The Last Virginia Gentleman by Michael Kilian

Author:Michael Kilian
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

Eleven

US. Postal Service express mail had no special priority in a White House where communications marked SECRET and TOP SECRET sometimes languished unread for days unless they were marked with special priority codes. Showers’ letter, delivered before ten A.M. to the White House mail room in the New Executive Office Building on 17th Street, did not reach Chief of Staff Moody’s desk until late that afternoon. Because it was not in any official envelope, it was almost routed to the general correspondence section, where “Dear Mr. President” letters arrived in the hundreds every day. But one of the White House secretaries remembered Showers’ name from the clearance sheets for the intergovernmental council meetings on the treaty and saw to its expeditious delivery.

Moody, returning from a National Security Council conference chaired by the president, glanced at it, pushed it aside to attend to his phone messages, then snatched it back, deciding he wanted to get this little extracurricular problem behind him as soon as possible.

He read the one-line message, leaned back in his chair, and swore. At least the sonofabitch had gotten directly to the point, instead of meandering around it with the long, mealy-mouthed, cautious obfuscation that might be expected from most of his State Department colleagues.

But Showers wouldn’t play. He had sent Moody a “Fuck you.” Moody didn’t like those. Not from deputy assistant secretaries.

He reached for his phone, prepared to raise hell with every minion at State until Showers was brought onto the line, then recalled that the man was out in Virginia, taking days off. It occurred to him that he really didn’t want to talk to Showers anyway. He had done what Bernie had asked—a little more than he’d asked, actually—and now he’d get out of it. Some things, to paraphrase Bogie in Casablanca, didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Moody had a country to run.

He called Bloch’s private office number, but got his secretary. She said Bernie was in his Rolls, headed for Baltimore, and gave Moody the number of his car phone. Moody swore again. The only thing less secure than a car phone was fucking skywriting.

“Good to hear from you, Bobby,” said Bloch, his voice surprisingly loud and clear. “Sooner than I thought, or don’t you have anything to tell me?”

“Nothing good. The ‘captain’ won’t go for it. His answer amounts to what McAuliffe said to the Germans at Bastogne.”

“Did you …?”

“Everything we discussed. No dice.”

He could imagine Bernie chewing furiously on his cigar at this moment.

“Can you talk to him again?” Bloch said. “You know, no more Mr. Nice Guy?”

Bernie was asking too much. It was one thing to yank the string of some obscure political appointee ambassador off in Iceland without explanation. It was something else to mess with a veteran government official with connections when he was expecting trouble, no matter how far down the ladder he was. There were a lot of diabolical things Moody could arrange to do to Showers—he’d done a lot worse to much higher-ranking people who’d crossed him—but he’d have to be damned careful about it.

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