Read Online Divide and Conquer by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin - Free Book Online Page A
Tags: United States, Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Men's Adventure, Fiction - Espionage, General & Literary Fiction, Adventure fiction, Intrigue, Traitors, Crisis Management in Government - United States, Executive Power, Crisis Management in Government
Ads: Link
monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.
Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady’s aides.
Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place where Congress put wheels on the president’s vision. They were often square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum of art and history, with treasures everywhere. Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur. Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost under numerous modifications to the foundation.
The White House wasn’t as imposing as the Capitol. It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders doing great things—or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.
A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to the elevator that led to the third floor. Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received visitors there.
Hood was taken to the First Lady’s sitting room, which adjoined the presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom. There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs across from it, and a coffee table between them. A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall. The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around the room.
Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.
“Nancy Reagan found them in the basement,” Megan said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The portraits,” she said. “She found them personally. She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust.”
Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the settee.
“There are still wonderful things down there,” Megan said as they sat. “Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln’s writing slate and a diary that belonged to Florence Harding.”
“I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smith-sonian.”
“A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here. People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years,” Megan said. “They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays.”
Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served. Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.
The passion in Megan’s voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never did anything she didn’t care deeply about, whether it was addressing a
Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady’s aides.
Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place where Congress put wheels on the president’s vision. They were often square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum of art and history, with treasures everywhere. Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur. Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost under numerous modifications to the foundation.
The White House wasn’t as imposing as the Capitol. It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders doing great things—or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.
A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to the elevator that led to the third floor. Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received visitors there.
Hood was taken to the First Lady’s sitting room, which adjoined the presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom. There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs across from it, and a coffee table between them. A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall. The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around the room.
Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.
“Nancy Reagan found them in the basement,” Megan said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The portraits,” she said. “She found them personally. She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust.”
Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the settee.
“There are still wonderful things down there,” Megan said as they sat. “Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln’s writing slate and a diary that belonged to Florence Harding.”
“I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smith-sonian.”
“A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here. People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years,” Megan said. “They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays.”
Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served. Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.
The passion in Megan’s voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never did anything she didn’t care deeply about, whether it was addressing a
Similar Books
