Nature of the Game (4 page)

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Can I tell him you'll be there?”

“I'll try,” said Wes.

“Oh.” Her voice chilled. “Well, do try. Please.”

The second phone call had come at nine-thirty
A.M.
Friday.

“Major Chandler,” said a man's gravel voice, “my name is Noah Hall. Exec assistant to Director Denton. We've never met.”

The gray walls of Wes's office drew closer.

“You will go to his reception tonight, right?”

“Since you put it that way,” answered Wes.

Noah Hall chuckled. Agreed Wes should wear his uniform.

“You bringin' a date?” asked Hall.

“No, should I?”
And who should I get?
Wes wanted to add.

“Come alone.” Noah Hall told Wes when to be there.

Wes's heels clicked on the sidewalk as he walked into the cul-de-sac. He exhaled silver clouds that vanished in the night. These houses were elegant barns. Sculpted hedges, chiseled trees, lawns trimmed even in their seasonal death. The rainbow flicker of television shone through the window of one home.

Laughter floated to Wes from his destination. The man by the door watched him approach, while the eyes of the man at the curb swept the street. In the dark yard behind the house, Wes spotted the pinpoint orange flare of a cigarette cupped in an overconfident hand.

“Cold for this, isn't it?” Wes told the man at the door who unwisely had his hands deep in his overcoat pockets.

“Don't we know it?” replied the man, with a smile, grateful for the professional recognition. “Go on in.”

Wes opened the door.

Warmth rolled over him like a wave. A smoky fireplace burned somewhere amidst the babble of voices. A woman screeched in delight: late thirties, cigarette in one hand, white wine in the other. She wore wedding rings, but her male companion with graying sandy hair, tweed suit, and bow tie looked not of the marriage persuasion. A Latin maid bustled past Wes, a tray of Swedish meatballs and bite-sized crab cakes clutched in her hands. She'd fled El Salvador after the right-wing death squad La Mano Blanca gang-raped her. On the interior stair landing stood another man with a suit and a tube running from under his jacket to his ear. The carpet beneath Wes's feet was thick, the air rich in perfumes: rose and lilac and musk.

“You must be Major Chandler!” A woman in her fifties stepped from the crowd. “You're our only Marine. I'm Mary Patterson.”

As she shook his hand, Wes felt her eyes soak him up.

In a roomful of quality men, Wes might not be the first man you'd notice, but he was the man you'd remember, even if he wasn't wearing his Marine uniform. He was six three and well muscled. He gave an impression of strength rather than size, of energy contained rather than exuded. He was handsome, though nothing about his face was magazine-ad pretty. His brown hair was cut military short and brushed flat, but with style beyond any Marine barber. His nose was big, but not prominent, his mouth wide with even teeth and full lips. Time had etched a furrow across his brow, in the corners of his mouth, and shrapnel had nicked a scar on his chin. His eyes were black, wide, and large, but so deep set they looked like hooded slits.

Mary led him into a crowded living room. Wes spotted a Navy commander, wife on his arm, laughing with a man who Wes didn't know was a counsel for the Senate Appropriations Committee. A glassy-eyed Army captain with routine ribbons on his chest and broken veins on his nose grinned anxiously at the silver star on the shoulder of a fellow Army officer. The general caught Wes's gaze, nodded, then returned to his discussion with a man in a three-piece blue suit who headed a downtown firm of only ninety-three lawyers and the lean, bearded carpenter husband of the former secretary whose screech first attracted Wes's attention.

“Have you met Mrs. Denton?” asked Mary Patterson.

“I've never had the chance,” replied Wes.

Across the room, a woman whose beauty had matured into elegance shook the hand of a Washington editor for a Florida newspaper chain. His wife, who'd gone from congressional aide to solid waste management specialist at the Environmental Protection Agency, nervously made the introductions.

“I'm so glad you were able to make it,” Mary Patterson told Wes as they waited for journalist and bureaucrat to move on.

“Lucky, wasn't it?”

“Mrs. Denton,” said Mary, and the elegant woman beamed at Wes.

Behind her, Wes saw a beefy man leaning against the fireplace mantel, a glass of amber liquor swirling in one fist. The man's horseshoe-bald head glistened, and his knotted tie dangled below an open white shirt collar, but he stayed by the flames. And kept his beady hazel eyes on Wes.

Mary said, “This is Major Chandler.”

“So very nice to meet you,” intoned Mrs. Denton.

“Thank you for inviting me,” said Wes.

“Why, dear, we couldn't have had the party without you.”

“Mrs. Denton!” A man grasped Mrs. Denton's reflexively offered hand. “Do you remember me? I was assistant press aide for the congressman in his second term. Bill. Bill Acker.”

“Of course, Bill! Who could forget you?”

“I'm working with N double-A RE now, at the Association's HQ downtown. Pretty broad-based stuff, not like the usual special interest lobbying, and I'm …”

Mary steered Wes away, told him: “She's so sweet.”

Mrs. Denton embraced a young woman, pulled her in front of the unforgettable Bill Acker.

The fat man with beady eyes shifted his position down the mantel, his gaze locked on Wes.

“We should find the boss,” said Mary.

Laughter drew their eyes to the far side of the room.

Ralph Denton looked better than his newspaper photos. He carried too many pounds, but he was tall and his legs were strong. Green eyes twinkled beneath his thin gray hair.

“Sir!” Mary called out. A glance acknowledged her. He shook a half dozen hands, then swung to Mary and Wes.

The beady-eyed man had moved from the mantel to the bar, where he could watch Wes meet Ralph Denton.

“Director Denton,” said Mary, “remember Wesley Chandler from Taos? Burke Chandler's son. Burke died after you left the Hill. You appointed Wesley to Annapolis in—1964, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” said Wes as he shook his host's hand. The older man had a dry and strong grip.

“Okay if I call you Wes?” asked Denton.

Wes nodded.

“Looks like you've done fine,” said the director, eyeing the ribbons on Wes's chest.

“I've had some luck.”

“Haven't we all, son,” said Denton. He spotted an elderly couple handing their coats to the maid. “Amazing times, huh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Would you excuse me?” He squeezed Wes's shoulder and bustled toward the couple.

“Well, Major,” said Mary. “Lovely to see you. Stick around. Enjoy yourself. There's quite a buffet. Have a drink.”

She melted into the crowd.

The man with beady eyes had moved from the bar to a bookcase. He chatted with a heavily made-up woman ten years of fervent self-denial past her prime and pretended not to watch Wes.

Wes joined an Air Force colonel at the bar. The senior officer smiled and they exchanged names. Wes pointed to the ice chest of beers, waved away the bartender's offer of a glass. Wes turned back to the crowd: he couldn't find the beady-eyed man.

“Good to see Mr. Denton back in town,” said the Air Force officer. “I wish he'd never lost that election way back when. He'd be Speaker of the House now. Or a ranking senator.”

“He's done fine,” said Wes.

“No shit. You get back to New Mexico much?”

“No. You?”

“Nah.” The officer wore pilot's wings. He swallowed Scotch. “Shame about Sawyer. Takes the top job at CIA, gets us through invading Panama, then two weeks ago his heart goes
boom
. Kind of surprised to see Denton replace him.”

“Why?” asked Wes.

“Us blue suits expected Billy Cochran to get it. He has the stars, library between his ears, clean hands. Was a whiz at running NSA.”

Wes sipped his beer. Where was beady eyes?

The fly-boy nodded toward Wes's ribbons.

“I flew '15s there,” he said. “When were you in country?”

“A long time ago,” said Wes.

“Amen.” The ex-pilot raised his glass to Wes. He looked from side to side. “Your guys hear anything about the budget cuts?”

“I don't know anything about that,” said Wes.

“You mean anything good,” said the ex-pilot. He shook his head, wandered away.

A waiter took Wes's empty beer can. Amidst the sweat and smoke, Wes smelled steaming meat. Whatever the buffet offered, it'd be better than a dinner he could burn for himself.

Watermelon balls, kiwi fruit, a half dozen shrimp, carrot slices, raw cauliflower, Swedish meatballs on sticks dripping thin gravy onto Wes's paper plate. Beady eyes waited until Wes finished, then ambled to the corner where Wes stood alone.

“Good eats, uh?” said beady eyes.

“Yes,” answered Wes. He put down his plate.

“I'm Noah Hall. We talked.”

“I came.”

“Damned if you didn't.” Noah had a face like a bulldog. He used Wes's napkin to mop his shiny dome. “New Mexicans, eh? Friendly folks.”

“Where you from, Noah?”

“Which campaign?”

They chuckled.

“They do it right,” said Noah, “they'll bury me in Chicago. Or Boston. They're smart, they'll burn me where I lay.”

“That can be arranged,” said Wes.

“You're a regular pistol, ain't you, Major?”

“I'm qualified.”

“Good. Because the Director would take it as a personal favor if you stuck around after this to-do, had a chat with him.”

“What about?”

“What do you care? He's a big enough boy you ought to be happy to make him happy.”

“I'm happy to accommodate Mr. Denton in any way I can.”

“Let's accommodate him out of down here,” said Noah. “We'll just mosey upstairs, two guys looking for the gents'.”

“Are there any gents here?”

Noah laughed himself into a smoker's hack. He clapped Wes on the back and steered him through the crowd.

“Couple decades ago,” Noah said as he led Wes up the stairs, “when we were younger and full of more 'n' piss 'n' vinegar, party like this, we'd be sneakin' up here to get laid.”

“You're not my type,” said Wes as they reached the third floor. A man in a suit rose from the folding chair pulled up outside one of the closed doors. He nodded to Noah.

Noah smiled as he led Wes to the sentry, opened the door.

“What is your type, Wes?” Noah nodded him inside.

Thick curtains blocked the windows; behind them, Wes would have seen newly installed glass containing micro-thin wires that turned the windows into bulletproof panes of electric static. On the desk sat stacks of correspondence, newspaper clips, a locked briefcase, and three phones: one black, one blue, one red. The blue and red phones were fitted with scramblers. Three padded, high-back chairs sat empty on the carpet. Floor lamps lit the room.

“That's a gents',” Noah said, pointing to a door. “The cabinet's got hard stuff. You want another beer, don't you?”

“Okay,” said Wes, following Noah's push.

“Bring our buddy a few brews from downstairs,” Noah said to the sentry. “I'll keep an eye on the door.”

“My post is security,” answered the man. “Not service.”

“My post is Executive Assistant to the Director. Nice duty around here. I'd hate like hell to have it suddenly shifted to site intelligence, scrounging subway schedules in Mongolia.”

The guard blinked.

“It's okay,” said Noah. “I got the Marines with me.”

The man grimaced, but hustled downstairs.

“Gotta be sure everybody knows his place.” Noah nodded after the guard. “He'll write a memo 'bout this to cover his ass, so if any of the data around here ends up compromised, it'll be our heinies on the line.”

“Sure,” said Wes.

“What would you do if that boy were under your command?”

“Ship him to Mongolia.”

“They got subways there?” Noah laughed.

The President of the United States had effusively inscribed the color photograph of himself and Denton hanging above the cold fireplace. History caught the two men with their jackets off, ties loosened, on the edge of their seats in the Oval Office.

“Better one at the office,” said Noah. “This town, you want the office, you gotta have pictures for the wall.”

Noah nodded to the presidential photograph.

“Raised a shitload of money for him, yes he did. And someday, it'll be Ralph Denton that signs photos like that.”

The sentry returned with four beers. He jerked open a cooler door and slammed the cans down on a rack, stood in the hall.

“Make yourself at home,” said Noah. He left Wes alone.

For seventy-one minutes Wes waited in the closed room. He skimmed the book titles, the rows of video cassettes, let his eyes flick over documents on the desk, the locked briefcase, the three phones. He went to the bathroom, didn't open the cooler. The dead green eye of a wall-mounted television watched his every move. He picked the chair that afforded the best view of the door and offered the narrowest profile to the windows, settled into the cushions, and remembered squatting in the steamy bush west of Da Nang. At least there were no leeches here.

At the click of the turning knob, Wes stood. Ralph Denton entered, Noah lumbering in his shadow. Noah shut the door.

“Sit down, Wes, please,” said Denton, waving his hand.

Wes complied. Noah leaned his back against the door.

“Sorry to be so long,” said Denton. He sank into the chair on Wes's right. Yawned. “You want a drink?”