Power Curve (7 page)

“Any question by the press would be pure speculation,” Murchison said. “She doesn’t have credible denial.”

“What was the quid pro quo?” Shaw asked. “What did the Chinese give up so we’d roll over on Taiwan?”

Murchison was smiling. “There is no agreement in force, therefore no quid—”

Rawlings interrupted. “I’ve got a copy.”

Speak for myself?
Bender wondered.
Where are we going with this?
“The chairman is certain you didn’t know about it. He took this opportunity to tell you.”

The president sipped her tea. “Who knows about this in the Pentagon?”

“Very few people. It’s extremely close hold.”

“The secretary of defense?”

“I don’t know,” Bender answered. “But knowing General Charles—”

“General Charles?”

Bender bit his lip. Hard. She didn’t even know who he was. Where had she been the last seven months? “General Wayne Charles is your Air Force chief of staff,” he replied. “He would only be in this if the secretary of defense was in the loop,”
Don’t politicians understand loyalty?
he thought.

“I’m not very good with names,” she explained. “I’ve got to put a face to the name.” Another sip of tea. “Do you speak for General Charles, too, Robert?” Her voice was soft and gentle.

“In this case, yes.”

“What do you think the quid pro quo was?”

Shaw sat down and drummed the table with his fingers. It was decision time, and whatever he decided to do now would drive events in the future. “Boys, we have a problem. I can turn you over to the DOJ”—the Department of Justice—” and let them work you over. Or—”

Murchison laughed, interrupting him. “Investigate us for what? We were not in violation of the Logan Act. In fact, I am empowered by the Constitution to negotiate for the president. Try reading it, Mr. Shaw.”

Shaw feigned surprise. “Who said anything about violating your constitutionals?” He gave an audible sigh. “That’s the problem with you lawyer types—too damn legalistic. The DOJ will tear your life apart, looking into every little dark nook and cranny where you stuck your pecker or cut a deal. I’m willing to bet that you’re both like an overripe melon: Thump a little bit and you’ll crack wide open. If you want to play it my way and be smart about this, you can submit an undated letter of resignation along with all the details of this sordid little mess.”

“In short,” Rawlings said, “you want a full confession and a letter of resignation so you can sacrifice us if this blows up.”

“You are a rocket scientist,” Shaw allowed.

Murchison understood exactly what Shaw was doing. “That would put us in your pocket.”

“Just your balls,” Shaw said. “But you still got a job. Except you don’t belch around Mizz Turner without my permission. You don’t see her without going through me, and you tell her exactly what I tell you to tell her. When you are alone with her, I want a blow-by-blow rehash, and you had better’ve said the right words. Then, when the time is right, I’ll date your resignation and you can slip away into any obscurity that makes you feel good. If you’ve been good little dog turds, your trip reports disappear. But they won’t be burnt.”

“Shaw,” Murchison said, “I cannot allow that. You are so crooked—”

“If I ate a nail, I’d shit a screw?”
Damn
, Shaw thought.
Why did I waste that line here?
He was tired of being nice and rolled out the heavy artillery. “Let me explain the situation in terms even a lawyer can understand.” Shaw’s voice went cold and hard. “You have three options. You can either do as I ask
or
you will be found in bed with a dead girl
or
a live boy. Your choice.”

“You’ll have my resignation and the details on your desk in an hour,” Rawlings said.

Murchison stood up, trying to retain a semblance of dignity. “And mine as well.”

A broad smile spread across Shaw’s face. He was all teddy bear now. “Boys, I want your copies of the Technical Agreement in my hot little hands in, say, five minutes?”

“But I destroyed mine,” Murchison protested.

More drumming of Shaw’s fingers. “Did you?”

“It will take a few hours,” Murchison replied, his voice full of bitterness. For the first time in his life, he understood rape.

Madeline Turner sat on the couch opposite Bender and crossed her legs. For the first time, he noticed that she had big feet for a woman. “Madam President, I can only speculate about any quid pro quo between President Roberts and the Chinese.”

“Then speculate.”

Bender looked at his hands, wishing he was on some quiet Air Force base where sanity ruled. “I think we gave up Taiwan in exchange for a few promises.”

“And the promises were?”

Bender responded to her voice. “No more territorial expansion on their part and they’ll honor the existing status quo.” Silence. Turner’s face was calm.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Considering this is a done deal, I can live with that.”

“If you trust the Chinese.”

“I take it,” she said, “that you don’t trust them.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

She stood and walked to her desk. “Robert, please wait until Patrick joins us. It won’t be long.” She buzzed her secretary, who brought in two folders and one of the ever-
present blue briefing books. Jackie Winters briefly appeared to see if she was needed.

Bender glanced at the briefing book and gave an inner sigh.
Those puppies do cause trouble
, he thought, recalling the one that had just been burned. He chastised himself for thinking of the books as puppies. He glanced at the book on her desk and read the title: “Tax Reform.”

As promised, he didn’t have to wait long for Shaw to join them. Shaw smiled broadly and dropped a thin, leather-bound document on her desk. “The Technical Agreement for the Reversion of Taiwan,” he announced. Turner picked it up and read while Shaw poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Mizz President is a speed-reader,” he told Bender. “About 1,500 words a minute. Doesn’t miss a thing.”

Turner closed the agreement and laid it down. “As I expected,” she said. “Robert, you speculate well. We gave up Taiwan for a freeze in the status quo.”

“May I?” Bender asked. She nodded, and he picked it up and started to read. It was amazingly straightforward and detailed the relationship between China, Taiwan, and the United States. He had a hard time splitting his attention as he read in order to follow their conversation.

“…a done deal, Mizz President. We can live with it…just don’t want to talk about it in public.”

Bender reread the paragraph on “respective spheres of influence.”
This is like a time warp
, he thought,
and is pure balance of power politics right out of the nineteenth century
.

“…the Chinese ambassador must have thought I was a fool when I called him in.” This from Turner.

“…doubtful that he knew a thing about it,” Shaw replied.

Bender read the attached protocols that invalidated the agreement.
Why do we still have this copy?
he wondered.

“…not to worry about Rawlings and Murchison, Mizz President…undated letters of resignation along with detailed trip reports, those boys did learn somethin’ useful in high school…better to keep them on board until we can give them a proper funeral. They’re finished in this town.”

Bender studied the last protocol, a map at the back of the agreement. Dashed lines outlined the so-called spheres of influence. He froze. “Son of a—” he muttered, catching himself before he finished the expletive. He looked up. Turner was smiling at him.

“Did I sense a little emotion, Robert?”

Bender felt his face turn red. “We’ve got serious problems.” He handed the open agreement back to Turner.

Shaw laughed. “How do you know that, son?” Bender’s skin prickled at Shaw’s patronizing use of the word
son
.

“The map.” The two men gathered around Turner. “See how our sphere of influence does not include Japan?” Bender’s left forefinger traced the dashed line that ended just beyond the island of Guam in mid-Pacific.

“Neither does theirs,” Shaw said.

Bender’s finger traced the dash line that outlined China’s sphere. “But the Chinese sphere of influence
does
include Okinawa and the Korean peninsula.”

“A glitch in the map,” Shaw said. “Hell, North Korea has always been under Chinese influence and everybody knows Okinawa is a part of Japan.”

“So what does this mean?” Turner asked.

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” Shaw said. “By protocol, this agreement is invalid. They got Taiwan before this poker game was called and are going to take their winnings and go home.”

“This is the way it all started over the Spratly Islands,” Bender said. The Spratly Islands were an oil-rich chain of 200 uninhabited reefs and shoals in the South China Sea. “The Chinese issued a map in the early 1990s that had a dotted line around the Spratlies.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shaw grumbled. “And it’s been China-creep in the South China Sea ever since, which is nowhere close to Okinawa.”

“Korea and Okinawa are next,” Bender said.

Turner shook her head slowly. “Is this the Pentagon’s latest version of the Red Scare to justify a big budget? I’ve heard it before. You’re obsessing, Robert.”

Shaw walked back and forth, making a big show of being worried. He glanced at the folders and briefing book
on her desk, willing them to disappear. “The general here might have a good point, Mizz President.”

“Then we’ll wait and see,” Turner said. “I am not going to bankrupt this country with an unwarranted military buildup. Now I’ve got a cabinet meeting to get ready for. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Shaw ushered Bender out of the Oval Office. “Most helpful, General, most helpful.” He shambled down the corridor toward his office, making a popping sound with his mouth, much like a champagne cork. He closed his office door behind him and dialed a number on his private phone. “Hello, darlin’,” he said. “It’s me.” A long pause. “I know it’s been a while, but I’ve been thinking about you. I’d love getting our libidos together tonight.” Another pause. “Break it. You won’t regret it.”

Washington, D.C.

R
obert Bender was fighting the last of the evening’s rush hour traffic and had almost reached his quarters on Bolling Air Force Base when his cellular phone buzzed. It was a summons from his bosses in the Pentagon. Automatically, he reversed course and called his wife. Nancy Bender answered on the first ring. “It’s one of those days,” he said. “I just got called to the Pentagon and have no idea when I’ll be home. Don’t wait dinner.”

“Just come home horny,” she answered.

He smiled at the old response. Nothing had changed on the home front. Nancy was one of the constants in his life, always there, always busy, down to earth, and always ready to start a second honeymoon. Or would it be the thirty-fifth? More like the 135th, he calculated. How many times had he uprooted her on a moment’s notice to rush to a new assignment? But he couldn’t have done it without her.

Traffic over the George Mason Memorial Bridge was still heavy but moving quickly, and within minutes, he was walking in the River Entrance of the Pentagon where an Air Force lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. “General Bender, you’re wanted in the Tank.” He escorted Bender to the second floor and through the double doors into the JCS section. Judging by the number of aides
floating in the corridor, the meeting was going to be an oil burner.

Six pair of eyes, the entire Joint Chiefs of Staff, turned on him when he entered the conference room, greeting him with silence. Not the best of beginnings, Bender decided.

“Gentlemen,” General Charles, the Air Force chief, said, “I think you all know General Bob Bender.” The cold stares were not reassuring. “Bob, we’re waiting for the secretary of defense. He’s in his office with the service secretaries and will be here in a few moments.” Charles paused, considering his next words. “We just got word from the OMB”—the Office of Management and Budget—“that the president is going to slash the defense budget thirty percent over the next two years. Apparently, Shaw has lined up congressional backing—quite a bit.”

“So what the hell is going on across the river?” General Overmeyer growled.

“This is the first I’ve heard about it,” Bender said. “I’ve been a persona non grata since I blew the whistle”—he paused, not sure how much the other chiefs knew.

Overmeyer waived an unlit cigar at the room. “They know. You stirred the pot, no doubt about that, and this is the fallout.” He snapped the cigar in two and threw it into a corner. “She dropped the budget cut on Secretary Elkins without any warning. Thirty fuckin’ percent! This is turning into fuckin’ Bloody Wednesday! But it doesn’t stop there, she’s going through us with a meat ax. All special forces, with the exception of Delta Force, gone. The boys in the basement, gone.” He jammed a fresh cigar into his mouth. “It turns out the DCI had never told her about the boys, and she’s really in a snit.”

“I told her,” Bender admitted.

More silence. Then, from the chief of Naval Operations, “I thought you enjoyed a special relationship with the president.”

“I don’t know what’s special about it,” Bender replied. “I’m a hangover from her staff when she was vice president.” The look on Overmeyer’s face and the condition of the cigar warned him that he was on dangerous turf. “I haven’t talked to her since briefing her last Thursday,
and the letter requesting my immediate transfer is on Shaw’s desk.”

“Has the letter gotten past Shaw?” Overmeyer asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Fact,” Overmeyer growled, “she’s not talking to us. Fact, she does listen to you.”

“She may be listening,” Bender said, “but I seriously doubt if it’s doing any good.”
Come on
, he thought.
Get me out of there
.

“Pull the letter,” Overmeyer said.

Bender looked around the room in shock. They were all staring at him and not even Charles looked friendly. An image of a lamb being led into a slaughterhouse flashed in front of him. “There is no reason for me to stay there,” he protested.

“You’re the only voice of reason we got over there,” Overmeyer growled. He gestured at the door, and Bender didn’t need any other encouragement to leave.

Overmeyer was right
, Bender thought.
This is turning into Bloody Wednesday
.

The same lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. “Sir, the chief asked that you hang around in case the chairman wants to talk to you again.” He looked at his watch. It was past 7
P.M.
“The Secretaries’ Dining Room is open for dinner. Would you care to join me?”

Bender nodded. “When did you come to work?” he asked, leading the way to the fourth floor.

“Five this morning,” came the answer.

“Been a busy day?”

“It’s been a madhouse—Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima rolled into one.”

“I can believe that,” Bender replied. His day had been a total waste, and he envied the lieutenant colonel for being in the thick of it.

The lights in the bedroom were still on when Bender finally arrived at his quarters on Bolling Air Force Base. He stopped in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A bottle of the German beer he loved was standing front and center, capped with an upside-down glass. He smiled.
Nancy was sending him a signal. He opened the beer and headed upstairs.

Nancy Bender was curled up in bed reading a case book. As usual, a bare leg was sticking out from under the blanket, and her reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose. She was a small, dark-haired woman, possessing enormous brown eyes and unlimited energy. A bemused look lit her eyes as he shed his uniform coat and tie, flopped out in an easy chair, and poured the beer into the glass. It was a ritual that never changed. “A bad day?” she asked.

“A nothing day,” Bender answered. He took a drink and savored the taste. “I spent the day typing up the letter and answering a few inane questions from Shaw’s staff, at least what I thought were inane questions. Then the call from the Pentagon. I spent all of five minutes with the Joint Chiefs and then had to hang around for three hours in case they wanted a follow-up.” He took a sip of beer. “What’s the book?”

“Case studies on counseling in emergency trauma centers,” she answered. She looked at him, her dark eyes filled with concern. “I’m only a volunteer and have to handle cases a professional counselor could spend a year on. I get maybe thirty minutes with a shattered mother or wife and send them on their way. It’s not right.” Somehow, in the midst of their constant moves, Nancy had earned a B.A. and then completed a master’s degree in psychology. But she hadn’t stopped there and had become a licensed clinical social worker when they were stationed in California. Now she was doing volunteer work in an emergency room in the heart of Washington’s inner city.

“The budget ax is falling everywhere,” he said.

Nancy rightly suspected that the crisis that had called him to the Pentagon was a budget cut. “The things we do to each other,” she murmured. Then, more brightly, “Did you submit your letter?”

“It’s on Shaw’s desk. But the chairman wants me to pull it.”

A concerned look spread across Nancy’s face. She knew her husband too well and was afraid the enforced period of inactivity in the White House would drive him crazy.
“Why the change? I thought they wanted you out of there?”

“So did I,” Bender said. “It looks like I won’t be getting a new assignment after all. I don’t know what the chairman expects me to do. There are no ground rules over there, only Shaw. I’m not a politician and spinning my wheels, not accomplishing a thing. If I can’t get out of there fairly soon and do something productive, we might as well retire.” His eyes drew into a humorous squint. “
Then
you can get a job and support
me
in the manner you’ve been accustomed to for the last twenty-eight years.”

“Don’t count on it. You were the one who married a child bride.” She rolled over and laid the book on the nightstand. The covers pulled up and he could see her bare back. She picked up a letter and tossed it to him. “From Laurie,” she said.

He leaned back in the chair and read the letter, slowly sipping his beer. Occasionally, a smile would flit across his face as he relaxed. He was back with Nancy, and the cares of the White House were in a pigeonhole for a few hours. He slowly folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope before dropping it on the table beside his chair. “Do you think she’ll marry him?”

“In her own good time,” Nancy answered. She eyed the letter. “Must you always be so neat?” No answer. “I’m convinced there’s a bit of the anal compulsive in you.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. You’re the shrink.”

“Well, if you’re going to retire and become a kept man, you had better audition for the job.” She threw the covers back and waited for him before turning out the light.

“Have you taken a vow of stupidity?” Shaw asked. He propped the telephone on his shoulder and listened to the reply while he rifled through the paperwork on his desk, organizing the 8
A.M.
meeting that started Turner’s workday.

“This isn’t La-La Land over here,” the director of Central Intelligence protested. “We don’t make up intelligence, we only report it. And as long as I’m the DCI—”

“Which may be about one more day,” Shaw said, “unless you start taking a hard look at China.”

“As I was saying,” the DCI continued, “as long as I’m the director, the President’s Daily Brief will contain only the best and most current intelligence we can produce. Nothing is happening in China that warrants the president’s attention.”

Shaw looked at his watch. “In exactly seventy-two minutes, I’m going to hand the PDB to the president. Given her concern about the Far East, I’d suggest that it include a statement to that effect.” He smiled. “Considering your sterling performance on the Beijing Pact, she’ll find warmth and comfort in your reassurances.” He waited for the DCI’s wheels to grind. Sooner or later, he would realize that if China went hot, he’d be out of a job and heaped with scorn and ridicule for missing it.

“This discussion is beyond the security classification of this phone,” the DCI huffed.

He needs some enlightenment
, Shaw decided. “The president can take bad news,” he said, “but hates surprises. I mean, she really hates them. You saw what happened to defense—” He deliberately let his voice trail off. The DCI would fill in the rest.

“An amended PDB will be on your desk in an hour,” the DCI said. “With relevant intelligence on China.”

“I do like dealing with you rocket scientists,” Shaw said, breaking the connection. He finished arranging the stack of papers he would carry to the meeting before he picked up the letter. “Now what do I do about this?” he muttered. He jabbed at his intercom. “Get Bender in here.” He glanced at his watch. Three minutes, he calculated.

Bender was standing in the doorway with eighteen seconds to spare. Shaw held up the offending letter with his thumb and forefinger. “I need to speak to you about that,” Bender began.

“There’s nothing to say,” Shaw replied, cutting him off. “Your president needs your help.” He let the letter fall to his desk. “Where’s your loyalty, General?”

Who would believe?
Bender thought.
He wants me to retract the letter
. Maybe it was time to do a little politicking of his own. “One of the reasons I requested reas
signment is because of Chuck Sanford and Wayne Adams.”

“Who the hell are they?” Shaw grumbled.

“The two Secret Service agents you had relieved from the president’s detail after St. Louis. I hear they’re undergoing an administrative discharge.”

Shaw’s right fingers drummed on the desk.
Damn right I had them sacked
, he thought.
So you want to wheel and deal. I can do that. Anything to keep Maddy happy—and distracted from tax reform
. “I don’t interfere with Secret Service internal matters,” he countered, feeling Bender out. The general’s look was an eloquent statement of disbelief. “But I can check into it. We don’t want anyone abusing our people.” It was a done deal.

“I’d appreciate that,” Bender said. He picked up the letter and turned to leave. “Shall I leave the door open, Mr. Shaw?”

“Close it,” Shaw said. He cocked his big head to one side and watched Bender leave.
So you want to play hardball
, he thought.
Never do that when I’ve got another turn at bat
.

Sarah Turner shot out of the family dining room and almost bowled into the serving cart William was pushing down the corridor. “Sorry,” she called. Then she thought better of it and came back. “I apologize, Mr. William. I know I shouldn’t run.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Sarah. I do appreciate that. You do seem happy today.”

“Brian, my brother, is coming back from school. He’s going to live here and go to the Academy in Georgetown.” She spun away and danced down the hall, not quite running. William smiled and shook his head. The staff was buzzing with rumors about the president’s son returning from boarding school. The most popular gossip held that he was being kicked out because of discipline problems. But cooler heads maintained the Secret Service was worried about threats and thought he would be safer in the White House.

Madeline Turner came out of the dining room with her mother. The two women spoke quietly for a moment, out
of his hearing, before they parted. Turner took the few steps to her private study, and William followed, the day’s routine underway. She settled into her spot on the couch. “Well, William, I imagine the rumors are flying.”

“Indeed they are, Madam President.”

A pensive look spread across her face. “What’s the betting?”

William poured her a fresh cup of coffee. “Two to one that it’s a discipline problem.”

“And your bet?”

“I don’t engage in that type of thing,” William answered.

“A safe bet would be that it’s a security problem,” Turner said.

William smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” He withdrew in time to hold the door for Shaw and Jackie Winters.

“Good morning, Mrs. President,” Jackie said, preempting Shaw.