Power Curve (37 page)

Turner was standing by the fireplace reading a note. She was wearing a dark blue robe, and her hair was brushed back. Shaw waited for her to speak as she gazed into the fire.
This is a picture worth a million votes
, he thought and, for a moment, considered calling in a photographer to capture the scene. But that would be counterproductive. “The police sent this over a few minutes ago,” she said. “It’s a copy.” She handed him the note.

The note was signed with Jackie’s tight but small and very distinctive signature.

“They outed her,” Turner said, “and she was afraid the public’s reaction would drag me down.” Then, more strongly, “We’d have weathered this.”

“Where was she found?” he asked.

“She drove to a small park upstream on the Potomac and took sleeping pills,” Maura said. “A park ranger on a security patrol found her.”

Shaw reread the note. “Not good,” he muttered. “Quite a few assholes are gonna say this proves she was your lover.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Turner snapped.

“We all know the truth, Mizz President. But politics is all appearances. Let me sterilize her office.”

“No,” Turner said. “There’s nothing to find. I want you to go down there and have the Secret Service seal the office. Call the FBI and stay there until the investigators arrive.”

“I’m on my way,” Shaw said.

“One more thing, Patrick,” she said, stopping him. “I’m not going to allow anyone, I don’t care who it is, to twist the truth to their own ends. The first one who does is going to find the full weight of the presidency dropped on them like a ton of bricks.”

“That can be counterproductive, Mizz President.”

“As long as they stick with the truth, Patrick, it’s no problem.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “So we’re playing hardball on this one.”

“Not hardball,” she said, “slash and burn.”

The long walk to the West Wing gave Shaw time to tranquilize the worry that was consuming him. Unless all his political instincts were wrong, Leland was going to use Jackie’s suicide to beat Maddy into final submission. But had Maddy lost the will to fight back? He didn’t know. Had he backed the wrong side? He calculated he would know in less than forty-eight hours. He entered the office Jackie shared with the president’s secretaries and used his handkerchief to open her desk drawers. He rifled through, careful not to disturb the neatly ordered contents. He picked up a Polaroid picture that seemed out of place. It was a photo of the farmhouse where he had met with Leland.

The worry that had been swirling around him turned into a fully developed tornado. What was this doing in Jackie’s desk? If Maddy knew about Leland and the group,
she knew about him. Or did she? Did he still have time to maneuver before he was discovered?
Breathe
, he told himself. He concentrated on breathing.
Saint-Peter-shit-a-brick!
he thought.
Do something!
He pocketed the photo, closed the drawer, and walked as calmly as he could to his own office.

He unlocked a desk drawer where the panties left by his companion of the snowstorm were safely tucked away. He shoved them into his pocket and returned to Jackie’s office. Again, he used his handkerchief to open a drawer in Jackie’s desk and dropped the panties in. With a little luck, forensic and DNA testing would prove the panties did not belong to Jackie. But that raised the double-barreled question of ownership and why were they there? A sex scandal in the White House was exactly what Leland wanted. He was careful not to disturb the desk and closed the drawer.

He opened the door and beckoned to the Secret Service agent on duty. “Seal this office. Don’t let anyone in until the FBI gets here.” He walked back to his office. He had to telephone Leland. But from where? Certainly not from the White House. It would have to wait until later.

Okinawa, Japan

M
artini sensed the change the moment he entered the command post. It smelled different. Everyone was wearing a fresh uniform and the halls sparkled from a recent GI party. He walked across the main floor and heard the sound of guarded optimism in the conversations around him. The door to the Battle Cab was open and like the command post, it was squeaky clean. His staff was crowded inside for a meeting, and Pete Townly was waiting for him with a briefing board tucked under his left arm. “Good evening, General,” he said. It was 7
P.M.
, Saturday, February 9, the twenty-ninth day of the crisis.

“What’cha got, Pete?” Martini asked. He listened as Townly recapped the current status of the battle. Both sides had withdrawn to lick their wounds, and the fighting was over.

“When will they go at it again?” the Operations Group commander asked.

“Not for a while,” Townly replied. “Both have depleted their fuel and ammunition stocks. Combine that with their losses and I don’t see any major action for some time. Judging by the way the Chinese are digging in on Kumejima, they are settling in for a long siege. There is another possibility: We may be next.”

Martini probed for details on the island and stiffened when he saw the extent of the bunkering and fortifications
nearing completion. His fingers drummed the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t like this. I want to hunker down and be ready for a missile attack within the next forty-eight hours.”

Major Bob Ryan was standing at the back of the cab. “General,” he said, “the crowding in the shelters is creating problems. Many of them want to go home. I’m not sure how much longer I can sit on them.”

“Tell them we don’t have a choice,” Martini replied. “I’m still pressing for their evacuation. Maybe the president will change her mind now.” He turned to his Operations Group commander. “Start prepping a Strike Eagle and move it to the hardened shelter closest to the fuel cells building.” His eyes swept over the men and women crowded around him. “Any questions?” There weren’t any, and the meeting was over.

Why all the attention on one F-15
? Ryan thought as he escaped outside. Out of curiosity, he drove across the ramp on his way back to the north side of the base. It was already dark and lights started to wink out as Kadena transitioned to blackout conditions. Finally, the only patch of light was the bright square around the civilian shelters.
It’s like a beacon pointing the way to the base
, he thought. Then it too blinked out. Ryan reached for his night vision goggles and waited for his eyes to adjust before continuing. He drove slowly past the fuel cells building. Three times he saw guards, always in pairs, patrolling behind a rope barrier that created a sixty-foot-wide no-man’s-land around the building.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. An image of a mushroom cloud over an island flashed in front of him. “There’s no way—” But he had to be sure. He drove up to the entry control point, a break in the rope, and stopped. A pair of guards approached him and scanned him with a shielded flashlight.

“Sir, you need a class A security badge to proceed beyond this point.”

His suspicions were confirmed, and he felt sick. There were nuclear weapons on Kadena under Martini’s control. He was trapped on an island with a power freak.

Washington, D.C.

Shaw followed the butler down the second-floor corridor of the residence on Saturday morning. He checked his watch and at exactly eight o’clock knocked on the door. He counted to three and pushed through. “Good morning again, Mizz President,” he said. He settled into his usual seat and handed her the day’s schedule. It was the same routine, and it was business as normal. “I’ve freed up a block of time this afternoon for a press conference,” he told her. “I want’a take the offensive on Jackie’s suicide. Make the press come to us, and anything they find out on their own will be old news. I got the children working overtime on the polls.”
And taking a good look at Leland’s polls
, he mentally added.

“I want to drive public opinion on this one,” Turner said, “not the other way around.” Shaw handed her the President’s Daily Brief and waited while she read. “Apparently, the Chinese and Japanese have exhausted themselves. This might be the perfect time to start a diplomatic offensive.” Shaw made a note and handed her the day’s action list. She scanned the page and froze at the last entry. Robert Bender had tended his resignation as her national security advisor. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked.

“I only saw the letter about an hour ago,” Shaw replied. “He gave it to my secretary last night after I had left.” He handed her the letter.

“Generals define loyalty in a most unique way,” she said. “He recommends Mazie take over for him. Please call her as soon as possible.”

“I already have,” Shaw said. “She’s in his office and is preparing for the meeting with your security advisors in twenty minutes.”

“I want to meet the agent in charge of the FBI investigation looking into Jackie’s death.”

“He’s still in Jackie’s office,” he told her. “They should be about finished.” He followed her into the West Wing. “You need to select a new personal assistant.”

“We’ll take care of that next week,” she replied.

The FBI agents were still inventorying Jackie’s personal
filing cabinet when Turner and Shaw entered the outer room that guarded the inner sanctum of the Oval Office. Shaw made the introductions. The senior agent said that they were almost finished with Jackie’s office and asked if someone could explain a few file folders. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. The rules dictated that he not reveal or discuss the findings of an investigation in progress. But this was the president of the United States, and he was deeply troubled by what he had found. “We did find one item in her desk that bothers me.” He held up a plastic evidence bag containing the panties. “These don’t fit the pattern we’re seeing, not at all, which raises more questions than it answers.”

The palms of Shaw’s hands grew clammy. Had he made a mistake? But he was a practiced politician, and his face did not betray the worry that was eating at him. This was coming apart on him.

“Perhaps it would be better if we discussed this under the proper circumstances,” Turner said. “I just wanted to say, you have my unqualified support. If anyone on my staff is not fully cooperative or interferes in any way, speak to Mr. Shaw. Please excuse me, but I have another meeting.”

The DCI was standing between Elkins and Francis when she entered the Oval Office. “Patrick, please call Mazie,” she said. Shaw hurried out to make the call. “Well, John,” she said to Elkins, “without the chairman, we seem a much smaller group. When can I see that list?”

“Tuesday at the latest,” Elkins replied. He hoped he could drag it out to appease Leland.

Shaw came back in and sat down. “Mazie’s in the communications room. New message traffic coming in.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Turner said, “I take it you have all heard about General Bender’s resignation? Mrs. Hazelton will be taking over his duties. Am I correct in assuming the Chinese and the Japanese are done fighting?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the DCI answered. “The Chinese are reinforcing the island of Kumejima. But our analysts interpret this as a defensive measure.”

“Barnett,” she said, turning to the secretary of state,
“I want you to open a diplomatic offensive to bring Japan and China to the negotiating table.” Barnett Francis was outlining his ideas on how to make it happen when Hazelton entered the room. Her face was flushed, and she was out of breath from running up the stairs.

“Madam President,” she paused to catch her breath. “The Chinese are giving the Japanese an ultimatum.” They stared at her in shocked silence as she related how the National Security Agency had intercepted and decoded a message from Beijing to their ambassador in Paris. The Chinese ambassador was to present the ultimatum to the Japanese ambassador in two hours. If the Japanese did not cease all hostile actions in the East China Sea and cede the five Yaeyama Islands, including Iriomote, as reparations and a sign of good will to the Chinese by midnight Sunday, Greenwich mean time, the Chinese government would be forced to undertake extreme measures.

“Damn,” Shaw moaned. “These time zone differences drive me crazy. How many hours does that give us?”

“About forty hours,” Hazelton replied. “The ultimatum expires at 7
P.M.
, Sunday, our time.”

“Why the Yaeyama Islands,” Turner asked, “and not Kumejima?”

“Kumejima is a bargaining chip,” Hazelton said. “The Chinese think they can slice off the Yaeyamas because they have an historical claim that goes back 300 years and the islands are only 125 miles from Taiwan. This is also a way for Beijing to save face after losing the
Chairman Mao
.”

“What do they mean by ‘extreme measures’?” Turner asked. No one could answer her. “So what do we do?”

“There is very little we can do,” Barnett Francis said. “This is between the Chinese and the Japanese. The Japanese will have to come to us.”

“If we go to the Japanese,” the DCI said, “the Chinese will know we’ve cracked their codes.”

“Have we?” Turner asked.

“We can read anyone’s mail we want,” the DCI replied, “including Japan’s. That’s a secret we don’t want compromised under any circumstances. Personally, I think
the Chinese are bluffing to save face and the Japanese know it.”

“Both sides are very concerned with saving face,” Hazelton said. “I doubt if the Japanese will ask for help, not after what’s happened.”

“Mizz President,” Shaw said, “we ought’a brief key members of Congress, watch how this plays out, and be ready to respond.”

Turner made her decision. “Call them to the White House. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I will not fight over a few disputed rocks in the ocean, but I will if the Chinese threaten our people on Okinawa.” The meeting was over, and Shaw held back as her security advisors left. “Patrick, did you notice Dr. Elkins hardly said a thing?”

Shaw shrugged. “Maybe he’s run out of words or hung over.” He checked her schedule. “Some visiting firemen from Iowa are waiting to receive an award.” He turned her over to the appointments secretary and ambled back to his office. Alice Fay, his secretary, handed him a message from Jessica. He made a big show of sitting on the edge of Alice’s desk and dialing Jessica’s number. “It’s me, darlin’. Dinner tonight?” He grinned at her reply. “It’ll be jus’ like old times,” he said, breaking the connection.

He hoped it wasn’t an idle boast.

The two black staff cars pulling up to the South Portico of the White House made a perfect background for Liz Gordon’s TV newsbreak. “A White House briefing today confirmed reports that the naval battle in the East China Sea is over. But in what should have been a moment of triumph for President Turner, the capital is alive with rumors surrounding the apparent suicide of the president’s personal assistant, Jackie Winters.

“Key leaders from the Hill”—Ben zoomed in on the two black sedans—“have been summoned to the White House and a highly placed source maintains they are only being briefed on the Far East. Meanwhile, veteran White House observers claim a major crisis is brewing on this
quiet Saturday afternoon. This is Liz Gordon, CNC-TV News, standing by at the White House.”

Ben lowered the camera and wound up the microphone wire. “Any idea of what’s going on?” he asked.

“I haven’t got a clue,” Liz replied. “But I think the shit is about to hit the fan.”

Shaw sank back on the couch and stretched out. He felt like a whipped dog after the long day and wanted nothing more than a soak in a hot bath and collapse in bed. But there was still more work to do. “Nice idea, having dinner at your place.”

Jessica came out of the kitchen holding two glasses of wine and wearing a filmy dark green creation that would guarantee cardiac arrest under most circumstances. “It’s ready,” she said, curling up on the couch beside him. “Besides, we can talk here.” She gave him time to taste the wine. “The senator has convinced the Speaker of the House to start impeachment hearings next week.” Her eyes glowed with excitement.

“Hot air and smoke,” Shaw replied. “They haven’t got anything. Maddy’s just a political lightweight stumbling around in the dark. Hell, if that was unconstitutional, half our presidents and Supreme Court justices would have been impeached.”

She led him to the dinner table and served up a coq au vin that would have sent a Frenchman happily to the guillotine. “The senator is aware of all that,” she said. “But he thinks he can force her to resign. All he needs is the ‘last straw.’”

Shaw told her about the panties the FBI had discovered in Jackie’s desk. He did not mention how they had gotten there or the photo he had found. “Very embarrassing,” he said, “but not incriminating.”

“We move now, or it’s not going to happen,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

Shaw dropped his chin. It was ides of March time and he held the dagger that could take his Caesar down. “The Far East is going to blow up in her face.”

Jessica came out of her seat like a cat and stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. “When?” she murmured.

“Seven
P.M.
tomorrow evening,” he answered. He told her about the Chinese ultimatum.

“Are you sure?”

“My gut is sure.” He spoke quietly, succumbing to the wine and rich food. His words excited her more than any aphrodisiac as he guided her through the logic of his arcane and dark world.

“You must be exhausted,” she murmured. “Let me run you a hot bath.” She led him into the bathroom and undressed him as the tub filled. He settled in and let the hot water flow over him as her silk peignoir slipped to the floor. She scrubbed him down and gently massaged his neck. Then she reached between his legs. Nothing. “You need a good night’s rest,” she whispered. She toweled him down and led him to her bed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. She sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs as she dialed a number. “It’s tomorrow evening,” she said. She listened for a moment. “Oh, yes, he’s sure. I can’t discuss it over the phone. Meet me in forty minutes.” Again, she listened. “He won’t miss me.”