Stuart Woods: Hot Pursuit

“I guess it’s going to be like that for the duration.”

“She says she won’t get laid again for eight years.”

Viv laughed. “I expect she’ll turn up at your doorstep from time to time.”

“I hope so.”

Holly had signed a lot of documents and been given her White House and NSC ID, which she wore on a ribbon around her neck, and now she was being shown to her new office. She was surprised to find that it was in the West Wing, where the president and higher staff worked, not in the Executive Office Building across the street. It wasn’t huge, but it was comfortably furnished with an antique desk and a seating area, along with a small conference table and some nice paintings, and it was within spitting distance of the Oval Office. As she sat down, her phone rang, as if her ass had pressed a button. She picked it up. “Holly Barker.”

“Good morning, Holly,” Lance Cabot said. Lance was the director of Central Intelligence and her boss until this morning.

“Good morning, Lance.”

“I wanted to welcome you to Washington,” he said. “I saw you across a crowded room at the Saltons’ last evening, but I was held prisoner by the director of the NSA and couldn’t get to you.”

“I didn’t see you at all.”

“That’s because the director of the NSA is a very large man, the kind who blocks views — landscapes, even. Did you enjoy the party?”

“I did, and at the ball I danced with President Lee— Will, I mean.”

“Then you had a better evening than I. The NSA produces lousy dance partners.”

“Lance, I saw somebody at the Saltons’ who rang a bell, but I couldn’t place him. He’s about forty, dark hair and short beard, and he was wearing a diamond earring. Do you know him?”

“I believe that must have been Ali Mahmoud, who is a Saudi diplomat — well, ‘diplomat’ is too strong a term, but he carries a D passport. Handsome, charming, ladies’ man. That’s all I know about him.”

“None of it helps me,” Holly said. “The sight of him induced dread in me, and I don’t know why. It’s driving me crazy.”

“I haven’t cut off your computer access here. Shall I leave it in place? You could check him out, and I expect the computer would be an asset in your new job.”

“Yes, please.”

“Done. Your codes will remain the same. Must run.” Lance hung up.

A middle-aged woman in a business suit rapped on the door and walked in. “Hi, I’m Margery Lyon — Marge — and I’ve been assigned as your secretary, until you get sick of me and ask for somebody else. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Marge, come on in.”

Marge sat down, tossed a file folder onto the desk, and began flipping through her steno pad. “The folder contains the résumés for half a dozen people who want to be your assistant. You start seeing them at eleven, one every fifteen minutes. I’ll arrange call-backs for the ones you like. You’re not bringing someone from the New York station with you, are you?”

“Nope. I haven’t even had time to think about it.”

“Your staff ID card is good for the White House Mess. Anything else you need, ask me. I’m pretty good with computers, too, if you need help. Yours will be delivered” — she consulted her watch — “right now.” There was a knock at the door and a young man wheeled in a cart containing a computer and a printer. “Where do you want this?”

Holly pointed at the shelving behind her. “Go.”

He went to work.

“Oh,” Marge said, “you have your first NSC meeting in the situation room in” — she consulted her watch again — “three minutes. Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”

Holly followed Marge down the hallway to what appeared to be simply a rather cramped conference room. “This is it?”

“Disappointing, isn’t it? You were expecting something more Hollywood, with lots of screens and high-tech stuff, right?”

“Right. My situation room in New York was more impressive.” People were pouring into the room and taking chairs, so Holly grabbed one before they were all gone.

Marge crept up behind her and whispered in her ear, “You’re senior here — it’s your meeting. Have fun!”

The room settled a bit and everybody looked at Holly.

“Good morning,” Holly said “I’ll get to know you all as soon as I can. The president’s first intelligence briefing is not until two o’clock this afternoon, so I have nothing right now. Let’s meet again at four, and I’ll pass on whatever I can. Starting tomorrow, those briefings are at eight AM, and we’ll meet right after that to pass on information in both directions. Anybody have anything pressing for us right now?” She looked around; nobody spoke. “No world crises? How disappointing. See you at four.”

Holly got up and walked out.

Holly interviewed each of the applicants for her assistant’s job, and it depressed her that the academic records of every one of them exceeded her own. Not the practical experience, though, which was mostly internships.

The first four of them were from the same mold — two men, two women — she tried not to think of them as boys and girls — freshly scrubbed, fashionably dressed, bright as new pennies. The fifth applicant was their antithesis: model tall and slim, but poorly dressed, bordering on slovenly. Her hair was too long and close to being a mess, and she wore heavy black glasses and no makeup. Her record was astonishing: six years at Harvard, with a major in international affairs and a PhD at the end and a straight 4.0 average. This was the kind of woman who had probably alienated her peers, because she always knew the answer and always got the highest grade on her papers. Her name was Millicent Martindale.

“Why do you want the job, Millicent?” Holly asked.

“I don’t want the job,” she replied. “I want the secretary of state’s job, but I realize I’ll have to do something else until I’m old enough.” Acerbic, too, not to say arrogant. All right, arrogant.

“I see you interned on the staff of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for two summers. Did you learn anything there?”

“Less than I’d hoped. One or two of the interns, including me, seemed to know more about foreign relations than some of the committee members.”

“What do you read?”

“American history, biography, and every relevant monthly magazine.”

“Do you read any political magazines?”

“No. I despise politics.”

“What sort of family background do you come from?”

“Wealthy and Republican. My father is CEO of a large, family manufacturing concern.”

“So you’re not short of a few bucks.”

“Nope. I have an income from a very substantial trust fund.”

“I’m considering hiring you, Millie, but if I do, you’re going to have to go through what will be a very difficult learning process.”

“I’ve never met a learning process I couldn’t master. And I prefer Millicent.”

“This one is going to be new to you. You start Monday morning at seven AM. Between now and then I want you to find a makeover artist. Do you know what that is?”

“I know what a make up artist is. I don’t know over. ”

“You don’t read women’s magazines, do you?”

“They make me want to vomit.”

Holly picked up the phone and buzzed Marge.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Marge, I want you to find the best makeover artist in D.C. and block out all her/his time between now and Monday for Millicent Martindale.”

“Give me half an hour,” Marge said.

“Wait a minute,” Millicent said. “I think I’m beginning to get this: you want me to change the way I look, and I’m not up for it.”