The Oval Office had grown deathly quiet. The only sound was the person crying in the next room. For the first time, it sounded like a man.
"Um," Mark Howard said slowly. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," the President said, annoyed. "Didn't you write some memo or something about this?"
Howard was surprised anyone had read it, least of all the President of the United States.
Mark had detected a pattern in organized crime that had been evolving over the past month. Even before the previous week's botched DEA raid in an old New Jersey airplane hangar, Mark had linked the emerging pattern to a company called Raffair. He didn't know why. The feeling again. It hit him while he was going through the NYSE listings in the newspaper. His finger was tapping "Raffair" even before he realized it.
The fact that audiotapes collected from the abandoned DEA van had mentioned prominently the name Raffair merely clinched it for Howard. He had filed a report yesterday.
Since the CIA's responsibilities were to advise the President and NSC on international developments, Mark assumed that his memo would be turned over to the SEC or FBI at best. At worst, it would be ignored completely. The fact that it had been read by the President shocked him.
He could feel the eyes of the other men burning into him. The CIA director seemed particularly agitated.
In the outer room, the sobbing continued. "There, there," the disembodied voice of the President's secretary consoled. "I know getting a new job's scary, but it must have been even scarier when you were inventing the Internet. Here, let me get you some nice warm cocoa."
The door closed carefully, silencing the crying man.
In the Oval Office, Mark cleared his throat. "The incident in Cuba is part of something larger that's emerged in the last month or so, Mr. President," he began. "I think it's linked to a company called Raffair."
"I know," the president said impatiently. "I read your report. Why do you think it's connected?"
Mark glanced at the CIA director. The older man's eyes were locked on his.
Howard knew he'd be laughed out of the room if he mentioned the feeling. He'd spent his entire adult life avoiding explanations for his gift. Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to get into detail here.
"Simple," Mark began, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Raffair was mentioned during a drug raid that went wrong late last week. I happened to check the company's stock price the next day. Turns out it went up a couple of points. After yesterday's screw-up in Cuba, Raffair's stock went down. I thought I smelled a pattern, so I did a little digging. Turns out every time Raffair's stock dips, there's been some kind of action against organized crime the day before. Otherwise, they've had nothing but smooth sailing for the past month, ever since their ISO."
Mark tried not to meet the disapproving gazes of the other men. He kept his eyes focused on the President.
Behind his desk, America's chief executive nodded.
It was as if the others weren't even there. Howard had heard this about the President. The commander in chief had an unerring ability to make a person feel as if they were the only other human being on the face of the planet.
"You sure about all this?" the President asked, biting his lip in thoughtful concentration.
"Yes, sir," Howard said. "Raffair took its biggest hit last Monday when the President-elect mentioned his new drug policy. The stock really took a tumble that day."
The President's face soured at the mention of his successor. "That reminds me," he grumbled to himself. "I've got a meeting to set up with him. Betty!" he shouted.
His secretary's door opened. A middle-aged black woman stuck her face into the room. Behind her, the crying had only gotten worse. The man was blowing his nose loudly.
Although it was barely 7:30 a.m., the President's secretary already looked worn out. "Yes, Mr. President?" she asked wearily.
"I need to have a meeting with the incoming President."
The crying in the outer room grew worse. "Oh, gawd!" the man bawled, his voice filled with uncharacteristic emotion.
The secretary rolled her eyes apologetically. "I'll contact the transition people, Mr. President." She nodded. With an exhausted smile, she ducked back into her office.
Behind his desk, the President shook his head. "Cure," he said to himself, his hoarse voice laced with bitterness. "I'll show him cure." He rose to his feet, slapping his hands on his desk. "That's it. Everybody out."
The men in the room exchanged baffled glances. "But ...but our briefing," the FBI director said, his tone betraying confusion.
"Go brief yourself," the President said as he padded to the door. "I've got my own problems. Come next week, I don't even have a place to live. Worse, I could stay in New York. With her." He shivered visibly as he left the room.
Behind him, the President's bewildered advisers began gathering up paperwork and briefcases. Mark Howard didn't even notice the evil glance the CIA director gave him as he collected his own satchel from the floor next to the sofa. His thoughts were somewhere else, far beyond the confines of the Oval Office, a room that now seemed much smaller than it had just a few minutes before.
In the space of this one small meeting, the entire world had collapsed and coalesced into an unrecognizable shape. Numbly, Mark rose from his chair and walked to the door.
Smith, the background check, the President. It was all tied in. Something was very definitely going on. And whatever it was was huge beyond the measure of it.
Mark Howard could feel it.
THE PRESIDENT DID his best to ignore the packing crates stacked in the hallways of the West Wing. In the main mansion, he took the private elevator, getting out at the family quarters.
He closed his eyes in strained patience when he heard the familiar low rumble to his right.
Down the hall, the President's Labrador retriever exposed its teeth, growling menacingly as he passed. Scraps of shiny paper were spread on the floor around its paws.
His wife had sent the dog for some kind of special obedience training while the chief executive was in Europe the previous year. When the President got back home, the dog's attitude had been completely changed. It now growled and snapped at him whenever he came near. Every White House picture of the current President became a chew toy. He tried to ask his wife what she'd done to the animal, but she only smiled that emasculating smile of hers and flew off for another listening tour of New York.
He left the dog to chew on the state photograph of himself and Israel's Prime Minister Barak. Rounded shoulders sagging, he ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom.
The cherry-red telephone was in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. In another few days, he'd be showing the phone to his successor.
Sitting on the edge of the high bed, the President lifted the receiver. The phone had no dial. It didn't need one. Before it could ring twice, the call was answered.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
Efficient, as usual. The President scowled at the thought of the tart-voiced man on the other end of the line.
"I'm scheduling a meeting with the President-elect," the chief executive said, his voice flat. "Just like you asked."
No hint of emotion. "Thank you, Mr. President."
The President only grunted. "Still don't know why I have to do it. Why don't you just have those people of yours sneak you in here so you can talk to him yourself next week?"
"It has always been done this way, with but one exception. And that was only because of dire circumstances. It is best for the outgoing President to inform the incoming President of our existence. To do it some other way might suggest a rogue intelligence group."
"Yeah," the President said, dabbing at the thick rouge on his cheek. His finger came back orange. "Guess so. Hey, I've got something I'd like you to look into before I'm gone." He rubbed the makeup between thumb and forefinger.
A pause. "Yes?"
That snide tone. Filled with suspicion and condescension.