end. Good Christ, but you could see why. She is beautiful ,” he said, gripping the steering wheel. “And yet, it was almost as if she wasn't used to guys tripping over their tongues to compliment her—a thoroughly gorgeous woman like that! Don't understand it. I'd think she couldn't take out the garbage without neighbors popping up over the hedge with offers of a glass of their latest old vintage port and 'Oh, the servants just happen to be away, my dear.' Surprised she doesn't have a servant to do the grocery shopping for her, on that street.”
Though Joe had grown up with servants in the house, Sally had not and it never occurred to her to hire any when they returned to the states. Joe had never brought it up, as he was attempting to fashion something along the lines of middleclass normality: hadn't had much success with it, except superficially. Maybe all normality is superficial.
As Sally drove in the other direction, she ran her mind over the encounter professionally: everything he said, she said, the subjects covered, possible underlying motivations, she considered everything. Stop, stop, she thought finally, this isn't work. I'm glad I did it; I forgot how much fun flirting can be when you finally just do it. She was not unaware of what must have inhibited him and knew very well nothing was likely to come of their conversation. But the way he'd had to keep a check on himself, and how charming he'd been when he'd slipped, made her feel wonderful. She felt good about herself in a way the leers of customers in the dry cleaners or fathers at her daughter's soccer games or Mr. Thisleworth across the street could never make her feel. She didn't walk like a woman just come from a four-mile run as she pushed her cart into the super market. Her smile was not that of the contented housewife—until she saw Arthur MacGregor comparing foot powders near the pharmacy counter. He worked for State, an old friend of Joe's, and Sally's intermediary with CIA. They exchanged pleasantries and Arthur communicated to her the need to make contact with part of a cell she'd created in Pakistan—someone was getting cold feet and it was up to Operations officer Parnell, NOC, to put a fire under them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,” the President said as he slipped into the Oval Office. “My weekly radio address—no, please sit down,” he said to the VP and SecDef as they made the motions of men preparing to heave up to their feet. The President sat on the couch opposite them; they were all old enough friends not to shake hands at every meeting. “Oh, uh,” the President said, looking around.
“Here you go, sir,” Karl said, handing Pete a bottle of tomato juice and a glass without ice. Karl remained standing.
“Okay, Karl, shoot,” Pete said.
“A week has passed since we asked Joe Parnell to,” Karl said and paused, “to put his country before his pride and support the Administration.”
Vice President Kluister snorted.
“Right,” Pete said, nodding his approval at Karl's phrasing. “You were going to put out a feeler.”
Karl shook his head sadly. “He was insolent as ever,” he said.
“Time to blow the whistle on this Joe Parnell,” Paul said, chewing the name.
“He's had enough time to see sense,” Ben Butler, the SecDef, said.
“How bad is it in the Senate?” Pete asked Karl.
“Bad,” Paul answered. “Perkins'll keep the party in line but any war resolution could sit in committee forever. Even if it came to a vote, the Dems would probably filibuster.”
“With the current evidence, that is probably true, Mr. President,” Karl said.
“All because of that goddamn white paper?” Ben Butler said. “Tell those hand-wringing pansies to keep their mouths shut and—”
“We want them in,” Karl said, interrupting. “If they are in, if they have to vote for war powers, it will hurt them with their core constituencies in '04.
Though Joe had grown up with servants in the house, Sally had not and it never occurred to her to hire any when they returned to the states. Joe had never brought it up, as he was attempting to fashion something along the lines of middleclass normality: hadn't had much success with it, except superficially. Maybe all normality is superficial.
As Sally drove in the other direction, she ran her mind over the encounter professionally: everything he said, she said, the subjects covered, possible underlying motivations, she considered everything. Stop, stop, she thought finally, this isn't work. I'm glad I did it; I forgot how much fun flirting can be when you finally just do it. She was not unaware of what must have inhibited him and knew very well nothing was likely to come of their conversation. But the way he'd had to keep a check on himself, and how charming he'd been when he'd slipped, made her feel wonderful. She felt good about herself in a way the leers of customers in the dry cleaners or fathers at her daughter's soccer games or Mr. Thisleworth across the street could never make her feel. She didn't walk like a woman just come from a four-mile run as she pushed her cart into the super market. Her smile was not that of the contented housewife—until she saw Arthur MacGregor comparing foot powders near the pharmacy counter. He worked for State, an old friend of Joe's, and Sally's intermediary with CIA. They exchanged pleasantries and Arthur communicated to her the need to make contact with part of a cell she'd created in Pakistan—someone was getting cold feet and it was up to Operations officer Parnell, NOC, to put a fire under them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,” the President said as he slipped into the Oval Office. “My weekly radio address—no, please sit down,” he said to the VP and SecDef as they made the motions of men preparing to heave up to their feet. The President sat on the couch opposite them; they were all old enough friends not to shake hands at every meeting. “Oh, uh,” the President said, looking around.
“Here you go, sir,” Karl said, handing Pete a bottle of tomato juice and a glass without ice. Karl remained standing.
“Okay, Karl, shoot,” Pete said.
“A week has passed since we asked Joe Parnell to,” Karl said and paused, “to put his country before his pride and support the Administration.”
Vice President Kluister snorted.
“Right,” Pete said, nodding his approval at Karl's phrasing. “You were going to put out a feeler.”
Karl shook his head sadly. “He was insolent as ever,” he said.
“Time to blow the whistle on this Joe Parnell,” Paul said, chewing the name.
“He's had enough time to see sense,” Ben Butler, the SecDef, said.
“How bad is it in the Senate?” Pete asked Karl.
“Bad,” Paul answered. “Perkins'll keep the party in line but any war resolution could sit in committee forever. Even if it came to a vote, the Dems would probably filibuster.”
“With the current evidence, that is probably true, Mr. President,” Karl said.
“All because of that goddamn white paper?” Ben Butler said. “Tell those hand-wringing pansies to keep their mouths shut and—”
“We want them in,” Karl said, interrupting. “If they are in, if they have to vote for war powers, it will hurt them with their core constituencies in '04.
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