Hot Pursuit

9

Holly interviewed each of the applicants for her assistant’s job, and it depressed her that the academic records of every one of them exceeded her own. Not the practical experience, though, which was mostly internships.

The first four of them were from the same mold — two men, two women — she tried not to think of them as boys and girls — freshly scrubbed, fashionably dressed, bright as new pennies. The fifth applicant was their antithesis: model tall and slim, but poorly dressed, bordering on slovenly. Her hair was too long and close to being a mess, and she wore heavy black glasses and no makeup. Her record was astonishing: six years at Harvard, with a major in international affairs and a PhD at the end and a straight 4.0 average. This was the kind of woman who had probably alienated her peers, because she always knew the answer and always got the highest grade on her papers. Her name was Millicent Martindale.

“Why do you want the job, Millicent?” Holly asked.

“I don’t want the job,” she replied. “I want the secretary of state’s job, but I realize I’ll have to do something else until I’m old enough.” Acerbic, too, not to say arrogant. All right, arrogant.

“I see you interned on the staff of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for two summers. Did you learn anything there?”

“Less than I’d hoped. One or two of the interns, including me, seemed to know more about foreign relations than some of the committee members.”

“What do you read?”

“American history, biography, and every relevant monthly magazine.”

“Do you read any political magazines?”

“No. I despise politics.”

“What sort of family background do you come from?”

“Wealthy and Republican. My father is CEO of a large, family manufacturing concern.”

“So you’re not short of a few bucks.”

“Nope. I have an income from a very substantial trust fund.”

“I’m considering hiring you, Millie, but if I do, you’re going to have to go through what will be a very difficult learning process.”

“I’ve never met a learning process I couldn’t master. And I prefer Millicent.”

“This one is going to be new to you. You start Monday morning at seven AM. Between now and then I want you to find a makeover artist. Do you know what that is?”

“I know what a makeup artist is. I don’t know over.”

“You don’t read women’s magazines, do you?”

“They make me want to vomit.”

Holly picked up the phone and buzzed Marge.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Marge, I want you to find the best makeover artist in D.C. and block out all her/his time between now and Monday for Millicent Martindale.”

“Give me half an hour,” Marge said.

“Wait a minute,” Millicent said. “I think I’m beginning to get this: you want me to change the way I look, and I’m not up for it.”

“Then I chose the wrong assistant.” Holly closed her file, picked up another one, and pretended to read it. Millicent sat in stunned silence. Holly looked up. “Why are you still here?”

“All right, all right! I’ll do it!”

“This isn’t just about appearance,” Holly said. “Of course, when you come in here Monday morning I want to see somebody dressed the way your mother would approve of. I want to see a hairdo and appropriate makeup, but I want a lot more than that: I want to see an attitude that is cognizant that you are the lowest form of life on the White House staff, and that everybody knows more about everything than you do. And I want to see you smile at least a third of the time. Another thing: ask Marge to find you an optometrist — get some contacts, and I don’t ever want to see you in those fucking glasses again. And that’s not all, there’ll be more every day, and you’d better learn fast. You don’t report to me, you report to Marge. Got it?”

Millicent seemed to have shrunk. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marge breezed in and handed Millicent a sheet off her steno pad. “His name is Terry Tift. He’s just what you need, and he knows the White House drill. He’s expecting you in half an hour. You need an optometrist, too. His number is at the bottom of the page — you have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine.”

“I’d better not recognize you Monday morning,” Holly said. “Get out.”

Millicent fled.

“Marge, tell everybody she likes to be called Millie.”

Marge beamed. “Got it!”

Holly had been surprised to be included in the president’s daily intelligence briefing. She found herself seated at the long table in the Cabinet room with the vice president, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the director of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the National Security Agency, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, each of whom had brought a minion, all of whom were seated in chairs around the perimeter of the room. Place cards had been put out for the participants, and Holly found herself next to a chair with no place card.

Suddenly, everyone leaped to their feet, and Katharine Lee swept into the room, a bound legal pad under her arm. “Seats, please,” she said. As they sat down she leaned over and whispered to Holly, “Remember, you’re not briefing, you’re being briefed. Come with me when the meeting is over.” Then she sat down next to Holly.

“Homeland Security,” Kate said, and the director stood up. “Remain seated, please, all of you. What do you have, Stan?”

The man sat down. “Madam President, good morning. Overnight we have had strong hints from three sources, two of them electronic, that an important Al Qaeda figure has been infiltrated into Washington, perhaps even into our government. His purpose looks to be — using his position to glean intelligence — the organizing of a major terrorist attack against the city, with a government building or facility at its center.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Not yet, Madam President. We are working backward to determine that. We’ve sent out word to the appropriate operatives to locate the top twenty Al Qaeda officials. We’ll work from a list of those missing from sight. That will give us a short list, then we can turn the attention of all agencies to finding him.”

“That seems a logical procedure. Anything else to report at this time?”

“No, Madam President.”

“Don’t send out any broad alerts,” Kate said. “We don’t want to get his attention. I hardly need say that no one is to mention this to anyone outside this room.” She patiently worked her way through those present; nothing else rose to the level of the first report.

When they were done, Kate left the room first, and Holly trailed her to the Oval Office.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Kate said, flopping down on a sofa. “Hot stuff, right off the bat. I wonder if they’ve been saving it for a few days, just to start my administration off with a bang?”

“I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the press picks up on the story and who leaks it. Did you find an assistant?”

“Yes, ma’am, but she won’t start until Monday — she needs work.”

Kate laughed. “Let me guess: an Ivy League drudge? What the Brits call a ‘swot’?”

“A perfect one. She’s very smart, and I’m going to have to spend some time showing her that she’s stupid.”

“Were you like that when you joined the Agency, Holly?”

“I was a babe in the woods.”

Kate laughed. “I doubt that.”

“Do you want this morning’s report given to the NSC?”

“Not yet. First let’s see what result a few days’ work brings.” There was a knock, and the door leading to the Oval’s waiting room opened. “The secretary of labor designate is here, Madam President,” an assistant said.

“Send him in.” She stood up to greet the man. “See you later,” she said to Holly.