First Daughter - Eric van Lustbader [50]
"I'll inform Garner as soon as you board your flight, sir," Paull said with a heavy heart. He wondered how he was going to finesse this ugly—and quite illegal—situation the president had dropped into his lap. At the moment, he saw no alternative to turning Garner loose on the FASR, but he held out hope that if he insisted that Jack McClure assist in the operation, the president-elect's man could find a way to mitigate the damage. Of course, that would put McClure squarely in everyone's line of fire. He'd take the heat if he got in Garner's face, but that couldn't be helped. Agents in the field were designed to deal with whatever heat was thrown at them. Besides, McClure was expendable; Paull's agent in the Secret Service wasn't.
During the secretary's ruminations, the limo had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base. Paull, who had been debating all morning whether or not to bring up an extremely delicate subject, finally made his decision as the presidential limo rolled to a stop on the tarmac twelve yards from the near-side wing of Air Force One.
"Sir, before you leave, I have a duty to inform you . . ."
"Yes?" The president's bright, freshly scrubbed face seemed blank, his thoughts already thousands of miles away in bleak, snow-driven Moscow. He was, no doubt, licking his chops at the prospect of putting Yukin in his place.
"Nightwing missed his last rendezvous." Nightwing was the government's most productive deep-cover asset.
"When was that scheduled for?" the president snapped.
"Ten days ago," Paull replied just as crisply.
"Dennis, why on earth are you telling me this moments before I leave for Moscow?"
"He missed his backup dates four days ago and yesterday, sir. I felt it prudent not to bother you before this, hoping that Nightwing would surface. He hasn't."
"Frankly, Dennis, with your plate so full, I don't understand why you're even bothering with this."
"Assets are a tricky lot, sir. We ask them to do a lot of dodgy things—wet work. There's a certain psychology to people who kill without remorse. They tend to think of themselves as the center of the universe. This is what makes them successful, it's what keeps them going. But I've seen it happen before—every once in a while some developmental aspect becomes arrested. Their urge to be someone—to be special, to become known—overrides their self-discipline."
"What is this, psychology one-oh-one?" the president said testily.
"Sir, I want to make my position clear. When an asset's self-discipline disappears, he becomes nothing more than a serial killer."
The president's hand was on the door handle. His expression revealed that he already had one foot on Russian soil. "I'm quite certain that isn't the case with Nightwing. My goodness, he's been an invaluable asset for upwards of thirty years now. Nothing's changed, I assure you. Stop jumping at shadows. I'm quite certain there's a good reason for his silence." He smiled reassuringly. "Concentrate on the missionary secularists. Let Nightwing take care of himself."
THE TROUBLE with the president's suggestion," Paull said, "is that no asset—even one as productive and, therefore, sacrosanct as Nightwing—should be allowed to be so independent. In my opinion, that's a recipe for lawlessness and, ultimately, the corruption of basic moral principles."
"The president came to see me." Some wavering spark inside Louise's mind had roused her from her stupor. "Isn't that nice?"
"Very nice, darling."
Paull sat with his wife on the glassed-in porch of the facility where she lived. He could feel the radiant heat coming up through the flag-stone floor.
"Daddy," she said, "where am I?"
"Home, darling." Paull squeezed her hand. "You're home."
At this, Louise smiled blankly, lapsed back into her mysterious inner world. Paull stared at her face. The dementia had not dimmed a beauty that still made his heart ache. But now there was this glass