Dallas: 4 June 11:05 P.M. Central time
The man Barid Hafezi knew only as “the Scorpion” parked his Mercedes GL450 SUV in his wide faux-stone driveway and killed the engine. His name was Paul Fitzgerald, and he paused for a moment, as he often did, to admire his house’s soaring Palladian windows and travertine steps. The place had cost him close to $800,000, and he was damned proud of it. It was ridiculously big for one guy, but his boys always came to stay with him for a month in the summer and a week at Christmas. It didn’t feel too big then.
He opened the car door, the noise carrying in the dry Texas air. The streets were deserted at this hour, although the subdivision was always like this, at any time of day or night. When he’d been a kid growing up in a two-bedroom bungalow in Minneapolis, he and his three brothers spent virtually every waking minute outside, even in the middle of winter. But kids didn’t play outside anymore. They spent all their time inside, surfing the ’Net and playing video games. Even his own boys. He tried to interest them in fishing and camping and hunting, the things he’d learned to love growing up. But he could tell they weren’t really interested.
Paul Fitzgerald let himself in the oak and leaded glass door that had cost him a cool ten grand, then paused to punch in the security system’s code. He was aware of a heaviness deep within him, a kind of sadness that he couldn’t seem to shake even though it made no sense and wasn’t like him. The job was almost finished. He was set to fly into New Orleans for the last time tomorrow. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe that was it. New Orleans. The place was damned depressing, ever since the storm.
Tossing his Stetson on a chair, Fitzgerald opened the fridge for a beer. He stood for a time sucking on the bottle and looking out at his backyard, with its high, gleaming white vinyl fence and in-ground pool. His latest bank statement lay open on the counter. He picked it up and smiled. Last year he’d taken the boys to Disney World for a week, but this year…this year he’d be able to take them anywhere they wanted to go.
McLean, Virginia: 5 June, 12:10 A.M. Eastern time
Adelaide Meyer kicked off her crocodile pumps, poured herself an icy margarita from the pitcher her maid, Maria, had left in the fridge, and went to sink into the down-wrapped cushions of the white sectional sofa at one end of her living room.
In her youth, Adelaide hadn’t been a particularly attractive woman. But she’d always been tall and thin, and by the time a woman hit her fifties, being tall and thin and having the time and money for self-indulgence was what really counted. Adelaide had more than enough money to pamper herself, and money buys time.
Reaching for the remote, she switched on a Bach CD and closed her eyes as the music surrounded her. She lived alone in a 10,000-square-foot house in one of Virginia’s most exclusive areas; the help had their own quarters in a separate small cottage at the end of the garden. She had no children and had never married. She had, on occasion, taken lovers, but men for the most part bored her. Adelaide’s passion was for money and power.
The daughter of a Texas oilman, she had been born to money. But while her fellow debs focused on marrying lawyers and money market managers, Adelaide focused on petroleum engineering. Graduating from Texas A&M, she went to work for her father’s company just a week after turning twenty-two. It wasn’t easy being a woman in the oil industry, driving out to rigs at the crack of dawn and dealing with roughnecks, or maneuvering around the good old boys in the boardroom. But Adelaide was smart, and she was determined. When her father dropped dead at the age of fifty-five, no one questioned her move to take over his company. And when she sold her company three years later to Keefe Corporation, they took her on as a vice president.
Now CEO of Keefe, she was one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the country. She had helped put the President in the White House, and he repaid her by funneling billions of dollars’ worth of no-bid war contracts in her direction—and making sure no one audited the books too closely.
The sound of the doorbell brought her head around. She heard voices in the foyer, Maria’s softly accented tones mingling with the unmistakable New England vowels of Clark Westlake.
Adelaide took another sip of her drink as Maria led him into the room. “So what’s so important you couldn’t tell me about it on the phone, Clark? There’s a pitcher of margaritas in the fridge. Want Maria to get you one?”
Clark didn’t want a margarita. He waited until the maid had withdrawn, then said, “I’ve just come from T. J. Beckham’s office. He’s threatening to publicly accuse the President and the intelligence community of sexing up the threat from Iran.”
Adelaide shifted her weight against the sofa’s plump cushions. “He can’t go public with that kind of charge. He has nothing to back it up.”
“He said something about ‘contacts’ in the intelligence community.”
Adelaide arched an eyebrow. “And you believed him?”
Clark walked to the French doors overlooking the floodlit outdoor pool. “You don’t?”
“There are still some disloyal discontents, particularly in the CIA. But most have been squeezed out and the few that are left have been discredited. They’re nothing to worry about.”
Clark gave a soft laugh. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to piss off a bunch of spooks. They were mad as hell about being made to look like they were to blame for the fiasco we walked into in Iraq.”
“And what did they do about that?”
He cast her a wry smile. “Nothing.”
Adelaide took another slow sip of her drink, her gaze on the man pacing restlessly up and down her living room. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man, tall and fit, with a wonderful smile. But he was obviously weak. Funny she had never realized that about him before. When he’d called to tell her he was on his way over, she considered telling him about that troublesome remote viewing session. Now she was glad she hadn’t. The last thing he needed was one more thing to make him goosey. Besides, that little hiccup would be dealt with soon.
A sudden thought occurred to her and she frowned. “Have you told the President about this?”
Clark swung around to look at her, his eyes widened in a way that made him look considerably less attractive. “Are you kidding? Of course not.”
She nodded. No one told the President bad news, or even potentially bad news. Bob Randolph could be very nasty to anyone unwise enough to threaten the presidential image of perfection and invincibility. The man believed all his own sound bites.
Clark came to sink into a nearby chair. “I probably shouldn’t have included the CIA’s report on the Iranian chatter in Beckham’s briefing.”
“No. You needed to give him a full briefing. The last thing you want to do is arouse suspicion by deviating from normal procedures.”
“But if he suspects—”
Adelaide laughed and stood up. “Relax, Clark, and have a margarita. We won’t have to put up with him much longer.”