decades. “Excuse me, sir,” she said.
Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed. “No,” muttered Skorzeny, “he is still out there. Plotting against me. Let this be a lesson to you ladies—never fail to have done yesterday what you cannot do today and may no longer be able to do tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Amanda. Mlle. Derrida didn’t bother to respond.
“No secure traffic about this woman, Maryam?”
Miss Harrington pretended to consult some notes on her iPad. “None, sir. Upon receipt of her letter, the entire network went dark. It’s as if neither of them had ever existed.”
“Which is, of course, the perfect proof that they’re still alive,” retorted Skorzeny. He left his seat by the window and moved back into the room. “If there were a God, wouldn’t he be more likely to speak to us by his absence then by his presence? What faith does it require to believe in a being standing right in front of you?”
He sniffed the air, as if seeking either the divine or the diabolical via his olfactory sense. “And President Tyler?”
Amanda let out an inaudible sigh of relief. At last, he was back on ground she could stand on. “President Tyler’s political fortunes are waning and I can say with a degree of high confidence that it is very unlikely he will be returned to office in the American general election next month.”
“Miss Hassett will defeat him? Of this we are sure?”
Amanda consulted her screen. “He is trailing across the board, even in reliably partisan polls that normally favor the other side. She is leading among all age-groups, and among all demographics. If these trends continue, we are looking at an historic repudiation of a sitting president, especially one swept into office so recently on a wave of such electoral enthusiasm.”
“We may have played some small role in that,” said Skorzeny.
“Indeed, sir. For a price. Your subsidies to Mr. Sinclair have been rising steeply, I note.”
That would be Jake Sinclair, the head of the largest media conglomerate in America. Sinclair’s empire was fully behind Angela Hassett, the governor of the smallest state in the union, a woman who guarded both her past and her private life jealously. But, as few contemporary politicians did, she realized that she was not selling the past, but the future. It didn’t really matter who she was, or even what she had accomplished. She was the embodiment of the Future, and the compliant and complicit Sinclair media were with her every step of the way, blocking unwanted inquiries, refocusing the debate when the debate needed refocusing. They carried the water and did the dirty work and no doubt they expected to be rewarded handsomely with policy preferences and Oval Office access once the formality of the presidential election was past.
“An investment, Miss Harrington, an investment.” Tyler didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance, as they used to say in pre-PC America.
“In short, Mr. Skorzeny, President Tyler looks to be a one-term president, his appeal to the ladies notwithstanding, and we should plan accordingly.”
“Duly noted, Miss Harrington, so proceed accordingly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then perhaps all the rest doesn’t matter. A new president will appoint a new head of the National Security Agency and therefore of the CSS and so will rid us of this meddlesome general, Seelye, and his unholy crew.”
“I would expect so, sir, yes,”
“Very good,” said Skorzeny.
He went to the desk, opened a drawer, and extracted a new laptop computer, which he placed on the clean desktop. It was not his computer, as everyone in the room knew. It was Maryam’s. The computer she had with her in the hotel room in Hungary. The computer issued by the National Security Agency/Central Security Service of Fort Meade, Maryland. God alone knew what secrets it contained.
An astonishing breach of op-sec, thought Skorzeny, as he contemplated the machine. To let such a valuable
Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed. “No,” muttered Skorzeny, “he is still out there. Plotting against me. Let this be a lesson to you ladies—never fail to have done yesterday what you cannot do today and may no longer be able to do tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Amanda. Mlle. Derrida didn’t bother to respond.
“No secure traffic about this woman, Maryam?”
Miss Harrington pretended to consult some notes on her iPad. “None, sir. Upon receipt of her letter, the entire network went dark. It’s as if neither of them had ever existed.”
“Which is, of course, the perfect proof that they’re still alive,” retorted Skorzeny. He left his seat by the window and moved back into the room. “If there were a God, wouldn’t he be more likely to speak to us by his absence then by his presence? What faith does it require to believe in a being standing right in front of you?”
He sniffed the air, as if seeking either the divine or the diabolical via his olfactory sense. “And President Tyler?”
Amanda let out an inaudible sigh of relief. At last, he was back on ground she could stand on. “President Tyler’s political fortunes are waning and I can say with a degree of high confidence that it is very unlikely he will be returned to office in the American general election next month.”
“Miss Hassett will defeat him? Of this we are sure?”
Amanda consulted her screen. “He is trailing across the board, even in reliably partisan polls that normally favor the other side. She is leading among all age-groups, and among all demographics. If these trends continue, we are looking at an historic repudiation of a sitting president, especially one swept into office so recently on a wave of such electoral enthusiasm.”
“We may have played some small role in that,” said Skorzeny.
“Indeed, sir. For a price. Your subsidies to Mr. Sinclair have been rising steeply, I note.”
That would be Jake Sinclair, the head of the largest media conglomerate in America. Sinclair’s empire was fully behind Angela Hassett, the governor of the smallest state in the union, a woman who guarded both her past and her private life jealously. But, as few contemporary politicians did, she realized that she was not selling the past, but the future. It didn’t really matter who she was, or even what she had accomplished. She was the embodiment of the Future, and the compliant and complicit Sinclair media were with her every step of the way, blocking unwanted inquiries, refocusing the debate when the debate needed refocusing. They carried the water and did the dirty work and no doubt they expected to be rewarded handsomely with policy preferences and Oval Office access once the formality of the presidential election was past.
“An investment, Miss Harrington, an investment.” Tyler didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance, as they used to say in pre-PC America.
“In short, Mr. Skorzeny, President Tyler looks to be a one-term president, his appeal to the ladies notwithstanding, and we should plan accordingly.”
“Duly noted, Miss Harrington, so proceed accordingly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then perhaps all the rest doesn’t matter. A new president will appoint a new head of the National Security Agency and therefore of the CSS and so will rid us of this meddlesome general, Seelye, and his unholy crew.”
“I would expect so, sir, yes,”
“Very good,” said Skorzeny.
He went to the desk, opened a drawer, and extracted a new laptop computer, which he placed on the clean desktop. It was not his computer, as everyone in the room knew. It was Maryam’s. The computer she had with her in the hotel room in Hungary. The computer issued by the National Security Agency/Central Security Service of Fort Meade, Maryland. God alone knew what secrets it contained.
An astonishing breach of op-sec, thought Skorzeny, as he contemplated the machine. To let such a valuable
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