Hot Pursuit (5 page)

HOLLY WOKE STONE
before dawn by running her fingernails down his back. He rolled over into her arms.

—

HALFWAY THROUGH,
Holly said, “This is probably the last time I’ll get laid for eight years!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Stone said, continuing to enjoy his duty.

When they were done, Holly got out of bed and started laying out clothes.

“What are you doing? It’s six o’clock in the morning!”

“I’ve got to get into a shower and some clothes and get to the White House!”

Stone rolled over and went back to sleep, until she was shaking him at six-forty-five. “Will you please drop off my bags at Bruce’s antique shop on your way to the airport?”

“Of course,” Stone groaned.

She gave him a big kiss and ran from the suite. Stone went back to sleep.

He was awakened again a little after nine. “President Lee for you,” a woman’s voice said. “Will you speak to him?”

“Oh,
that
President Lee. Of course.”

There was a click on the line. “Good morning, Stone,” Will Lee said. “Is your offer of a ride to New York still open?”

“Of course.”

“I had to get Kate to order the Secret Service to let me do it. How about that?”

“You’d better get used to it, Will.”

“I guess I’ll have to. Are you flying out of Manassas?”

“We are.”

“Is one
PM
all right?”

“That’s fine. We’ll get into New York ahead of rush hour.”

“Only one Secret Service agent will be coming along.”

“Traveling light, huh?”

“Lighter than I’ve traveled for, what, nine years, including the first campaign. I feel weightless. See you at one.”

Stone got himself into a shower and dressed, then found Dino and Viv reading the papers and waiting for breakfast to arrive.

“I ordered for you,” Dino said. “Bourbon and Alka-Seltzer.”

“I’m not in the least hungover,” Stone replied. “Are you?”

“Police commissioners aren’t allowed to drink enough to get hungover.”

“I’m hungover,” Viv said, “but it’s a champagne hangover, so not so much.”

The doorbell rang, and a waiter pushed a rolling table into the living room and set it up.

“Stone,” Viv said, “that was a sensational evening. Thank you so much for setting it up.”

“I enjoyed it, too,” Stone said.

“Where’s Holly?”

“At the White House, at work. She left at six-forty-five.”

“I guess it’s going to be like that for the duration.”

“She says she won’t get laid again for eight years.”

Viv laughed. “I expect she’ll turn up at your doorstep from time to time.”

“I hope so.”

—

HOLLY HAD SIGNED
a lot of documents and been given her White House and NSC ID, which she wore on a ribbon around her neck, and now she was being shown to her new office. She was surprised to find that it was in the West Wing, where the president and higher staff worked, not in the Executive Office Building across the street. It wasn’t huge, but it was comfortably furnished with an antique desk and a seating area, along with a small conference table and some nice paintings, and it was within spitting distance of the Oval Office. As she sat down, her phone rang, as if her ass had pressed a button. She picked it up. “Holly Barker.”

“Good morning, Holly,” Lance Cabot said. Lance was the director of Central Intelligence and her boss until this morning.

“Good morning, Lance.”

“I wanted to welcome you to Washington,” he said. “I saw you across a crowded room at the Saltons’ last evening, but I was held prisoner by the director of the NSA and couldn’t get to you.”

“I didn’t see you at all.”

“That’s because the director of the NSA is a very large man, the kind who blocks views—landscapes, even. Did you enjoy the party?”

“I did, and at the ball I danced with President Lee—Will, I mean.”

“Then you had a better evening than I. The NSA produces lousy dance partners.”

“Lance, I saw somebody at the Saltons’ who rang a bell, but I couldn’t place him. He’s about forty, dark hair and short beard, and he was wearing a diamond earring. Do you know him?”

“I believe that must have been Ali Mahmoud, who is a Saudi diplomat—well, ‘diplomat’ is too strong a term, but he carries a D passport. Handsome, charming, ladies’ man. That’s all I know about him.”

“None of it helps me,” Holly said. “The sight of him induced dread in me, and I don’t know why. It’s driving me crazy.”

“I haven’t cut off your computer access here. Shall I leave it in place? You could check him out, and I expect the computer would be an asset in your new job.”

“Yes, please.”

“Done. Your codes will remain the same. Must run.” Lance hung up.

A middle-aged woman in a business suit rapped on the door and walked in. “Hi, I’m Margery Lyon—Marge—and I’ve been assigned as your secretary, until you get sick of me and ask for somebody else. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Marge, come on in.”

Marge sat down, tossed a file folder onto the desk, and began flipping through her steno pad. “The folder contains the résumés for half a dozen people who want to be your assistant. You start seeing them at eleven, one every fifteen minutes. I’ll arrange call-backs for the ones you like. You’re not bringing someone from the New York station with you, are you?”

“Nope. I haven’t even had time to think about it.”

“Your staff ID card is good for the White House Mess. Anything else you need, ask me. I’m pretty good with computers, too, if you need help. Yours will be delivered”—she consulted her watch—“right now.” There was a knock at the door and a young man wheeled in a cart containing a computer and a printer. “Where do you want this?”

Holly pointed at the shelving behind her. “Go.”

He went to work.

“Oh,” Marge said, “you have your first NSC meeting in the situation room in”—she consulted her watch again—“three minutes. Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”

Holly followed Marge down the hallway to what appeared to be simply a rather cramped conference room. “This is it?”

“Disappointing, isn’t it? You were expecting something more Hollywood, with lots of screens and high-tech stuff, right?”

“Right. My situation room in New York was more impressive.” People were pouring into the room and taking chairs, so Holly grabbed one before they were all gone.

Marge crept up behind her and whispered in her ear, “You’re senior here—it’s your meeting. Have fun!”

The room settled a bit and everybody looked at Holly.

“Good morning,” Holly said “I’ll get to know you all as soon as I can. The president’s first intelligence briefing is not until two o’clock this afternoon, so I have nothing right now. Let’s meet again at four, and I’ll pass on whatever I can. Starting tomorrow, those briefings are at eight
AM
, and we’ll meet right after that to pass on information in both directions. Anybody have anything pressing for us right now?” She looked around; nobody spoke. “No world crises? How disappointing. See you at four.”

Holly got up and walked out.

HOLLY INTERVIEWED
each of the applicants for her assistant’s job, and it depressed her that the academic records of every one of them exceeded her own. Not the practical experience, though, which was mostly internships.

The first four of them were from the same mold—two men, two women—she tried not to think of them as boys and girls—freshly scrubbed, fashionably dressed, bright as new pennies. The fifth applicant was their antithesis: model tall and slim, but poorly dressed, bordering on slovenly. Her hair was too long and close to being a mess, and she wore heavy black glasses and no makeup. Her record was astonishing: six years at Harvard, with a major in international affairs and a PhD at the end and a straight 4.0 average. This was the kind of woman who had probably alienated her peers, because she always knew the answer and always got the highest grade on her papers. Her name was Millicent Martindale.

“Why do you want the job, Millicent?” Holly asked.

“I don’t want the job,” she replied. “I want the secretary of state’s job, but I realize I’ll have to do something else until I’m old enough.” Acerbic, too, not to say arrogant. All right, arrogant.

“I see you interned on the staff of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for two summers. Did you learn anything there?”

“Less than I’d hoped. One or two of the interns, including me, seemed to know more about foreign relations than some of the committee members.”

“What do you read?”

“American history, biography, and every relevant monthly magazine.”

“Do you read any political magazines?”

“No. I despise politics.”

“What sort of family background do you come from?”

“Wealthy and Republican. My father is CEO of a large, family manufacturing concern.”

“So you’re not short of a few bucks.”

“Nope. I have an income from a very substantial trust fund.”

“I’m considering hiring you, Millie, but if I do, you’re going to have to go through what will be a very difficult learning process.”

“I’ve never met a learning process I couldn’t master. And I prefer Millicent.”

“This one is going to be new to you. You start Monday morning at seven
AM
. Between now and then I want you to find a makeover artist. Do you know what that is?”

“I know what a make
up
artist is. I don’t know
over.
”

“You don’t read women’s magazines, do you?”

“They make me want to vomit.”

Holly picked up the phone and buzzed Marge.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Marge, I want you to find the best makeover artist in D.C. and block out all her/his time between now and Monday for Millicent Martindale.”

“Give me half an hour,” Marge said.

“Wait a minute,” Millicent said. “I think I’m beginning to get this: you want me to change the way I look, and I’m not up for it.”

“Then I chose the wrong assistant.” Holly closed her file, picked up another one, and pretended to read it. Millicent sat in stunned silence. Holly looked up. “Why are you still here?”

“All right, all right! I’ll do it!”

“This isn’t just about appearance,” Holly said. “Of course, when you come in here Monday morning I want to see somebody dressed the way your mother would approve of. I want to see a hairdo and appropriate makeup, but I want a lot more than that: I want to see an attitude that is cognizant that you are the lowest form of life on the White House staff, and that
everybody
knows more about
everything
than you do. And I want to see you smile at least a third of the time. Another thing: ask Marge to find you an optometrist—get some contacts, and I don’t ever want to see you in those fucking glasses again. And that’s not all, there’ll be more every day, and you’d better learn fast. You don’t report to me, you report to Marge. Got it?”

Millicent seemed to have shrunk. “Yes.”

“Yes,
what
?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marge breezed in and handed Millicent a sheet off her steno pad. “His name is Terry Tift. He’s just what you need, and he knows the White House drill. He’s expecting you in half an hour. You need an optometrist, too. His number is at the bottom of the page—you have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine.”

“I’d better not recognize you Monday morning,” Holly said. “Get out.”

Millicent fled.

“Marge, tell everybody she likes to be called Millie.”

Marge beamed. “Got it!”

Holly had been surprised to be included in the president’s daily intelligence briefing. She found herself seated at the long table in the Cabinet room with the vice president, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the director of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the National Security Agency, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, each of whom had brought a minion, all of whom were seated in chairs around the perimeter of the room. Place cards had been put out for the participants, and Holly found herself next to a chair with no place card.

Suddenly, everyone leaped to their feet, and Katharine Lee swept into the room, a bound legal pad under her arm. “Seats, please,” she said. As they sat down she leaned over and whispered to Holly, “Remember, you’re not briefing, you’re
being
briefed. Come with me when the meeting is over.” Then she sat down next to Holly.

“Homeland Security,” Kate said, and the director stood up. “Remain seated, please, all of you. What do you have, Stan?”

The man sat down. “Madam President, good morning. Overnight we have had strong hints from three sources, two of them electronic, that an important Al Qaeda figure has been infiltrated into Washington, perhaps even into our government. His purpose looks to be—using his position to glean intelligence—the organizing of a major terrorist attack against the city, with a government building or facility at its center.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Not yet, Madam President. We are working backward to determine that. We’ve sent out word to the appropriate operatives to locate the top twenty Al Qaeda officials. We’ll work from a list of those missing from sight. That will give us a short list, then we can turn the attention of all agencies to finding him.”

“That seems a logical procedure. Anything else to report at this time?”

“No, Madam President.”

“Don’t send out any broad alerts,” Kate said. “We don’t want to get his attention. I hardly need say that no one is to mention this to anyone outside this room.” She patiently worked her way through those present; nothing else rose to the level of the first report.

When they were done, Kate left the room first, and Holly trailed her to the Oval Office.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Kate said, flopping down on a sofa. “Hot stuff, right off the bat. I wonder if they’ve been saving it for a few days, just to start my administration off with a bang?”

“I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the press picks up on the story and who leaks it. Did you find an assistant?”

“Yes, ma’am, but she won’t start until Monday—she needs work.”

Kate laughed. “Let me guess: an Ivy League drudge? What the Brits call a ‘swot’?”

“A perfect one. She’s very smart, and I’m going to have to spend some time showing her that she’s stupid.”

“Were you like that when you joined the Agency, Holly?”

“I was a babe in the woods.”

Kate laughed. “I doubt that.”

“Do you want this morning’s report given to the NSC?”

“Not yet. First let’s see what result a few days’ work brings.” There was a knock, and the door leading to the Oval’s waiting room opened. “The secretary of labor designate is here, Madam President,” an assistant said.

“Send him in.” She stood up to greet the man. “See you later,” she said to Holly.