won’t,” said the President.
“We’re ready for an attack if it comes,” said Blitz.
“You’re still in favor of a preemptive attack, aren’t you?” said the President.
“That’s not what I was in favor of,” said Blitz.
“No?” The President took a shot and missed.
“It would solve certain problems, and create many others,” said Blitz. “Ultimately it doesn’t make sense.”
“But if it did, it would save a lot of lives,” said the President.
Blitz wasn’t about to argue with that.
“Have you found a new head for NADT yet?” asked the President, picking up his golf ball and stowing his putter as he changed the subject.
“I’m still working on Colonel Howe. We’re supposed to have lunch, actually.” Blitz glanced at his watch, more for show than anything else: There was no way now that he’d make the appointment.
“Money not enough?”
“I think the money’s part of the problem,” said Blitz. “I think it may scare him.”
“Tell him he deserves it. More than most of the fat cats running corporations around here who think they’re God’s gift to America.”
“Nonetheless,” said Blitz.
“He can always arrange to take the equivalent of his government salary.”
Blitz frowned, even though he knew D’Amici was only joking. Right or wrong, financial compensation was one way defense contractors and Washington kept score; Howe had to have a salary commensurate with his responsibility or he wouldn’t be taken seriously.
“Who’s your backup?” asked the President.
“Trieste, I guess,” said Blitz, mentioning a retired two-star Army general whose name had been floated around.
“Not my first choice,” said the President. His tone made it clear Trieste wasn’t even on the list of acceptable candidates.
“What about my former assistant, Howard McIntyre?”
“Way too young for that job,” said the President.
“So is Howe.”
“Howe has considerably more experience, and he’s a hero,” said the President. “And he’s older than Howe—who is a good man; don’t get me wrong.”
“I’ll keep working on Howe,” said Blitz. “I haven’t given up.”
“You think you can control him?” asked the President.
“No,” said Blitz. He didn’t want to control Howe, necessarily, just steer NADT a little more toward the administration’s agenda than in the past.
“Maybe you should take the job yourself,” suggested the President.
That snake pit? Blitz knew he wouldn’t last six months.
“I’m happy where I am,” he said. “We need someone qualified and independent but who won’t come with their own ax to grind—and won’t be in the pocket of people looking to get rich. Howe’s perfect.”
“Be careful, Professor, you may get what you wish for,” said the President.
Chapter
12
The fact that he was supposed to be Swedish rather than American didn’t particularly bother Fisher; he’d always had vaguely Nordic ambitions despite his dark hair and lack of a sauna fetish. Nor did he worry that the few phrases of Swedish they’d given him to memorize were unpronounceable tongue twisters; Fisher figured that anyone he was likely to meet in Moscow would understand even less Swedish than he did. Not even the ridiculous nonstop hopscotching across Europe as he made his way to Russia threw him off his game. On the contrary, it gave Fisher a chance to sample terrible coffee in a succession of small airports, confirming his opinion that the java brewed at airport terminals belonged in a class all its own.
No, the real problem with his cover were the European cigarettes he was forced to smoke for authenticity. He’d settled on some British smokes as being the closest thing to real tobacco he could find. But for all their storied contributions to civilization, the English had yet to come up with a smokable cigarette.
Worse, the damn things were filtered.
On the other hand, smoking was permitted and seemingly mandatory throughout much of Russia;
“We’re ready for an attack if it comes,” said Blitz.
“You’re still in favor of a preemptive attack, aren’t you?” said the President.
“That’s not what I was in favor of,” said Blitz.
“No?” The President took a shot and missed.
“It would solve certain problems, and create many others,” said Blitz. “Ultimately it doesn’t make sense.”
“But if it did, it would save a lot of lives,” said the President.
Blitz wasn’t about to argue with that.
“Have you found a new head for NADT yet?” asked the President, picking up his golf ball and stowing his putter as he changed the subject.
“I’m still working on Colonel Howe. We’re supposed to have lunch, actually.” Blitz glanced at his watch, more for show than anything else: There was no way now that he’d make the appointment.
“Money not enough?”
“I think the money’s part of the problem,” said Blitz. “I think it may scare him.”
“Tell him he deserves it. More than most of the fat cats running corporations around here who think they’re God’s gift to America.”
“Nonetheless,” said Blitz.
“He can always arrange to take the equivalent of his government salary.”
Blitz frowned, even though he knew D’Amici was only joking. Right or wrong, financial compensation was one way defense contractors and Washington kept score; Howe had to have a salary commensurate with his responsibility or he wouldn’t be taken seriously.
“Who’s your backup?” asked the President.
“Trieste, I guess,” said Blitz, mentioning a retired two-star Army general whose name had been floated around.
“Not my first choice,” said the President. His tone made it clear Trieste wasn’t even on the list of acceptable candidates.
“What about my former assistant, Howard McIntyre?”
“Way too young for that job,” said the President.
“So is Howe.”
“Howe has considerably more experience, and he’s a hero,” said the President. “And he’s older than Howe—who is a good man; don’t get me wrong.”
“I’ll keep working on Howe,” said Blitz. “I haven’t given up.”
“You think you can control him?” asked the President.
“No,” said Blitz. He didn’t want to control Howe, necessarily, just steer NADT a little more toward the administration’s agenda than in the past.
“Maybe you should take the job yourself,” suggested the President.
That snake pit? Blitz knew he wouldn’t last six months.
“I’m happy where I am,” he said. “We need someone qualified and independent but who won’t come with their own ax to grind—and won’t be in the pocket of people looking to get rich. Howe’s perfect.”
“Be careful, Professor, you may get what you wish for,” said the President.
Chapter
12
The fact that he was supposed to be Swedish rather than American didn’t particularly bother Fisher; he’d always had vaguely Nordic ambitions despite his dark hair and lack of a sauna fetish. Nor did he worry that the few phrases of Swedish they’d given him to memorize were unpronounceable tongue twisters; Fisher figured that anyone he was likely to meet in Moscow would understand even less Swedish than he did. Not even the ridiculous nonstop hopscotching across Europe as he made his way to Russia threw him off his game. On the contrary, it gave Fisher a chance to sample terrible coffee in a succession of small airports, confirming his opinion that the java brewed at airport terminals belonged in a class all its own.
No, the real problem with his cover were the European cigarettes he was forced to smoke for authenticity. He’d settled on some British smokes as being the closest thing to real tobacco he could find. But for all their storied contributions to civilization, the English had yet to come up with a smokable cigarette.
Worse, the damn things were filtered.
On the other hand, smoking was permitted and seemingly mandatory throughout much of Russia;
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