South of Washington, DC. Monday, 8:23 p.m. ET.
The Intermediary’s telephone rang. It was not his “normal” telephone, the one that his two grown kids never dialed.
It was the other phone, the one that brought either new problems to solve or updates to problems in progress. He didn’t recognize the number, but that was to be expected. Never use the same phone number twice, unless you want to get rolled up and smoked.
He offered his customary greeting: “Yes.”
“Leaving without saying good-bye?” Vice President Arquist’s friendly voice spilled out from the small speaker next to the Intermediary’s ear.
“Evidently not.”
“Mr. Personality, as always. Glad to see all is right in the universe.” Arquist’s laugh wasn’t kind, but wasn’t entirely cruel, either.
Politicians. The Intermediary said nothing.
“So, then, I’ll get right to it,” Arquist said after the silence became uncomfortable. “If you have a plan to spin LM’s theft of the ASAT goodies from the Limeys, you’ll want to have it handy.”
The Intermediary didn’t respond.
“The company’s still flopping around trying to figure out how to play it,” Averett said. “They showed it off for a DoD suit today.”
The Intermediary listened.
“But they were clearly caught with their hands in the cookie jar,” Averett went on. “He asked them to prove it was original work, and they couldn’t deliver.”
There was another long pause before the Intermediary spoke. “This is not your concern.” His voice sounded cold and brittle.
“The hell it isn’t,” Acquits said. “It’s one leak away from being my full time job, especially since you’ve bumped off the CEO.”
“I didn’t order Averett’s death. And I didn’t inform you of the LM situation so that I could be subjected your opinions whenever you felt it necessary, Mr. Vice President.” The Intermediary emphasized Arquist’s title as a reminder of who owned whom.
“Yes, of course, you’re a very busy man,” Arquist said, an edge to his voice. “You probably also don’t care to hear from the lowly Vice President of the United States that your man Landers has just been burned.”
The Intermediary frowned but said nothing.
“He called a minute ago for help with damage control, thanks to that DHS agent you did such a fine job handling. But I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing just now, big shot.”
If Arquist’s sarcasm and anger registered, the Intermediary showed no signs of it. “I’ll let you know if I need anything from you.” He hung up without another word and returned to his report.
The phone rang again. Arquist, again. The Intermediary sighed heavily, then answered.
“One more thing you should know.” Arquist employed none of his trademark baby-kissing friendliness. “Our DHS guy reports that there’s a hostage rescue team on the way to Severna Park. I’d tell you that you are running out of time to get this situation under control, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Arquist hung up.
Graves shook his head and returned to his report. The problem with installed functionaries was that they inevitably began wearing their title as if they had earned it.
Annoyance aside, though, Graves knew that the vice president was only pointing out the obvious: The Intermediary still had a very volatile situation on his hands.
He chewed an antacid and tried to focus on Helsinki as his driver motored toward the private airport. His operatives had their orders, and it was up to them to come through like professionals.
Hope wasn’t a course of action, Graves knew, but he didn’t have any alternatives at the moment.