Margo Allende unlocked her Jaguar and Pacino climbed into the plush leather passenger seat of the slung-back and sleek black sports car.
“Where to, Patch?” she asked, her hand reaching for his.
“I’m thinking the Irish pub,” he said.
“Kelly’s Irish Times it is.” She guided the car out to the street, the way to the pub memorized, as it was practically their watering hole when they were both at the White House.
“How are you?” Pacino asked. “You okay?”
She glanced at him. “Patch, after a day like this, I just want to inhale a big bowl of Irish stew, chug an entire bottle of wine all by myself, then go home, where, if you’ll oblige, you’ll fuck me hard enough to make me lose consciousness.”
“You know, Margo, I’ve always loved your poetic style of speaking.”
“Hey,” she smiled for the first time since the meeting, “I’m a delicate fuckin’ flower.”
They were sitting at the bar while waiting for a table to open up. Pacino had ordered a Macallan 18, double, neat. Allende had opted for a Cabernet from Sonoma. They were just about to start talking about things that weren’t classified, when a commotion broke out at the end of the bar, where one of the flat screen displays that wasn’t selected to a sports channel was playing the 24-hour SNN news feed. Someone had bellowed, “turn that up!”
The bar quieted down as the announcer came on and went to a reporter pictured outside, where an upside-down Lincoln SUV was lying, its top crushed, its front end smashed flat from a bridge abutment. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read, …
Pacino’s cell phone began to ring insistently with the White House’s ring tone. He picked it up, stated the memorized eight alphanumeric code for the day and the White House operator came on.
“Admiral Pacino, the president wants to see you in his study. There’s a car waiting for you.”
Pacino hung up and looked at Allende. “You think
“No telling,” Allende said. “If we did, I don’t know about it. With one whisper to the Secret Service? Carlucci could have done this.”
“Yeah, but Chushi was pretty far gone with cancer, and for all we know, it could have affected her brain, as that outburst in the Situation Room showed. This could be natural causes.”
Allende shook her head. “Natural causes don’t have convenient timing.”
“I guess you’re right. Boss wants to see me in his study.”
“You can take my Jag,” Allende said, searching in her purse for her key fob.
“He’s got a car out front waiting for me,” Pacino said, smiling. “I guess he knows our habits.”
“Your cell has a tracker on it,” Allende said.
“So, the big question is, do I drink this scotch or pour it down the bar sink?”
Allende smiled. “For
And Pacino did.
The president’s recently remodeled and windowless study next to the Oval Office was a SCIF, a special compartmented information facility, where the most sensitive secrets could be discussed. It featured dark wood paneling, dark tin-patterned ceiling, deep leather club chairs and a massive fireplace. The seating area was arranged at the end away from the door, facing the fireplace. On the door end of the room, a small desk and high-backed chair with smaller chairs in front was placed. For this meeting, the president had called in Navy Secretary Jeremy Shingles and acting Chief of Naval Operations Rob Catardi. Pacino took one of the club chairs opposite the president, a mahogany and marble coffee table between them, Shingles and Catardi sitting on his left. The president had called for one of the stewards to light a fire in the fireplace despite the September heat, the office’s air conditioning able to overcome the additional warmth. When the fire was fully stoked and the steward left, Carlucci offered Pacino a cigar. Shingles and Catardi were already puffing smoke, though neither looked comfortable.
“I have Macallan 25,” Carlucci said, pouring from a crystal decanter into a rocks glass. “Patch?”
“Yes, please, sir,” Pacino said, bringing the Cuban Cohiba to life with Carlucci’s torch lighter.
“Well, I wanted to see you all to talk more about this option of placing mines on the hull of the Omega, the kind we can light up with a sonar signal.” Carlucci turned to Catardi. “Admiral Catardi, can you describe the nuts and bolts of how this would work?”
