Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [116]
Two men sat in facing Queen Anne chairs, between which was a coffee table laden with a chased silver coffee service for three. To one side stood a hotel-style server’s cart. The moment Paull walked in the two men rose as one. He recognized them immediately: Miles Benson, former director of the CIA, and Morgan Thomson, the national security advisor during the previous administration. Benson was one of those leather-necked battle vets for whom posters were invented. His face, though dented and deeply scored, was the more powerful and commanding for its battered mien. He had high cheekbones and a fierce Clint Eastwood squint. His manner was no-nonsense, even his glance was brusque, and yet Paull was willing to bet that he saw everything. Thomson was slender, ferret-faced, with a long, sharp-edged nose and hooded rodent eyes that looked out on the world with inveterate suspicion. He was virtually lipless, the better to show bright, white teeth, which were as sharp as his erudite tongue. His intellectual prowess was legendary in neocon circles, and even beyond, which made him the quintessential pundit on talking-head TV.
These two seemingly had nothing in common, and yet during the two terms in which they had been in power they had forged an unshakable alliance on which, until near the end, the former president had relied. These two had shaped his policy and were responsible for the shambles of his legacy. Unrepentant and every bit as arrogant as the day they had assumed their respective posts, they refused to believe that any decision they had made was wrong or misguided. The world, in other words, was their world, reality to the contrary. Complete control had been their aim as well as their hubris, because nothing so grandiose could be controlled by two men, a hundred, or even a hundred thousand.
All of this recent history flashed through Paull’s mind in the three seconds it took for the two men—Edward Carson’s archenemies, who plotted his destruction—to reach him and, with smiles a millimeter thin, pump his hand.
A moment later, Paull said, “Your behavior is outrageous, bordering on the criminal. I’ll have my car keys now.”
“Of course,” Benson said, dropping them into his palm.
Without another word Paull turned to go. He was almost at the door when Thomson said in the plummy tones of his television voice, “Of course you’re free to leave, Mr. Secretary, but it will be a pity if you don’t get to see your daughter and grandson.”
Paull stood frozen for the space of several thunderous heartbeats, after which he was compelled to turn back to face them. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your daughter, Claire, is in the room across the hall. Your grandson is with her.”
Paull was virtually stupefied. “Why are they here?”
Thomson had clearly taken point. “They came to see you.”
“Don’t make me laugh. My daughter hasn’t wanted to see me since before my grandson was born.”
“She does now,” Thomson assured him. “We told her that you were terminal.”
“You people are insane.” Turning away, Paull put his hands on the grips of the sliding doors and began to push the doors apart.
“Aaron,” Thomson said in his richest tone. “Your grandson’s name is Aaron.”
Paull, filled with conflicting emotions, whirled on his tormenters. “None of this will mean a damn to me when you’re taken into custody. Kidnapping a member of the United States government is a federal offense punishable by—”
“No one’s being arrested,” Benson said sharply. “No one’s going to jail.”
“He can’t help himself, the military has marked him for life.” Thomson said this in an equable, almost a kindly manner. He raised a hand. “Why don’t we all sit down. Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to why we want to talk with you?”
Turning, Thomson sat down on one of the chesterfields and poured coffee into the three cups. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Secretary, but I’m famished.” He looked up expectantly. “Is your opinion of us so set in stone that you won’t give us a chance to explain the . . . unorthodox method by which you were