Two hours later, a limo was nearing Dulles Airport. Slaton and Sorensen were in back, an agency driver in front. The privacy screen was raised.
Sorensen ended a string of phone calls that had been going on for twenty minutes.
“I ordered the original security team back to your house,” she said. “It might take a day or two to get everything squared away.”
“Thanks.”
“There was also a message from Jammer. They’re on their way back, just stopped for fuel. He says they’ll arrive at the ranch not long after you do.”
“Great. I owe him big time.”
“I think he enjoyed the company. It sounds like he’s really taken with Davy.”
“My son has that effect on people.” He looked at her pointedly. “Jammer would make a great dad.”
Sorensen acquired a pained look.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head—not for a negative reply, but more to clear her head of something. “They’ve decided to wait a few days before announcing Quarrels’s cerebral hemorrhage.”
“Is that what they’re going to call it? I think waiting makes sense. Don’t want too many shocks to the Constitution all at once.”
A long pause, before Sorensen said casually, “Elayne wants to make me her vice president.”
His expression went through a hard double-clutch. “What? Are you serious?”
Sorensen frowned. “You don’t have to sound that surprised.”
“No, I mean it’s an honor to be asked, and you’d be terrific. I just never saw it coming.”
“Trust me—neither did I.”
“You were talking about leaving the CIA a few days ago.” He tried to catch her gaze, but it was locked on the window. “Are you going to do it?”
She heaved out a sigh. “I don’t know. The thought of politics scares the crap out of me. All the back-slapping and fundraising and media garbage.”
“Buuut…”
“But it would be a chance to make a difference. The kind of chance few people ever get.”
“What does Jammer think about it?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
Slaton laughed. “You need to sell tickets to that event.”
She ignored the comment. “If I did decide to do it, it would leave the SAC/SOG position open. Eraclides asked me for recommendations.”
“Head of SAC/SOG? Who the hell would want—” He cut the thought short. Something in her tone. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Not a chance.”
“You understand special ops better than anyone I know, David.”
“I want to be kicked out of special ops more than anyone you know, and with a do-not-resuscitate order.”
“Don’t you see? That’s what this would be. Get out of the field, run the show.”
“Me, sit behind a desk? I don’t have a security clearance. I’m not even a U.S. citizen!”
“That can be remedied.”
He shook his head. “You’ve seriously been thinking about this.”
The limo pulled to a stop at the departures curb.
“Just give it some thought, David. That’s all I ask.”
“No, never. Not in a million years!” He got out, and before closing the door, said, “What’s Jammer’s favorite whiskey?”
“Coors Light.”
Slaton grinned. “Great! I’ll give him your regards.” He closed the door. As he began walking away, the back window spun down. His first instinct was to ignore it. Instead, he turned back, leaned in, and with a raised index finger, said, “Never!”