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SECRETARY of State Franklin Wilson was wearing a white oxford shirt under a yellow cardigan sweater. At seventy-one, with thinning gray hair, he looked every part the wise elder statesmen. A successful attorney, he’d served in three White Houses; the first as a chief of staff, then as the secretary of defense, and now as secretary of state. The money came from his wife’s family—a lucrative auto parts business in Ohio. The reputation was all his. He’d graduated near the top of his class from Harvard Law and joined one of D.C.’s top law firms. In between his stints as a public servant, he would return to the law firm, of which he was now a fully vested partner. It had been a great run. He was one of the titans of the District—a man who was respected by both parties and the press.
Despite all of his accomplishments, he was in a sour mood. The house felt lonely on this fall Saturday afternoon. Wilson had instructed his staff to take a few hours off so he could make this meeting as private as possible. The real reason it felt lonely, though, was that his wife of forty-seven years was gone—not physically but mentally. She’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s just two years ago, and although they’d all held out hope that the disease would advance slowly, it had instead ravaged her mind at a swift pace. Within a year, she’d forgotten her kids and grandchildren and could barely remember her husband. Six months after that she was dead to the world. One month earlier, Franklin Wilson did what he swore he would never do.
At the urging of friends, his staff, and his children, he checked his wife into a home where she could receive twenty-four-hour care. That was the justification, at any rate, but Wilson couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d abandoned her. It haunted him every day. This beautiful Georgetown brownstone where they’d hosted so many parties, with the who’s who of D.C., had now become a mausoleum for him. He refused to sell, feeling it would be another betrayal to her and the memory of the great lady she had been before that insidious disease had begun to eat away at the very thing that made her her. Wilson knew he’d lost some focus, but the demands of his job kept him busy and provided a welcome distraction from the tragic hand he’d been dealt.
When the doorbell sounded, he felt his mood lift. There was important business that needed to be conducted. Wilson bounded from behind his desk, proceeded across the marble foyer, and opened the door to his five-story Georgetown brownstone. He enthusiastically greeted his guest. “Paul, thank you for coming by on such short notice.”
Paul Cooke, the CIA’s deputy director, returned the smile and shook the secretary’s hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Secretary. I always like an excuse to spend some time in Georgetown on a fall afternoon.”
“I know what you mean, and call me Franklin when we’re not in our official capacities,” Wilson said as he closed the door and led his visitor down the hall, “That’s why I bought the place, by the way. No suburbs for me. Too quiet.” Wilson opened a door and pointed down the steps. “Do you like to play billiards?”
Cooke hiked his shoulders. “What Harvard man doesn’t?”
Wilson slapped him on the back. “Good man. You’re class of sixty-five, right?”
“Yes.”
Once they were downstairs, Wilson turned on the stereo and flipped a few switches behind the bar. A hearty fire was already burning and a college football game was on the TV. Wilson didn’t bother asking his guest what he wanted to drink. He grabbed two lowballs and placed three ice cubes in each glass before filling them halfway with single-malt scotch. He gave Cooke his glass and said, “I hope you don’t mind hanging out down here, but I had certain devices installed in this room that make it easier for us to discuss things of a delicate nature.”
Working at the CIA, Cooke understood all too well. He wondered who Wilson had used and when the equipment had been installed. Listening devices and countermeasures were constantly changing.
Wilson held up his glass. “To Harvard. The finest institution in the land.”
Cooke smiled. “To Harvard.”
Wilson made small talk while he racked the balls and continued to keep the conversation light all the way through the first game. After trouncing Cooke, Wilson smashed the second break and moved the conversation in a more serious direction. “Paul, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“This is serious, Paul . . . from one Harvard man to another.” Wilson looked at the other man from across the table for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. The innuendo was simple. We are both gentlemen. We do not lie to each other.
Cooke inclined his head respectfully, signaling that he understood.
“Do you trust Thomas Stansfield?”
Cooke was in the process of sipping his scotch, which was a good thing because it helped conceal the grin on his face. He quickly put his business expression on and said, “That’s an interesting question.”
Wilson knew he’d have to lead this one by the nose so he said, “Listen, I’ve known Thomas for close to thirty years. During the Cold War there was no one better, but the Cold War is over, and I’m afraid he’s failing to keep pace.”
Cooke had known there was some reason the secretary wanted to see him, but he had not expected it to be about Thomas Stansfield. He gave a noncommittal nod.
“Do you trust him?” Wilson asked again.
Cooke allowed himself to laugh openly. “If you knew him as you say you do, you wouldn’t bother asking that question. Thomas Stansfield was born to be a spy and is the most secretive man I have ever met in my life.”
Wilson pointed his glass at Cooke and extended his forefinger. “My point exactly.”
Treading carefully, Cooke added, “It does kind of go along with the job description.”
“To a degree, but he is not a king unto himself. He still has to answer to certain people.” Wilson searched the younger man’s face for a sign that he could be an ally. So far he was getting nothing. “He’s never been very good at handling oversight, and I’m afraid with the director slot open he’s gotten even worse.”
The previous director had unexpectedly retired for health reasons one month earlier and the president had yet to nominate a replacement, so for the meantime, Cooke was minding the store. “He does tend to run his own turf, and doesn’t take too kindly to anyone sticking his nose in his business.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Wilson thought to himself. He refilled their drinks and kept the conversation moving in the direction he thought best for his objectives. He would touch on Stansfield and then move on to D.C. gossip or some funny story about him and the president pulling a practical joke on the hapless vice president. But he kept coming back to Stansfield. It was in the middle of the fifth game of pool and third drink that Wilson saw his opening. “Paul, I need to confide in you.”
Cooke leaned against his pool cue, understanding that they were finally going to get to the heart of the matter. “All right.”
“You’re on the president’s short list for director.”
