Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Parcelle’s chuckle was gold in Grafton’s ears. The elder stateswoman had mentored her through the maze of Washington politics, grooming her for the next big step in her career. Unfortunately, that next step was taking longer than either of them expected. Parcelle must have been reading her mind. Her face soured.

“My colleagues at the consortium are becoming impatient.”

“I understand. I’m beyond impatient. Unfortunately, patience is the virtue required here.”

“Not for them. They have other projects, other… possibilities.”

Grafton felt the blood drain out of her face.

Parcelle smiled. “I thought that might get your attention.”

“I’m working as hard as I can to make it happen.”

“Is Lane any closer?”

“Yes, I’m certain of it.”

“Tell me, dear, truthfully. Do you really want to make partner?”

Grafton nearly spilled her drink. “Why would you ask that?”

“It’s just that you were so effective on the Senate subcommittee. And now, well.” Parcelle finished the rest of her gin and tonic.

Grafton had brilliantly shepherded several multibillion-dollar projects through the congressional budget maze for SRC clients while working as a senior senate staffer. But Grafton’s ambition was loftier than that. One project at a time was too cumbersome. She didn’t want to be a dealer or a floorman or even a pit boss. She wanted to game the whole casino.

The project she’d proposed to Parcelle a year before seemed like a sure bet at the time. It was only possible because Chandler was VP now, and that gave her direct access to the president. Chandler, unwittingly, was her strongest ally in her plan, along with Ambassador Tarkovsky. But President Lane was still on the fence. His instincts were to avoid another war in the Middle East, despite the neocons in both parties clamoring for it. Grafton’s goal was to change his mind. A new war meant every SRC client would benefit, all at the same time, and guarantee her a partnership at the SRC.

Grafton began to fear she might have promised Parcelle more than she could deliver. She knew her plan was good — selling a president wasn’t any different from selling a committee chairman — and the odds were in her favor. She was a great lobbyist and staffer because she was a master persuader and media manipulator, the two most important talents in politics. There was no rational discourse in Washington anymore. It was all about creating narratives, and she was the best in the business.

But the dice still hadn’t landed right. She steeled herself. It was time to make her own luck.

“You were on the fast track, Vicki. I put you there myself.”

“And I’m forever grateful. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m afraid you already have.”

Grafton’s heart sank. “Please don’t say that.”

“You see, I put myself at some risk by advocating for your plan despite your lack of specifics. You made promises to me and I made promises to the other partners who, in turn, made promises to our most important clients. And yet, here we are.”

“It will happen soon. You’ll see.”

“When? Exactly?” Parcelle’s eyes narrowed.

“I can’t say exactly. A week. A month. It’s not like baking a cake.”

“Frankly, you reminded me of myself at your age. Your proposal was terribly ambitious and I greatly admire ambition.”

“Thank you. And I intend to deliver.”

“But intentions, no matter how ambitious, are worthless unless they’re realized.”

Grafton felt a cold panic tingling in the back of her neck. Failure wasn’t an option. Neither was sideways. Only up. Only more. If this door shut it would never open again, and there weren’t any other doors for her in D.C.

The food arrived. The tuxedoed waiters were swift and silent in their service.

“Another gin and tonic, ma’am?” a waiter asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” Parcelle said. She forked a piece of grilled halibut into her mouth.

“And you, ma’am?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Vicki! You know I hate to drink alone.”

“It is early, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll have another whiskey, please. Only this time, make it a Yamazaki. The eighteen.”

“Excellent choice.”

Grafton waited for the waiter to get out of earshot. She leaned in close anyway, lowering her voice. “I’ve got one last arrow in my quiver and I intend to use it.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“What kind of arrow are we talking about?”

Grafton sat back, smiled conspiratorially. “I’d rather not say at the moment.”

Parcelle searched Grafton’s sparkling eyes, certain Grafton was lying. “I’m intrigued.”

“You know you can trust me. I’ve always delivered before, haven’t I?”

Parcelle set her own fork down and sighed. “All right, dear. I’ll choose to believe you. But you really must land this awfully big fish you’ve promised.”

“It will be the great white whale.”

“You know I only want what’s best for you.”

Parcelle laid a cold, smooth hand on Vicky’s and squeezed it. “I can press for a little more time. But the longer you wait, the greater the risk we both face. Do you understand my meaning?”

Grafton nodded grimly. She was all in now. “Yes, and I’m grateful.” Grafton sighed with relief.

Parcelle picked up her fork and knife again as their drinks arrived. “So tell me, how did your meeting with Ambassador Tarkovsky go last week? I want all the dirty details.”

“He’s an interesting man. Chandler’s convinced he’ll be the next president of Russia.”

“I only met him once. Quite handsome. But quiet. An engineer, as I recall.”

“He attended the Moscow Power Engineering Institute with a degree in high-technology management and economics, and then earned a master’s degree at the All-Russian Academy of Foreign Trade before entering diplomatic service.” Grafton sounded like she was citing a brief, which she was.

“You’ve obviously done your homework.”

“Sorry. A bad habit of mine.”

Parcelle’s mouth curled into an envious grin. “I don’t suppose it’s his arrow that’s in your quiver?”

“Me? Hardly.”

“Tarkovsky’s quite a catch.”

“Yes, I suppose he is.”

“You could do worse.”

“God knows I already have. More than once.” Grafton winked as she took a sip of whiskey.

“Oh, do tell.”

She did, after ordering more drinks. Anything to get the subject off the Russian ambassador.

Vice President Chandler dried his hands over the blower, waiting for his bowling ball to return, studying the pin reset.

“A seven-ten split, Mr. Vice President,” Tarkovsky said. “How will you negotiate that one?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Chandler replied. His tie was uncharacteristically loose and his French cuff sleeves rolled up. He’d draped his suit coat over one of the two chairs at the scoring station, where Tarkovsky was sitting.

“It’s the hardest split in bowling. You don’t have a chance.”

The sweeper arm cleared and the automatic pinsetter lifted. Chandler analyzed the bowling pins standing on either side of the rear of the pin deck. The dreaded 7-10.

“Actually, the four-six-seven-nine-ten Greek church is the hardest split in bowling. You only have a point-three percent chance of catching all of those. The seven-ten has a point-seven percent chance.”

“You take your bowling seriously!” Tarkovsky said.

Chandler’s custom ball chunked into view out of the return. “I take everything seriously, Mr. Ambassador. Especially bowling.”