FIVE
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 State 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 he was doing.