Chapter Twenty-Three

Silva

 

Silva nodded once in satisfaction. So far, Jane Reynolds was more than keeping to her half of the deal. She got to be VP; he got legitimization. She stayed out of his way and dealt with the minutiae of politics; he handled the big stuff. All in all, a very satisfactory working relationship, as far as he was concerned. Her email had simply said: “Should I be worried?” His reply had said: “No.” And she shouldn't be worried. He wasn't. He had Callahan to deal with all this shit, and Rebecca Howles. Between the two of them, they'd figure something out. Besides, the public loved Silva. Adored him. There was no way this wasn't all going to blow over.

If he were being completely honest, he'd been angry. A small stain on the wall of the dining room where he'd thrown a glass of orange juice would attest to that. But he'd been angrier because he hadn't seen this coming. He should have been warned. Callahan and Howles should have known this was coming and should have told him. However, he was not lacking in confidence in their abilities. They'd find a way to deal with this.

He rolled his shoulders and put his hands on his desk, taking a deep, calming breath. He'd been here before. He'd been accused, even caught, on occasion. But something always made the trouble go away. Money, power, violence—there were ways of making trouble disappear into the night. And this was going to be no different. It would blow over, and until then he'd stay out of the public eye and keep his head down. He had work to do anyway.

“Mr. President, sir.”

The intercom on his desk buzzed into life.

“Yes?”

“There's a General Hammersmith here, sir. Should I show him in?”

Hammersmith. He knew the man, vaguely. Military, obviously. What could he want? There were all kinds of options. He was ordering men into Egypt—could be that. There were the allegations about Silva’s using the military for his own needs in the papers—could be that. There was the whole Canada situation—could be that too, since the military always seemed to be wanting oil and exceptions made to the environmental policies.

“Send him in,” Silva said.

Whatever it was, he might as well find out.

Hammersmith was tall and straight backed, with an iron-gray buzz cut and a very firm handshake.

“Mr. President, sir,” he said, placing his cap on the corner of the desk. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Not at all,” said Silva. “Always glad to see a military man. Coffee?”

He hated the military, didn't trust them as far as he could throw them. He never trusted a man who could blindly obey orders. There was something robotic, something downright creepy about it.

“No, thank you,” Hammersmith said.

He sat, straightening the creases on his trousers as he did so, leaning back slightly in what Silva guessed was as close to relaxation as the man ever got.

“What can I do for you, general?”

His eyes were bright green; he was a handsome man, Silva supposed. And he looked calm, unruffled.

“I am here on behalf of a certain group of people, a military group,” Hammersmith said, placing his elbow on the arm of his chair. “In order to negotiate with you. Up to a point.”

Silva sat back and raised an eyebrow, anxious to convey the same relaxed and unruffled attitude. He had no idea what the man was getting at, but he wasn't about to let him know that.

“Negotiate?” was the only word he said.

Hammersmith smiled a little. At least the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I am here to ask you to turn over leadership of the country to the military. Do so peacefully and with the minimum of fuss, and you shall remain in your position as a figurehead. In fact, for the foreseeable future, no one need know that you're a puppet leader.”

Silva swallowed, just once, hoping the movement of his Adam's apple wasn't giving away his surprise. Again he was angry—how dare this man walk into his office and speak this way? He was the fucking president. But he wasn't going to show his anger, not yet anyway.

“And what exactly is the point of negotiation?” he asked.

“You can cede power peacefully and remain figurehead president, or we will seize power, and you will be . . . extraneous.”

The man was clearly insane.

“And why would I cede power to you, to the military?” asked Silva. He was genuinely curious.

“Because you've lost, Silva,” said the man, quite simply. “It is time that this country became the republic it was destined to be. It is time for a clearing out. And you were the last shot. The first Latino president, a strong Democrat, loved by the people, purporting to believe in all the right things: universal healthcare, the environment. And you, even you, have now been proven to be a sham. It is time to change.”

“No,” Silva said. “No. You don't understand the people the way I do. I have been doing this all my life. Skimming my cream off the top. And as long as the people in the milk are happy with the milk, then that's all that matters. Bad publicity? So what? Stories like this come and go. And do you honestly think the American people are going to accept a military dictatorship over the familiarity of a democratically elected president?”

“Yes,” Hammersmith said. “Because they'll have no choice. They will have lost such faith in not only you but the very office that you hold that they'll be anxious for stability, any kind of stability.”

Silva paused and for the first time actually considered what the general was saying. Then he dismissed it. This was ridiculous, and they both knew it. A farce.

“No, I won't cede.”

“Then the military will have no choice but to confirm the current news stories,” Hammersmith said, almost sadly.

“Go ahead,” Silva said with a shrug.

“And understand that we will take power if it is not given to us.”

And that was enough. Enough to tip Silva over the edge.

“Traitor,” he hissed. “You dare come into this office and speak to this man in this way? You're a dirty traitor and nothing more. I should have you arrested for that kind of talk, general or not.”

Again Hammersmith gave that small smile. “Go ahead,” he said, echoing Silva.

Was he being threatened or dared to do something? Either way, Silva didn't like it. He didn't like being intimidated and wasn't about to let it happen. So he pressed the button on his intercom.

“Cancel the coffee,” he said, clearly.

The phrase was pre-arranged, and before he'd even turned back to the general, the office door opened. Silently, two Secret Service agents stepped in, their hands on their weapons, though the guns were still in their holsters. Neither agent reacted; both stood, waiting for either an order or a direct threat. Silva waited until the door closed behind them.

“Arrest this man,” he said then.

The agents didn't move, though their hands stayed on their weapons. Hammersmith gave his strange, lip-twitching smile again.

“You have had your chance, Silva,” he said, standing up and brushing off the front of his pants. “You can't say you weren't warned.”

“Arrest this man,” Silva said, louder this time.

Still, the agents didn't move. Their faces were blank.

“We will meet again,” Hammersmith said, picking up his cap. “Under less polite circumstances, I suspect.”

He turned and strode toward the door, and now the agents did move. For a moment Silva thought they were going to arrest him, and his heart settled down a little. But they merely stepped to each side, allowing Hammersmith safe passage to the door. When the general left, both Secret Service men followed him.

Silva was furious, spitting mad, and at the same time, for the first time, scared. The leaked stories to the press hadn't scared him. Hammersmith hadn't scared him. But the agents had. The only possible explanation was that they were in on all this. And he'd have not only their badges for it but their heads too if he had any say in the matter.

This needed to be sorted out, and fast. No doubt Hammersmith had a small cadre of men ready to pounce. But how the hell was a group like that going to dethrone the president? For Christ's sake, a man had sat at this desk and had his dick sucked by an intern and still remained president. And Silva was a hell of a lot more popular than old Billy. Nixon, okay, but he'd given up, he'd resigned. Hadn't had it in him to sit tight and wait things out. Silva didn't quit. Presidents didn't leave office. They just didn't. And Silva wasn't about to be the first. He had all the power in the world at his fingertips; he was impervious. He pressed the intercom again.

“Get me Callahan. Now!” he barked.