The Threat

He straightened his back to ease what felt like high-voltage shocks shooting up his arms. The year before, he’d intercepted a nondescript trawler in the eastern Mediterranean. The nuclear weapon in its hold, intended for Israel, had instead detonated a mile away from his ship.

He’d hoped for another command after USS Horn. Instead, an office in the Pentagon had called with an offer he’d thought hard about before accepting.

He checked his Seiko again. Early, as he was for everything. A habit that didn’t drive his wife as nuts as it might, since she was the same way. A woman holding a camera in one hand and a Doberman’s leash in the other asked him to take her picture in front of the White House.

Finally it was time. He straightened his tie and went up to the gate house. Tapped his ID on the little shelf. “Yeah?” grunted the guard.

“National Security Council staff,” Dan said. “Reporting in for duty.”

* * *

“I’ll take him from here,” Jonah Freed said. “Commander. Come on in.”

Freed, a CIA detailee, was the Defense Directorate security officer. He’d walked Dan through the nomination interviews, and taken care of the special clearance for White House duty, Yankee White, which was even more demanding than the top secret/compartmented clearance Dan already had from the Navy.

They checked in again at a second post in the lobby of the Old Executive Office Building. The gigantic pile of pillared granite was enclosed by the same wrought-iron fence as the White House. Part of the “Eighteen Acres”—the White House complex — it held the agencies that made up the executive office of the president: the National Security Council staff, the office of the vice president, Management and Budget, and so forth. The lobby smelled faintly of fresh manure. He wondered why, but decided not to ask.

He followed his guide through cavernous corridors that receded to infinity. The building was much larger than it appeared from Pennsylvania Avenue. Grandly conceived nineteenth-century moldings arched overhead. The floor was a checkerboard of white marble and black limestone, all well worn. Here and there fossils lay frozen, remnants of an age long past. Over them scurried hundreds of men and women, each intent on his or her fragment of the national security policy of the sole remaining superpower.

Someone called from behind them, “Okay, hold it right there. Who’s tracking the damn dog shit all over the floor?”

He turned to see a disgusted janitor pointing at the tiles. At footprints, traced in brown, that ended … at his feet. He lifted his shoe to examine the sole. “Sorry,” he told the man. “Lady had a Doberman out front. Guess I wasn’t looking. If you’ve got a mop, I’ll take care of it.”

“Never mind, mister. Just pay attention where you step next time, okay?”

“Sorry,” Dan told Freed. “I wasn’t looking where I was stepping, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Freed said. “There’s paper towels in the restroom.”

With his shoes cleaned, they climbed a bronze-railed staircase to a cubbyhole admin office. Dan got a check-in list. He signed in-briefing sheets. Signed for a safe combination, again for usernames and passwords for both “high-side” classified and “low-side” unclassified e-mail networks, and yet again for a pager.

Back to the first floor, and a photo booth in the Secret Service office. “That’s a blue-gold pass,” Freed told him as Dan adjusted it. The stainless-steel chain felt heavier than it ought to around his neck. “In a couple weeks we’ll get you one with two gold stars on it. That’ll get you full access. Not to say you just stroll into the Oval Office. But if you’re told to go, you’re cleared in.” Freed looked at his watch. “Remember where your director’s office is? Third floor?”

Dan said he thought so. Freed gave him the room number, just to be sure, then vanished down one of those labyrinthine corridors.

The first name on the check-in was General Garner Sebold.

* * *

The senior director didn’t have as large an office as Dan had expected. He supposed the 1600 Pennsylvania address made up for it. Sebold removed half-moon reading glasses as Dan came in. His eyes were pouchy. He had white bristly hair. He wore a regimental-style tie and polished cordovan wingtips with a gray suit. The only military note around was a print of an Abrams tank charging through a sand berm as shells burst around it. Dan got a quick handshake and an invitation to sit. Sebold said to the admin assistant, “Ask Bry Meilhamer to come up.” To Dan, “You said you were buying here, right?”

“We found a place in Arlington. Closed last week.” The price had taken his breath away. But with Blair’s salary added to his — and she made more than he did — they’d manage the payments.

“You’re coming off sea duty, right? Remind me.”

“Commanded a Spru-can.” Seeing the general’s blank response, he went generic. “A destroyer, sir. Interdiction operations in the Middle East.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember now.” Sebold looked at Dan’s lapel. “Don’t wear your congressional?”