The Swords of Babylon

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Jonathan Gates replaced the receiver in its cradle and put his head in his hands. It constantly amazed him how these egotistical sons of bitches found so many inventive ways to try to end the world. Or rule it. Or whatever twisted designs of supremacy these warped and pitiless individuals aspired to.

He sat back in his leather chair, staring intently at the Stars and Stripes that hung from a flag pole to the left of his desk. When he shifted, he could see its splendor repeated in the highly polished circular table where he held private meetings, not simply a symbol to him, but a warning to be heeded, a promise to be kept, a way of life to be maintained.

The photograph of his wife stared back intently from the right hand side of his desk. Not a day went by that he didn’t miss her. Not a day went by that he didn’t quell a rush of intense hatred for her murderer. He touched the frame lightly, a smile lifting the edges of his lips.

A moment later, one of the phones before him started to ring. As ever, even though a light was flashing, he had a moment’s hesitation, making sure he picked up the right one. It was an internal line.

“Mr Secretary, I have a Sarah Moxley on the line. You recently approved her. She’s hoping for a lunchtime meeting today, but asked that I stress this is not yet an interview. I have her on hold, sir.”

Gates stared thoughtfully at the paintings above him. Not an interview? Was she trying to put him at ease or wind him up? It didn’t matter, he could handle anything she threw at him. If only her timing had been better—

“Please tell her I have to reschedule.”

“Yes, Mr Secretary.”

Gates tapped the plastic phone, thinking. The attacks on the tombs carried with them a tiny sliver of silver lining. It appeared that now, General Stone wouldn’t be able to execute his inane plan. The President would be off the hook. As would Gates. But, he knew that with people like Stone, there was always going to be a next time. He made a decision and called Lauren Fox on a personal line.

“Things have changed,” he said without preamble. “It doesn’t have to happen.”

“Jesus, are you kidding? I already made contact.”

Gates frowned. “What sort of contact?”

“Not that sort. But—” the New Yorker paused, thinking hard. “The sort that, if cancelled, might seem suspect.”

Damn. Gates reviewed his thinking one more time, but kept coming back to that old adage — don’t poke the beast. There simply wasn’t any gain in provoking a situation that didn’t yet exist. Some men he knew did like to gather dirt, but it wasn’t Gates’ style.

“Sorry, Lauren. The fallout won’t be as bad as if you went through with it, surely.”

“It might be as bad. And you wouldn’t get another chance.”

She was right, but Gates just couldn’t do it. “Abort the plan,” he said. “I’ll speak to you in a few days.”

Now he stood up and paced his office, black polished shoes treading the plush blue carpet in the footsteps of the men who came before him. The pressure of office bore down so hard it felt like all the weight of the White House was upon him. His team, led by Hayden Jaye, were in the fight of their lives and separated. Even now they fought an unknown enemy without a clear plan of action. The world was on the brink.

Again.

Damn these fucking tombs, he thought. They should all be blown to hell.

Quickly, he made himself calm down. Poured a glass of water. Stared without seeing out of the window. Then he called his secretary back.

“Come to think of it,” he said. “I need the distraction. Call Miss Moxley back and arrange that lunchtime appointment.”

“Yes, Mr Secretary.”

The catering staff brought bottles of water, sandwiches and cakes minutes before Sarah Moxley was due to arrive. As soon as the Post reporter appeared, his secretary sent her through.

Gates rose and shook hands, remembering the touch of her skin from before. He invited her to sit at the round table. “Sorry for the formal setting,” he said. “I don’t have too long, Miss Moxley.”

“Call me Sarah. Something still going on?”

“Always,” he repeated his words of a few days ago. Gates picked at his food as she talked, moving half a sandwich around his plate like a general arranging battle formations, but he listened well. Moxley talked about her work, her life and the friends she had died beside, but she didn’t ask a single question that put him on alert. Gates found himself interested, relaxing around her, and enjoyed the sight of her winning smile. But there were gulfs between them. He was fifteen years her senior. He was a widower. She was a reporter. He was sworn to this office in more ways than one.

But still…

When their time came to an end, Gates rose and smiled. “Good to see you again, Miss Moxley.”

“I’m sure.” She flicked her hair, redhead locks catching a ray of sunshine and every ounce of his attention. “Until next time?”

“The interview? Yes, we can arrange that.”

“Who said anything about an interview?”

Gates stared as she left the room, cursing inwardly that he had to send her away so soon, cursing the old gods and the megalomaniacs and every other piece of self-important shit that made good men worry about the safety of others.