anything else would appear unpatriotic. He’ll be paralyzed, sir.”
A silence fell over the room as everyone waited for the President to speak. “I think the Sword of Gaza represents a clear danger to the citizens and interests of the United States of America,” he said finally. “They have committed an act of cowardice and barbarism against this nation, and they need to be punished. When can we hit them?”
“Whenever you give the order, Mr. President.”
“Tonight,” he said. “Do it tonight, gentlemen.”
Vandenberg looked down at his notes. He had orchestrated it well, and the President had reached the intended decision and was comfortable with the position. Vandenberg had done a good job.
“Before we adjourn, gentlemen, we have one other piece of business,” Vandenberg said. “Mr. President, would you like to tell them about it, or shall I?”
Calahan played the tape for Mitchell Elliott in the library of the Kalorama mansion. Elliott listened intently, his forefinger lying across his nose, his eyes fixed on the trees in the garden. The quality was good, though dropouts made parts of the conversation nearly inaudible. When it was over, Elliott sat motionless. He had planned it all so carefully, but a reporter asking too many questions could undo it all.
“She’s trouble, Mr. Elliott,” Calahan said, removing the tape from Elliott’s elaborate stereo system.
“Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this point except watch and wait. What kind of coverage do you have on her?”
“Room bugs in the house and one on her telephone.”
“That’s not good enough. I want one on her car as well.”
“No problem. She leaves it on the street at night.”
“And her computer, too. I want you to go in every chance you get and copy the contents of her hard drive.”
Calahan nodded.
“We need to keep a closer eye on her while she’s at work. Get Rodriguez on a plane right away. He’s going to work at the Post. ”
“What does Rodriguez know about journalism?”
“Nothing. That’s not the kind of job I have in mind for him.”
Calahan looked perplexed.
Elliott said, “Rodriguez grew up in the roughest neighborhood in Bakersfield. He speaks Spanish like a boy from the barrio. Take away his six-hundred-dollar suits and that fancy hairdo, and he’ll look like a Salvadoran farmworker. Get him a false green card and find him a job on the cleaning service used by the Post. I want him inside by tomorrow night.”
“Good idea.”
“I want everything on her: financial, her divorce, everything. If she wants to play hardball, she’s playing in the wrong league.”
Calahan held up the tape. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Destroy it.”
10
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Elizabeth Osbourne thought, If there’s anything worse than a Washington dinner party, it’s going to a Washington dinner party alone. She arrived at Mitchell Elliott’s Kalorama mansion fifteen minutes late. She left her Mercedes with the valet, a boy who looked barely old enough to drive, and headed up the walkway. Michael had telephoned late in the afternoon to say he couldn’t get away because something big was going to break. She had tried to find an escort but couldn’t, on such short notice. Even Jack Dawson, Susanna’s ex-husband, had turned her down.
Elizabeth pressed the button, and a solemn bell tolled somewhere inside the imposing house. A trim man in a tuxedo opened the door. He helped with her coat and glanced outside expectantly, looking for her partner. “I’m alone tonight,” she said self-consciously, then immediately regretted it. She thought, I don’t have to explain myself to a fucking butler.
The butler informed her that drinks were being served in the garden. She followed the center hall into the house. French doors gave onto a magnificent terraced garden. Gas heaters burned the chill from the autumn night air. Elizabeth stepped outside, and a waiter presented her with a
A silence fell over the room as everyone waited for the President to speak. “I think the Sword of Gaza represents a clear danger to the citizens and interests of the United States of America,” he said finally. “They have committed an act of cowardice and barbarism against this nation, and they need to be punished. When can we hit them?”
“Whenever you give the order, Mr. President.”
“Tonight,” he said. “Do it tonight, gentlemen.”
Vandenberg looked down at his notes. He had orchestrated it well, and the President had reached the intended decision and was comfortable with the position. Vandenberg had done a good job.
“Before we adjourn, gentlemen, we have one other piece of business,” Vandenberg said. “Mr. President, would you like to tell them about it, or shall I?”
Calahan played the tape for Mitchell Elliott in the library of the Kalorama mansion. Elliott listened intently, his forefinger lying across his nose, his eyes fixed on the trees in the garden. The quality was good, though dropouts made parts of the conversation nearly inaudible. When it was over, Elliott sat motionless. He had planned it all so carefully, but a reporter asking too many questions could undo it all.
“She’s trouble, Mr. Elliott,” Calahan said, removing the tape from Elliott’s elaborate stereo system.
“Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this point except watch and wait. What kind of coverage do you have on her?”
“Room bugs in the house and one on her telephone.”
“That’s not good enough. I want one on her car as well.”
“No problem. She leaves it on the street at night.”
“And her computer, too. I want you to go in every chance you get and copy the contents of her hard drive.”
Calahan nodded.
“We need to keep a closer eye on her while she’s at work. Get Rodriguez on a plane right away. He’s going to work at the Post. ”
“What does Rodriguez know about journalism?”
“Nothing. That’s not the kind of job I have in mind for him.”
Calahan looked perplexed.
Elliott said, “Rodriguez grew up in the roughest neighborhood in Bakersfield. He speaks Spanish like a boy from the barrio. Take away his six-hundred-dollar suits and that fancy hairdo, and he’ll look like a Salvadoran farmworker. Get him a false green card and find him a job on the cleaning service used by the Post. I want him inside by tomorrow night.”
“Good idea.”
“I want everything on her: financial, her divorce, everything. If she wants to play hardball, she’s playing in the wrong league.”
Calahan held up the tape. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Destroy it.”
10
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Elizabeth Osbourne thought, If there’s anything worse than a Washington dinner party, it’s going to a Washington dinner party alone. She arrived at Mitchell Elliott’s Kalorama mansion fifteen minutes late. She left her Mercedes with the valet, a boy who looked barely old enough to drive, and headed up the walkway. Michael had telephoned late in the afternoon to say he couldn’t get away because something big was going to break. She had tried to find an escort but couldn’t, on such short notice. Even Jack Dawson, Susanna’s ex-husband, had turned her down.
Elizabeth pressed the button, and a solemn bell tolled somewhere inside the imposing house. A trim man in a tuxedo opened the door. He helped with her coat and glanced outside expectantly, looking for her partner. “I’m alone tonight,” she said self-consciously, then immediately regretted it. She thought, I don’t have to explain myself to a fucking butler.
The butler informed her that drinks were being served in the garden. She followed the center hall into the house. French doors gave onto a magnificent terraced garden. Gas heaters burned the chill from the autumn night air. Elizabeth stepped outside, and a waiter presented her with a
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