path to conquest (3 page)

As they slowed, Cynthia Sobel abruptly half fell, half sat on the curb. “Shit!” she hissed as she hit the concrete hard.

Tall buildings blocked the early morning sun from this portion of the sidewalk, and Draper leaned over her in the shadows. “Y’all okay, hon?”

She grasped an amber beer bottle that appeared to be lying innocently in the road, held it out distastefully, then heaved it at a trash basket four feet away. It arced over the rim, rattled against the wire mesh, and clattered to a rest inside.

“I’ve been ambushed,” she said, waving in dismay at several other bottles, cans, and papers littering the curbside pavement. She adjusted the sweat-soaked headband holding her permed dark hair out of her eyes, then gingerly swiveled her ankle and winced in pain.

Stu Hart frowned in sympathy. His T-shirt hung loosely over his lanky frame. “Should we shoot you here, m’dear?” Hart’s erudite, pinched tone betrayed upper-crust origins and a youth misspent in prep schools.

Cynthia’s thin nose curled in frustration. “Manhandled by trash,” she grumbled.

“Humm, many’s the lady who’s made
that
claim,” he quipped, boyish eyes twinkling beneath brows bushy enough to require occasional combing. Those brows were the only incongruous features of a blandly handsome face.

“Funny man,” Sobel said sarcastically.

Draper reached out to help her up.

“Thanks,” she said, favoring the twisted ankle. “I suppose' it’s too much to ask to have the streets cleaned. I swear I hear garbage trucks plying the streets every night. Damned if I know what they’re doing out there, other than waking me up. ”

“Well, hon, we are a nation at war,” said Draper. “Just ask
them.”
He pointed toward Penn Station’s main entrance across the street from their resting place. Forlorn groups of new arrivals waited on the sidewalk, their eyes seeking help wordlessly, hopelessly.

The station’s aboveground edifice, classical nineteenth century architecture notwithstanding, had long since been bull-do7.ed to make room for the drum-shaped Madison Square Garden sports arena and its attendant glass and steel office lowers. But below Manhattan’s midtown streets, the train station bustled with travelers. Today’s passengers were different from the ones who’d made up the bulk of business here before the war.

In better times Penn Station had served as a commuter’s hub, accommodating workers going between New York’s central borough and their suburban homes in New Jersey and Long Island—several hundred thousand daily. Thousands of other passengers arrived and departed on longer-distance Amtrak journeys to and from all parts of the continent.

Draper had enjoyed train travel himself when he’d had the time, before becoming Secretary of State. With his keen eye for detail, he’d never minded whiling away free time at terminals like this one, just watching people go by. It wasn’t hard to tell different types of travelers apart. Local commuters carried slim briefcases and moved briskly, as if set on a track themselves, following identical routes every day, home to office and back again. Tourists lugged suitcases and tote bags filled to bursting, their weary arms hugging extra shopping bags filled with gifts for the folks back home.

Commuters’ faces encompassed two main expressions, it seemed—blase and dulled by the lull of routine transport; or annoyed, the result of trains delayed, schedules disrupted, meetings missed. Long distance voyagers’ faces were bathed in excitement or anticipation, depending on whether they were coming or going.

But the faces of refugees never seemed to change from war to war, earthquake to earthquake, famine to famine. African, European, Asian, or American, it didn’t matter. Draper had seen photos of earlier times and witnessed similar human suffering in person in various parts of the world. Never before had war forced Americans to flee their homes, and it shook him to find that citizens of the most powerful nation in the history of the planet could be reduced to this, faces shadowed by grief and fear.

We’re not immune,
he thought.

“Where do they all go?” Stuart Hart asked, serious now.

Cynthia flexed her leg. “The lucky ones have relatives or friends in the area and stay with them.”

“What about the unlucky ones?”

“Haven’t you seen the billboards and TV commercials? ‘Take in a friend-—then make room for a stranger’?”

“Is it working?” asked Draper.

Cynthia nodded. “Pretty well, from what I hear. At the beginning people were just flooding into the city, living in subway stations and on park benches. It was like having bag ladies replicating like rabbits.”

“Yes, I noticed when I went running,” Hart said distastefully.

“Well,” Cynthia continued, “the mayor and the governor realized this couldn’t go on. That’s when they converted Madison Square Garden into a refugee center and blocked off Penn Station.”

“What about people who don’t come in by train?” Hart said.

“A lot of them wind up here anyway, once they find out it’s a place to stay—and a place where they’ll help you get more permanent housing. I’m
from
New York,” Cynthia boasted, “and we’re pretty good at coming through when the chips are down.”

“What about people who don’t get taken in?” Hart said.

“Well, they go to camps out in the suburbs. Old military bases, unused college dorms, hospitals or prisons that were closed down. Some are just tents and Quonset huts.” She took a deep breath. “The President sent me out to one on Long Island last week. All things considered, people are making the best of it. The worst part is, there aren’t anywhere near enough jobs for all these people—and more and more keep coming.”

Just then, a slightly battered Cadillac limo pulled over to the curb in front of the main station entrance. The doors swung open. Draper squinted, straining to make out faces.

“It’s the mayor,” Cynthia said with a grin. “You’re totally useless without your contacts, Nick.”

He glared at the press secretary momentarily, then jogged across Seventh Avenue. “Hey, Alison!”

Hart followed and Cynthia hobbled after them. “Hey, no aid for the cripple here?”

Mayor Alison Stein slammed the car door and turned at the sound of the Secretary of State’s familiar drawl. They shook hands warmly. Draper noticed her hair was up in its usual braided bun—did she ever let it down?—but she’d lost some weight, and the gauntness around her eyes made her appear a little older and much more weary than the last time they’d met. But the smile lighting her face was genuine.

“Our government leaders are out exercising awfully early, aren’t they?” she said.

Cynthia smiled sardonically. “It’s the only time that slave driver of a President lets us out of his sight.”

“How’re things going here?” asked Draper. “Looks like your city’s as popular as ever.”

Alison raised her eyebrows in an ironic arch. “I guess they all figure if the Big Apple’s good enough for the President, it’s good enough for them.”

“It may be early to be jogging,” Stuart Hart intoned, “but doesn’t that make it doubly early for you to be out working?” Alison Stein snorted. “Damn right. But we’re starting something new today. You know that we’ve got our own little Ellis Island set up inside the Garden, right? We’ve got cots and doctors and counselors and social workers. People can stay here for a few days until they get their bearings.”

“But how can they get in touch with people they know?” asked Cynthia. “When I was out at one of the camps last week, more than a few people complained about that. There’s so much confusion.”

“Ahh,
that’s
why I’m up so early. The phone company’s setting up a whole bank of phones for outgoing calls, and we’re installing a computerized directory-assistance station—and the whole thing’ll be free.”

The other officials nodded their approval. “That should help a lot,” said Cynthia.

A dirty Ford Tempo with government-seal decals on its doors swung over and stopped alongside the mayor’s limo. The driver leaned across the front seat, a mobile-phone receiver in his hand.

“Mr. Secretary,” he called.

Draper and Hart turned simultaneously. “Yes?” they chorused.

“They always do that,” said Cynthia. “If vaudeville ever comes back . .

Draper eyed his taller colleague. “I thought you were going to answer to ‘Mr.
Acting
Secretary.’ ”

“I would, but I can’t train these Secret Service fellows to say all that.”

The agent behind the wheel punctuated the exchange with a sharp
blaaaat
on the horn.

“I think he wants us,” said Cynthia.

“/ don’t,” the agent said, sounding annoyed. “The
President
does—right away. Get in. I’ll drive you back.”

Mayor Stein waved to them as they clambered inside the government car.

“I get the front so I can stretch out my terminally damaged leg,” Cynthia cried, hopping in with sudden vigor.

She had her door closed and locked before Draper and Hart had even moved. They traded suspicious glances.

“I don’t think she’s hurt at all,” said Draper as he slid into the rear compartment.

“Indeed,” Hart agreed. “We’ve been had.” He closed his door and the car accelerated away from the sidewalk. “Do you attribute this mendacious behavior to the fact that she’s a female of the species or to the fact that she used to be a reporter?”

Draper thought it over for a moment. “Both.”

Up front, Cynthia Sobel pretended to be pecking away at a word processor. “Chikka-chikka-chikka-chikka, ‘Secretaries of State and Defense Libel All Women and Reporters,’ ” she said smugly. “Ah, yes, I can see the headlines now!”

The Secret Service driver simply smirked, made a U-turn, and headed across town.

* * *

The broad-shouldered tower of the Grand Hyatt stood glistening in the late August sun. Its golden-glass eastern face reflected a shimmering image of the Art Deco Chrysler Building across Lexington Avenue. One of Manhattan’s newest luxury hotels, the Hyatt had been constructed on the shell of the old Commodore. That grande dame, dating back to the early years of the century, had been gutted to make way for the new. Even in death, her steel skeleton had been sturdy enough to stand as the heart of the sleek new structure.

Draper had stayed in the Commodore once, many years ago, and if the new Hyatt didn’t have the old girl’s personality . . . well, it sure as hell was luxurious.

The Secret Service car deposited Draper, Sobel, and Hart at the main entrance, where a doorman in brown uniform with tails ushered them in. As they circled through the revolving door, it took a moment for Draper’s eyes to adjust to the subdued lighting in the multitiered lobby. Smoked glass allowed filtered sunshine to seep in, illuminating the marble staircases, golden banisters and chandeliers, and opulent brown-and-gray furnishings.

Blinking as he led Hart and Sobel up the steps from the foyer, Draper barely avoided running head-on into Leonard Katowski flying down to meet them. The President’s chief of staff was dressed in his regular uniform of business suit—too short at the sleeve and cuff—white shirt, and narrow striped tie. Katowski’s thatch of hair looked as if it hadn’t had even passing acquaintance with a brush in several days.

“Where the hell have you three been?” he snapped, arms flapping with nervous energy. Somehow one of his ever-present manila folders clutched under his armpit stayed in place.

Draper took hold of Katowski’s elbow. “Just out joggin’, Len. No need to go off track.”

“That’s easy for you to say.
You’re
not the one who gets first word of horrible things that have to be told to the President, who is
still
asleep.”

“Well, we’re all back now,” Draper said, glancing at Hart and Sobel. He gave them a knowing half smile as they rolled their eyes behind Katowski’s back. The chief of staff was an efficient, intelligent man. Morrow relied on him heavily, and he’d never let his boss down. He was loyal yet honest.
But, Lordy, the man can get more nervous than a turkey the day before Thanksgiving,
Draper thought.

They reached the elevators and Katowski raced with wild strides directly toward the express car waiting for them. The attendant stepped aside so they could enter, then shut the doors and started the elevator to the top floor. Katowski’s right foot tapped out an irregular drumbeat as his eyes focused on the floor-indicator lights above their heads. It was almost as if he were willing the device to move faster.

“Leonard,” Cynthia Sobel said sweetly, “if you don’t make that foot hold still, / will—with a hammer and nails.”

The tap dance ceased. Katowski pinched his mouth into a sour grimace. “Terribly sorry.”

“Aw, she didn’t mean anythin’ by it,” Draper said soothingly.

“The hell she didn’t,” said Katowski.

After a silent moment, Cynthia nodded. “He’s right, Nick. I did.”

Katowski whirled to face his colleagues. “You people are always picking on me for being nervous and jumpy. Well, I have feelings, too.”

“Pardon me for perhaps making things worse,” said Stuart Hart, “but you
are
nervous and jumpy, Leonard.”

“You would be too if you had my job,” said the chief of staff, his narrow shoulders hunched defensively.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. “Presidential suite,” said the operator. “Should I wait?”

“No, no, that’s okay,” said Draper. “Thanks.”

Katowski lurched past them and marched headlong down the corridor, footfalls silenced by the thick carpeting.

“Now hold on a sec,” Draper said, grabbing the taller man by one flailing wrist.

“What? What is it?” Katowski demanded. “We’re in a hurry, Nick!”

“Now just calm down. Tell us what’s so important so suddenly.”

The chief of staff planted hands on hips. “Oh, what is this, the old Len-doesn’t-know-when-it’s-okay-to-wake-the-Presi-dent routine? Well, I’m with him more than all of you combined. I
know
when to wake him up. It’s the oil convoy in the North Atlantic. The Visitors attacked this morning.”

The other three exchanged startled glances. In unison Draper and Hart clamped grips on Katowski’s bony elbows and yanked him toward the President’s suite.