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“No, sir,” he quickly replies. “The Oval Office visit and your congratulations are tradition. For the good of your administration, you should remember that. You certainly don’t want to be embarrassed when we show up and you won’t let us in.”
After slamming the phone receiver down, Barrett stares for a few seconds at the paperwork and folders on his desk, his plans for future targeting operations, all these plans tossed in the air because of that damn Tennessee ward heeler.
“Damn it,” he says, “damn it all to hell.”
Carlton remains quiet.
With restrained fury in his voice, Barrett says, “I was counting on for another month or two without that smart bitch in charge. I know her. She’s going to start turning over rocks and asking hard questions. The more I could get done in her absence, the more networks off the CIA’s grid and oversight I could set up before she took office, I was counting on her absence to make it happen. Now some old fool who bellows ‘tradition’ whenever it suits him has screwed it up. The only reason I nominated her was because I needed Senator Carson’s support to win California last fall, and she insisted that a woman head up the CIA. So I picked Abrams and dragged it out as long as I could. I needed California to get here, so I compromised. Damn it.”
Carlton says, “Do you need a job done, sir?”
“No, not yet,” Barrett says, a headache coming on. “But we need to keep a closer eye on our people in the weeks ahead. Their loyalty to me might be challenged, might be called into question. TheFates have put me here at this vital time, Carlton, and I will not be denied.” He pauses. “I’m going to want all options available to me, and soon.”
“You can count on it, sir.”
Barrett returns to his coffee cup, thinking of all the black and bloody jobs this man has done for him in the past.
“I know I can,” the president says.
CHAPTER 47
THEBLINK-BLINKof the camera flashes that Hannah Abrams is enduring—check that, CIA Director Hannah Abrams—are irritating as hell, but she keeps a pleased and professional smile on as the news media pool in the Oval Office toss questions to her and President Barrett.
They’re both sitting in yellow upholstered armchairs just a couple of yards apart, and boom microphones are hovering over them, like spears suspended in midair.
“Mr. President, were you surprised at the Senate’s quick confirmation today?”
“Director Abrams, were you insulted at how long it took for the Senate to finally confirm you?”
“Mr. President, do you still have confidence in Director Abrams’s abilities despite the lengthy confirmation delay?”
Keep smiling,Hannah thinks, as the president holds out his big hands and does his best to charm the unruly group of reporters, photographers, and videographers.
“Oh come along, now,” he says, his voice strong and confident. “Of course I have full confidence in Director Abrams. She’s highly experienced, is a veteran of the CIA and other agencies, has great relationships up on the Hill, and I know she’ll hit the ground running in assuming her job.”
A smiling Barrett turns to her and she feels the full force of his political charm, when he says, “I bet the director spends the next twenty-four hours at Langley, sleeping on a cot, just so she can get caught up. Am I right, Hannah?”
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s classified information that I can’t share with the public.”
A few laughs from some of the reporters, and one asks, “Director Abrams, what do you see as your first challenges when you arrive at Langley?”
“The building has undergone some renovations since I was last there,” she says. “My first challenge will be getting around without getting lost. Personally, I’d be embarrassed, but professionally, I’m sure all of you would love to report that story.”
A few more laughs.
“Mr. President,” the next question begins. “Was it a surprise to you that the Senate took action earlier today? The matter certainly wasn’t on the Senate’s agenda.”
Just like that, the smile is gone, and the full force of the president’s personality—now anger—is focused on the young Black woman reporter who had raised the question. The carefree and light mood of the Oval Office has instantly changed.
“Pamela? It’s Pamela Hall, right … from the Inner City News Consortium? Correct?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President.”
“Before I answer that silly question, and please, we all realize here the silliness of that question, please tell me which president has done more for the inner cities in such a short time. By setting up empowerment zones to revitalize distressed areas, additional federal police training to ease the conflict among the citizens and local police, and a host of other new programs.”
The Oval Office is quiet, and Hannah keeps her slight smile.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not in a position to answer that question,” Pamela replies, not backing down.
