“Change the subject, Dino.”
“When was the last time an ex spoke to you?”
“Jesus, I don’t know.”
“Today? Yesterday? Last week?”
Stone sighed. “What else did Lance have to say for himself?”
“He told me about your elevation to— What is it? Private counselor?”
“Special adviser.”
“Well, that sounds meaningless.”
“With the rank of deputy director,” Stone said.
“Hah! We know that’s meaningless, don’t we?”
“It was Lance’s idea, not mine.”
“He’s just blowing smoke up your ass,” Dino said.
“Why would he do that? You and I were both consultants, weren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“Has he promoted you?”
“How can he promote me from a position that’s meaningless?” Dino asked.
“Maybe it was meaningless in your case,” Stone said, “but Lance and I talked quite a lot when I was still a consultant. Now we talk even more often.”
The waiter arrived with their Dover soles, then another waiter set another place at the table, and a third Dover sole was put there.
“What?” Dino said. “Do we look that hungry?”
Lance Cabot slid into their booth and picked up his fork, while the waiter arrived with a second bottle of wine. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Lance said.
“We were just talking about you,” Dino said.
“Of course you were. What else do you have to talk about?”
“He has a point,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time for the Caesar,” Lance said.
“Quite all right,” Stone replied.
“Have you two solved the problem of the mole at State, yet?”
“Not yet,” Stone replied. “Dino isn’t being very helpful.”
“We both like your plan, though,” Dino said. “The one with the Yale guy.”
“I’m so pleased,” Lance said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to eat this sole before it gets away.”
5
Holly was at her desk at State the following morning. Her deputy secretary, Maclean McIntosh, knocked and entered the room. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.
“Good morning, Mac,” she replied. “Anything of note happen in my absence?”
“I had a note from the White House chief of staff that we’re to host a writer, name of Martin Schell, for an indeterminate time. He’s doing some research for a book.”
“What sort of book?” she asked.
“Nonfiction, I gather. He must be pretty well connected.”
“Mac, if I know you at all, you know exactly how connected he is and everything else about him.”
Mac grinned sheepishly and opened a file. “Born in Boston forty years ago, attended Groton, then Yale, graduated summa cum laude. He’s written half a dozen well-reviewed books featuring various government agencies, a couple of bestsellers. Divorced two years ago, no kids.”
“That sounds pretty accurate to me,” a voice said from the doorway.
Holly looked up to see a man—six-two, a hundred and sixty pounds, thick, longish salt-and-pepper hair—carrying a handsome, well-used briefcase and dressed in a tweed suit and a knitted necktie. “Let’s see some ID, or I’ll have to have you taken out and shot,” Holly said.
He produced a letter from an inside pocket. “I’m Martin Schell. This is a copy of the letter you’ve already received from the White House chief of staff.”
Holly read it. “Picture ID?”
He opened his briefcase and produced a well-stamped passport.
“A little travel tip,” Holly said. “Don’t ever carry your passport in a briefcase; it could be too easily stolen. Put it into an inside jacket pocket and button it down.”
“Point taken,” Schell said, doing as instructed.
“Have a seat,” Holly said. “Coffee?”
“Thanks, I’ve already had mine,” he replied, sitting down. “You don’t want to know me on more than one cup of coffee.”
“I understand you want to poke around the State Department for a while,” she said.
“I promise not to do any poking. I just want to get a feel for the place, so I can get my readers to think they’ve been here before. Verisimilitude.”
“A few rules,” Holly said. “Don’t open any desk or file drawers. Don’t mess with anybody’s computers. Don’t hit on the women. If you ask somebody a question and don’t get a straight answer, move on to another question. There are others, but I can’t think of them right now. We haven’t had a visitor like you before.”
“I’m grateful for the opportunity, Madam Secretary, and I’ll try not to infringe on anybody’s good nature.”
Holly flipped through his file. “I see you have all the clearances, so I won’t take the trouble to bar you from any large meetings. Smaller, more intimate ones are another thing entirely. You’ll need my or Mac’s permission for those.”
“If I stray too far afield, just give a sharp jerk on my leash, and I’ll sit and stay.”
“That’s a start,” she said. “This is Maclean McIntosh, deputy secretary. He’s Mac, and I’m Holly.”
“How do?” he said to Mac. “I’m Marty. Holly, can I ask you what your usual day is like?”
“I haven’t had a usual day yet,” Holly said. “It’s a morass of meetings, phone calls—many of them to or from abroad, and many of them contentious. We try to be diplomatic, but it doesn’t always work.” She turned to McIntosh. “Mac, get this guy a badge, one of the good ones.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mac left the room.
“You want to tell me what your book is about?” she asked.
“You already know what my business is here,” Schell replied. “As for the book, let’s just say it’s about diplomacy, domestic and foreign.”
Mac came back with a plastic-encased visitor’s badge, green in color. It had Schell’s photo, taken by the security staff, already on it. “Hang this around your neck,” Mac said, handing it to Schell. “Don’t take it off until you’re out of the building, and don’t forget to wear it tomorrow and every day you’re with us. And give it back to me when you leave.”