Cost of Honor Page 7

  Ari went upstairs to change clothes and await the First Daughter.

  While Blair Powell and Cameron Roberts made arrangements to meet with Ari Rostof, Oakes joined the agents on Blair’s detail for a walk-around of the vehicles that idled outside the hangar at the Newport Naval Base where they’d landed. She wasn’t part of the protective detail, just a tagalong, but she couldn’t shake the habit. Once that was done, while the agents waited to escort Blair and the commander to the vehicles, Oakes pulled up her email on the encrypted phone and checked the FYEO report from headquarters.

  The dossier was typical of the kind of briefing info she received every day on individuals with whom the president might meet, who might be a potential threat, or whose bodyguards or protective agents she’d have to work with. A passport-type color photo headed the first screen. An attractive Eastern European–appearing, dark-haired, blue-eyed woman with pale skin and sharply etched features.

  Subject: Arianna Katarina Rostof

  Age: 33

  Residence: 3133 Connecticut Ave NW, Washington, DC, 20008

  Phone: (202) 555-0566

  Marital Status: Single

  Occupation: Political Consultant

  Business address: Current campaign manager for Senator Alexandria Martinez

  Physical Description: WF, 5′9″, 135 lbs.

  Hair: Black

  Eyes: Blue

  Distinguishing marks: Appendectomy scar

  Education: St. Michael’s Country Day School, Newport, RI Choate Rosemary Prep, Wallingford, CT Georgetown, BA and MA, Political Science and International Affairs

  Medical Conditions: None

  Allergies: Penicillin

  Family History: Father, Nikolai, age 55; Mother, Katarina, age 54; siblings: none

  Security Clearance: Top secret; previous appointment with State Department

  The dossier was interesting for what it didn’t include. Very little family background, and huge red flags surrounded Ari Rostof’s father. Oakes knew as much about him as most people in America knew, and most people knew something. Ari Rostof’s father owned one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, including cable television channels, newspapers, and magazines, along with several professional sports teams. Oakes had no doubt he also owned interests in many, many other things that weren’t as easily accessible to public records. Whereas Ari Rostof’s public profile was well-known due to her association with major political candidates, her father’s was a mystery below the surface. Nothing in this report shed very much light on it.

  Nikolai Rostof was a Russian immigrant who had come to the US as a twenty-year-old. Ari’s mother, Katarina, arrived from an Eastern Bloc country several years later. Ari was an American-born citizen and an only child. Oakes wasn’t much interested in rumors, although she didn’t discount them either. Rumors often were founded in reality. Of course, with a man as successful as Rostof, allusions to the Russian mafia were often the subject of inflammatory journalism. To her knowledge, no evidence had ever surfaced to suggest the rumors were true.

  All the same, if Ari Rostof moved into a position where she had daily access to the President of the United States, Oakes had to believe security measures would be adjusted to include the new campaign manager.

  “Egret and Hawk are on their way,” the agent accompanying the First Daughter and the commander announced over the radio.

  Oakes moved into position with the other agents as Blair Powell and Cameron Roberts exited the hangar and strode toward the waiting vehicles. Once the principals along with Paula Stark, the lead agent, were secured in the lead car, Oakes climbed into the follow car with the rest of the detail. Since the president and the First Daughter often traveled together, she knew all Egret’s agents with the exception of those pulled from the local office to fill out the ranks for this visit. Oakes took one side of the facing seats while Felicia Adams and Ozzie Benedict each took window seats. Once the vehicle set out, they kept watch outside.

  Oakes had plenty of time to observe the picture-postcard view as they wound through Newport along the harbor, and with no assignment at the moment, she found it hard to ignore the reason for this trip and the ache in her midsection.

  Adam had been killed. When reality penetrated, she still reeled with the impact. Like most Secret Service agents on protective details who tended to be young and unattached, she didn’t have many close relationships. Any kind of home life was practically impossible. Schedules were more theoretical than real, with constant changes to the itinerary, time off disappearing with a phone call, vacations canceled at the last minute, and weeks or even months away from home. Most agents rotated out of protection after a tour or two, and the ones who stayed long-term, moving up into supervisory positions, often postponed permanent relationships until later in their career.

  She was no different than most of her colleagues. She had plenty of opportunities to spend the night with someone during the before and after portions of the innumerable presidential trips, when stress and fatigue and sleep deprivation left everyone’s judgment slightly askew. She hadn’t been immune to the pressure cooker atmosphere but had never been comfortable with the awkward aftermath of sex with someone she barely knew or, worse, someone she’d considered a friend. She and Evyn had almost gone that way shortly after they’d first met, before Evyn met and fell in love with Wes. Thankfully, they’d made it as far as the hotel room, stared at each other next to the bed, and she’d said, “I don’t have many friends.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Let’s not do this.”

  “Good idea.”

  And that had been the end of it. One of the best decisions she’d ever made in her life. Evyn was still her best friend, but her schedule matched Oakes’s for unpredictability. Adam had been the person she spent most of her off hours with, even though they only got together every once in a while. They liked the same movies, they liked the same restaurants, they even liked the same books. The coincidence of their having come from the same hometown astounded her, and even though years had separated them, when they’d been thrown back into the same circle again, that shared history had drawn them together.

  And now he was gone.

  She squeezed her fists. Now was not the time to think about all that. The vehicles were slowing and she made out arched wrought iron gates, a good ten feet high, set into eight-foot-high stone walls, covered with ivy in places, fifty feet from the main road. A stone gatehouse stood just inside the gate, which swung inward as the lead car pulled slowly forward. A uniformed woman stepped over to the driver’s side and leaned down.

  Felicia Adams said, “Armed security,” relaying a message she’d received from the vehicle preceding them.

  After a moment, they moved forward and the gates behind them swung closed. The drive was long and winding, snaking through lawns and gardens filled with massive shrubs and shade trees to a massive sprawling white house on the crest of the hill. The vehicles halted under a portico at the foot of a wide staircase leading to the entrance, and the agents quickly exited, forming a semicircle around the principal’s vehicle. Oakes remained in the rear, uncertain of her part in the meeting. The massive mahogany front doors swung open, and a woman walked out. Photos and physical statistics rarely described an individual completely, and in the case of Ari Rostof, far less than usual. For once, Oakes was glad she had the freedom to focus on just one person.

  Rostof crossed the wide porch and descended the stairs with a graceful, confident stride as wind blew her thick, shoulder-length dark hair around her face, emphasizing her arched cheekbones and heart-shaped face. Her simple white shirt and slim dark pants somehow managed to create an image of casual elegance and supreme confidence.

  “Agent Weaver,” Blair Powell said. “Would you join us?”

  “Of course.” Oakes hid her surprise and fell in just behind the First Daughter as the group moved toward the stairs.

  Ari Rostof met them at the bottom, and the two women hugged briefly. Rostof shoo
k Roberts’s hand and glanced at Oakes.

  “Ari,” Blair said, “Special Agent Weaver. She’ll be joining us.”

  Oakes found herself face-to-face with Ari Rostof, who held out her hand and said, “Good to meet you. I’m Ari.”

  “Oakley Weaver, Ms. Rostof,” Oakes said, taking her hand. She looked into blue eyes that perfectly matched the color of the water in the harbor beyond the grand mansion. She couldn’t help but think that the woman looking back at her was taking her measure, and she wondered what she saw.

  Chapter Seven

  Ari led Blair and her entourage through the wide central hall and into the east wing. The main house—a mid-nineteenth-century three-story mansion—had been expanded with curving wings to either side. From the sea, her home reminded her of a seagull cresting a white-spumed wave. She rarely carried out business at home, but when she did, she preferred the sunroom. Her father’s style was to enclose himself and his associates in the dark-paneled, private atmosphere of his office, but Ari had always found that the more casual setting put people at ease. Even adversaries could be unconsciously lulled into revealing more than they wished when immersed in sumptuous comfort, and this room was designed for that. The polished flagstones gleamed with swirls of coral, grays, and greens, reflecting the ocean depths, and the floor-to-ceiling windows, subtly shaded to allow sunlight to bathe the interior without glare, provided views of the harbor and the town nestled along the shore that rivaled any painting for beauty. An arrangement of three floral-print sofas around a large slate-topped coffee table centered on a square natural fiber rug provided seating that enabled conversation while providing everyone with a direct sight line to the others. They might’ve been sitting around a conference table, which was exactly why the layout had been done that way.

  Just as they were all getting seated, Martha appeared with a coffee cart holding a large urn and a tower tray filled with tea sandwiches.

  “Coffee? Something to eat?” Ari asked, sitting on the center sofa.

  “Just coffee for me,” Blair said, taking a seat to Ari’s right along with Cameron Roberts.

  “Coffee is great,” Cam said.

  Agent Weaver settled on Ari’s left and shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

  The male Secret Service agent who had accompanied Blair and the others from the car had taken up a position just inside the door and were clearly part of the working detail protecting Blair. Interesting that Agent Weaver did not seem to be part of Blair’s security detail, and Ari couldn’t quite figure out what her role was. She was curious, especially as to the frank appraisal that Weaver made no effort to hide as she studied Ari.

  Once Martha had poured, the coffee was distributed, and Martha had pushed the service cart away and silently disappeared, Ari balanced the china saucer on her knee and regarded Blair. “You didn’t travel all the way here for the coffee or the view, so how can I help you?”

  Blair leaned slightly forward. “We’ve come on a directive from the president to offer you a job at the White House.”

  “Ah,” Ari said, experienced enough not to show her utter surprise. “I’ll need a few details, then.”

  Cam Roberts laughed. “There are quite a few details you’ll probably want, and a lot of answers. Because of the sensitive nature of the problem, we’d like to know you’re on board before we divulge a great deal of information.”

  “Perhaps, then, we should start with the offer?” Ari sipped her coffee and set the cup and saucer down on the coffee table. As she straightened, she caught Agent Weaver’s glance. Weaver didn’t even try to hide the fact she was watching her and, when she saw Ari looking, smiled an altogether amused smile. There and gone in an instant. At least Ari thought she smiled. Maybe the agent was just enjoying Ari’s careful attempts to step around the quicksand of negotiating with two of the most powerful people in Washington, when she had no idea what in heaven’s name they were talking about. She wasn’t usually distracted during business dealings, but something about the agent’s frank regard put her off her stride. Which wouldn’t do at all. Not now, not when the stakes were this high and she hadn’t a clue as to the game.

  Ari shifted subtly and turned her shoulder in Oakley’s direction. Whatever odd bit of chemistry might had flared between them, she didn’t have the time, inclination, or interest to wonder about it. She never let chaos into her world, and that was the feeling she got every time she saw Agent Weaver studying her. Best to simply close that channel right now.

  Oakes noted the move to shut her out. Okay then—Rostof had decided she wasn’t a player in this game, and by rights, she wasn’t. Not in the immediate hand, perhaps. Except she did have a stake—a very big one. Her duty included not only protecting the president. She was charged with securing his safety, and that of everyone in the kill radius around him, at the biggest public appearance of his political life. And if Rostof planned to take over for Adam, the conductor of that event, they’d be working together daily up until game day. So, yeah, she was in this all the way.

  She had to give Ari Rostof credit, though. She was cool under pressure. Anyone would be thrown off-balance by an out-of-the-blue visit from Blair Powell and Cameron Roberts, and they weren’t making things easy for Ari by holding back most of the cards. She’d just challenged them to lay down their hand.

  “The offer,” Blair said, “is this. My father’s reelection campaign has had an unexpected shakeup. We need a new campaign manager, and we—he—would like that to be you. The question is, do you want the job?”

  Ari had more than a few questions, such as had Adam Eisley resigned—or been fired, why was there such a rush that Blair had come in person, and why would the president risk upending his reelection campaign six weeks before the convention? That made absolutely no sense. Something big was being left out of this picture, but she suspected she wasn’t going to find out all the information until she committed one way or the other. Blair wouldn’t have come in person if the answers were simple, and she must also know Ari wouldn’t—couldn’t—commit to anything without analyzing all the pros and cons. More than her professional integrity was at stake. Her personal choices had consequences for more than just her.

  “You do know,” Ari said, “that I already have a commitment with Senator Martinez.”

  Blair nodded. “Yes, but I think you’ll agree, and I’m sure the senator would as well, that the president’s reelection is paramount to maintaining the party’s stability, which could only benefit the senator as well as every other incumbent up for reelection.”

  “Well, we’re all aware that we can’t afford to lose any seats with the margins as close as they are now.”

  “We’re in agreement there,” Blair said, accepting the subtle barb with equanimity. She was, after all, a politician’s daughter and had been tempered in the fires of politics since she was a preteen.

  “What’s the status of the campaign,” Ari asked. “How sure are you of the votes? How real are the finance numbers we’re hearing from the national committee?”

  “By all reports, our donors are solid and the polls look good.”

  “By whose report, though? Campaign managers often paint a rosier picture than actually exists.” She smiled. “Temporarily at least. If everything is solid, why is Adam leaving?”

  Blair glanced at Cam, and some unspoken message passed between them.

  Cameron Roberts, the Advisor to the President on Counterterrorism, said, “Ms. Rostof, Adam Eisley was killed this morning in what may have been a hit-and-run accident. The circumstances are as yet unknown. Thus far, the White House has maintained a news blackout, but that can’t continue much longer.”

  “God,” Ari said after she caught her breath. “That’s horrible.” When she glanced at Agent Weaver, a stony mask dropped over her sharply chiseled features, the first real sign of emotion—even if inscrutable—she’d seen from the all-business agent. Something personal with Eisley there. A lover perhaps.

  “Why me?” Ari asked quietly
.

  Blair was silent for long enough to convince Ari that she was searching for an honest answer. Finally Blair said, “Your record speaks for itself—you get your people elected, so we know you can manage all the moving parts. But we need something more than that. We need a figurehead, a national presence, a bannerman to lead the president’s forces.”

  Ari smiled. “I’m not going to ask what you’ve been reading lately. But I know what you’re saying, and I’m a little honored, I guess, that you think that’s me.”

  Cam said, “That’s about all we can tell you until we have your answer.”

  “I understand. You need immediate transition, to maintain the appearance of a solid campaign organization.”

  “Not just the appearance,” Blair said quietly, “but the reality. We are nearly at the eleventh hour. If you’ve been watching the polls, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s hard to believe Donald Jessup has gained as much ground as he has. Six months ago he was a laughingstock, but now there’s this bizarre groundswell of demographics we never would’ve predicted.” Ari shook her head. “I don’t think the president is in trouble, but you’re right, he can’t afford to lose any ground. These things tend to snowball with so little time left.”

  “Yes,” Blair said, “and momentum can swing with just the appearance of weakness.”

  “How much time do I have to decide?” Ari asked.

  Blair looked at her watch. “It’s three ten. A transport leaves the naval base to take us back to Andrews at five p.m. We’d like you to be going with us.”

  Ari laughed and rocked back on the sofa, extending one arm out along the top. Well, that made things simpler. She wouldn’t have to wrestle with family responsibility versus personal goals—or ambitions—any longer. “You must know there’s absolutely no way that can happen. Even if I were to leave the senator, I need to put a transition team in place, and that would take weeks.”