Divide and Conquer

FIFTEEN

Paul Hood arrived at the west wing of the White House at four o’clock. Even before he had finished passing through the security checkpoint, a presidential intern had arrived to show him to the Oval Office. Hood could tell he had been here at least several months. Like most seasoned interns, the freshly scrubbed young man had a slightly cocky air. Here he was, a kid in his early twenties, working at the White House. The ID badge around his neck was his trump card with women at bars, with chatty neighbors on airplanes, with brothers and cousins when he went home for the holidays. Whatever anyone else said or did, he was interacting with the president, the vice president, cabinet, and congressional leaders on a daily basis. He was exposed to real power, he was plugged into the world, and he was moving past the eyes and ears of all media where the expressions and casual utterances of even people like him could cause events that would ripple through history. Hood remembered feeling a lot of that when he was a kid working in the Los Angeles office of the governor of California. He could only imagine how much more extreme it was for this kid, the sense of being at the center of the universe.

The Oval Office is located at the far southeast corner of the West Wing. Hood followed the young man in silence as they made their way through the busy corridors, passed by people who did not seem at all self-important. They had the look and carriage of people who were very late for a plane. Hood walked past the office of the national security adviser and the vice president, then turned east at the vice president’s office and walked past the office of the press secretary. Then they turned south past the cabinet room. They walked in silence all the while. Hood wondered if the young man wasn’t speaking to him because the kid had a sense of propriety or because Hood wasn’t enough of a celebrity to merit talking to. Hood decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The office past the cabinet room belonged to Mrs. Leigh. She was seated behind her desk. Behind it was the only door that led to the Oval Office. The intern excused himself. Hood and the president’s tall, white-haired secretary greeted each other with smiles. Mrs. Leigh was from Texas, with the steel, poise, patience, and dry, self-effacing humor required for the guardian of the gate. Her husband was the late Senator Titus Leigh, a legendary cattleman.

“The president’s running a few minutes late,” Mrs. Leigh said. “But that’s all right. You can tell me how you are.”

“Coping,” Hood said. “And you?”

“Fine,” she replied flatly. “My strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere,” Hood said as he continued toward the secretary’s desk.

“It’s Lord Tennyson,” she replied. “How is your daughter?”

“She’s strong, too,” Hood said. “And she has an awful lot of people pulling for her.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mrs. Leigh said, still smiling. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I absolutely will,” Hood said. He looked into her gray eyes. “There is something you can do for me, though.”

“And that is?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course,” she assured him.

“Mrs. Leigh, has the president seemed all right to you?” Hood asked.

The woman’s smile wavered. She looked down. “Is that what this meeting is about?”

“No,” Hood said.

“What makes you ask a question like that?”

“People close to him are worried,” Hood said.

“And you’re the one who’s been asked to bell the cat?” she asked.

“Nothing that calculated,” Hood said as his cell phone beeped. He reached into his jacket pocket and answered the phone.

“This is Paul.”

“Paul, it’s Mike.”

“Mike, what’s up?” If Rodgers was calling him here, now, it had to be important.

“The target was seen leaving the Iranian mission to the UN about three minutes ago.”

“Any idea where he was the rest of the time?” Hood asked.

“Negative,” said Rodgers. “We’re working on that. But apparently, the car didn’t show up at the embassies of any of our top allies.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. “Let me know if you find out anything else.”

Hood hung up. He put the phone back in his pocket. That was strange. The president had announced an intelligence initiative involving the United Nations, and one of the first missions the national security adviser visits belongs to Iran. As a sponsor of the kind of terrorism the United Nations opposed, that did not make sense.

The door to the Oval Office opened.

“Mrs. Leigh, would you do me a favor?” Hood said.

“Yes.”

“Would you get me Jack Fenwick’s itinerary in New York?”

“Fenwick? Why?”

“He’s one of the reasons I asked you the question I did,” Hood replied.

Mrs. Leigh looked at Hood. “All right. Do you want it while you’re with the president?”

“As soon as possible,” Hood said. “And when you get the file number, let me know what else is in the file. I don’t need specific documents, just dates when they were filed.”

“All right,” she said. “And Paul — what you asked before? I have noticed a change.”

He smiled at her. “Thanks. If there’s a problem, we’re going to try and fix it quickly and quietly, whatever it is.”

She nodded and sat at her computer as the vice president emerged from the Oval Office. Charles Cotten was a tall, stout man with a thin face and thinning gray hair. He greeted Paul Hood with a warm handshake and a smile but didn’t stop to talk. Mrs. Leigh punched the phone intercom. The president answered. She told him that Paul Hood was here, and the president asked her to send him in. Hood went around the desk and walked into the Oval Office.