Shadow Knight's Mate (11 page)

He smiled brightly. Wilkerson gave him a small chuckle in return. “No, not personally. I'm sure someone else would handle that. Oh, I'm—working closely with the President, actually. Refining all the aspects of the new policy. There are more details than I ever would have imagined.”

Actually, other people handled all those details, which gave Wilkerson time for chats like this, except that no one in the White House ever wanted to chat with him. This young man, though, seemed fascinated by his proximity to power. He was obviously embarrassed, even intimidated, but couldn't pull himself away. “Sir, the policy, as you mentioned…”

Here it came. Dennis Wilkerson grew stiff. His posture straightened. Another critic. Since the President's announcement, Wilkerson had heard nothing but criticism, even here within the sanctuary of the White House. In meetings people argued with him outright. Out here in the hallways and bullpens people dropped remarks within his hearing. So few people seemed to understand, except the President himself. “Yes?” Wilkerson said icily.

“Well, it's brilliant, sir. The boldest stroke in a century. More. Maybe ever. Has any single man in history created such an enormous change in national policy, overnight?”

Wilkerson couldn't say anything. No one had been so effusive in praise of him and his idea, not even the President. He could only shrug modestly.

“I'm sorry, it's not my place. Forgive me for bothering you, sir. I just wanted to say that. I'm sure you're very busy, and I…”

The young man gave a little bow and turned away. “Wait,” Wilkerson called after him. The young man—Bentley—turned around, looking a little frightened. “Thank you,” Wilkerson said. “To tell you the truth, not many people have gotten it the way you obviously have.”

“Oh, people have, sir. I have several friends who've just been
swept away. We feel so privileged to be here at ground zero of the Wilkerson Doctrine.”

Wilkerson didn't hear the next few words.
The Wilkerson Doctrine.
What a ring. Why hadn't he heard those words before? Because the policy idea was his. No one denied that. No one else wanted to take credit from him, frankly. And this was the kind of young man who could spread a phrase, if his flame of fandom were to be fanned just a little.

“That's very kind, Bentley,” Wilkerson interrupted. “Deputy press secretary, you said? Well, I hope you get the chance to write some press releases that will spread your take on the—the doctrine.”

“Absolutely, sir. I've already written a couple, but unfortunately they haven't made it into the final versions of the releases. What I need…”

The young man paused, glancing around. Wilkerson unconsciously leaned toward him. “What is it, Bentley? Anything I can help with? I have a little influence.” He chuckled again.

“It's not that, sir. The problem I've encountered—and I mean even for myself—is not having quite a clear understanding of all the ramifications of the Wilkerson Doctrine. The, well, the subtleties, sir. The consequences. I'm sure you've thought all that out. Overcoming the danger of not having intelligence field operatives, for example. I've been asked about that a lot, and so far I haven't come up with a good answer.”

“Believe me, the President and I have that well in hand.”

“Oh, I was sure you did, sir. And I'm not asking for information. I just want to understand the basic tenets of the doctrine. I have some friends who feel the same way. We're trying to spread the good word, but don't feel entirely equipped. We feel like—disciples without a gospel, you might say.”

Wilkerson was struck by the phrase, especially the word ‘disciples'. “You've read my paper?”

“Oh, of course. Several times. But…”

“You want more,” Wilkerson said confidentially, understanding.

“Yes, sir. That's it exactly. An expansion. A … a commentary on the text, as it were. So far people have just seen the
Cliff's Notes
version, and I think if we had an amplification…”

Wilkerson was nodding along. “I expect to have an article coming out shortly…” he said slowly, but saw he'd disappointed his disciple.

“That will be wonderful, sir.” Bentley's sincere young face said otherwise. His voice dropping, he said, “We'll wait for that.”

Before he could turn away again, Wilkerson stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. I have a better idea, Bentley. One article is all fine, but if there were a group of us, all spreading the word at once, we could get the explanation across much faster.”

Bentley's eyes brightened again. “That's a wonderful idea, sir. A rash of articles instead of just one. A virus of information, spreading through all the media. Until people understand the Wilkerson Doctrine fully it won't gain the acceptance it deserves.”

Dennis Wilkerson smiled, modestly he hoped. “Can you think of anyone you might recruit to this team?”
Perhaps eleven friends?

“As a matter of fact, sir, I have a few friends who already meet in a sort of study group. One works in the House, one at State, things like that. All very junior, like me, but if we understand fully, we can start—”

“Spreading the word,” Wilkerson said. “When's your next meeting?”

Bentley looked embarrassed. “Tonight, actually. I'm sure you already have commitments. We could certainly re-schedule—”

Wilkerson chuckled indulgently at his young disciple's earnestness. “Tonight would be fine, Bentley. Shall we say eight? Where?”

Bentley offered to bring the whole group bodily to whatever location Wilkerson might suggest, but the NSA graciously agreed to come to Bentley's apartment. The address was in Georgetown, as he would have expected. Family money supplementing an undoubtedly modest salary. That was all right. A couple of the
original Disciples had come from wealthy families, hadn't they? And this group would need connections like Bentley's to spread the word. The gospel.

The young man was beaming like a child on Christmas morning as he hurried away to make calls. Wilkerson still carried the glow of adulation. His habit—no, call it a policy—of getting his own coffee had certainly paid off this morning. Later that afternoon the President asked him why he looked so happy when the country was in such grave peril. “Because of my great confidence in you, sir,” Wilkerson answered at once, hearing young Bentley's earnest tones in his own voice. The President coughed gruffly, but Wilkerson thought he detected secret pleasure in his posture.

He was getting good at this game.

A few of the Circle remained at their Colorado compound. Given the communications clusters in that fortified enclave, they could monitor the worldwide situation better from there than if they'd been a thousand places in person. “Operation Footdragging seems to be proceeding well,” Janice Gentry reported. “Only a few thousand troops have even received departure orders yet, and General Reynolds has canceled some of those for ‘emergency' reasons. He may not be the best soldier the Army's ever seen, but at bureaucratic entanglements he is the master.”

The Chair nodded approval. Jack studied her. He was watching the activity in the room, not taking part in any of it. Most of the time he just played his portable PSP, apparently paying no attention to the rest of them. Now that he was looking around carefully, he waited for a question no one asked, and finally asked it himself.

“What happened to Professor Owenby?”

“Some sort of security clearance snafu,” Gladys Leaphorn answered. “Homeland Security hasn't let him make a call and we haven't been able to get anyone in to see him, but we think it will
be cleared up by morning. Don't worry, we've made other contact with the NSA.”

“Kind of the gangbang approach to courtship, isn't it?”

The Chair snapped a glare at him. “We don't have time for our usual subtlety. But don't worry. Young Wilkes is the best I've ever seen at this. Sort of a protégé of yours, isn't he, Jack?”

“Not really.” Jack's eyes returned to his game screen. Bentley Robbins did indeed do the sycophant act better than Jack had ever seen it done, better than Jack would ever have attempted. Jack had in fact had a hand in his training, but after a while couldn't stand to be around the kid, since there was no telling when Bentley was being sincere, even when he said he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Things are well in hand,” the Chair said.

Arden glanced sharply at Jack, thinking she had heard him wince, but his face was expressionless as he bent over his game.

Major General Fred Reynolds, Centcom, commander of the most powerful army on earth, did not have his headquarters deep in the Green Zone of Kabul as one might expect. His command central consisted of one large building, formerly an exclusive hotel, on the edge of Sunni territory. General Reynolds liked to keep people on alert; that was his expressed reason for remaining here on the brink of danger. In fact, the general liked to make it hard for ranking officers to get to him.

The one who came striding in that morning had no problem, though. He didn't slow down for roadside IEDs, sniper fire, or salutes. He was the youngest one-star general since Custer, and always walked as if charging a line. “General Reynolds,” he snapped out as soon as he entered the room, an aide who had tried to stop him trailing behind.

Reynolds returned the man's salute casually. “General Barker. This is a surprise. Why wasn't I given notice you were coming?”

“I don't know, sir. Not my department. But I have your orders with me.”

“
You
have? What orders? I haven't received notice—”

“They're right here, sir.”

Frank Barker had that tone, the tone of a very confident warrior addressing a senior officer perfectly respectfully, but with the full knowledge they both shared that he could kick the senior officer's ass at any combat they might attempt. His voice also had the confidence of clout.

General Reynolds was reading the order quickly. “This is not right.”

“That's not up to you or me to say, General. You're relieved.”

“I mean this is a mistake.” General Reynolds looked up from the papers. He had always looked older than he was, which had served him well. At the age of fifty-three he had craggy features, especially a powerful brow that overhung his piercing gray eyes. Those eyes bored now into the eyes of the man sent to replace him.

But Barker's eyes deflected the stare with ease. “I believe your staff are also relieved, General. I have my own men in place already. We've set up shop somewhere else.”

“Just one Goddamned minute, Frank. We're going to get on the horn to somebody about this right now.”

“You do whatever you think best, General. I have command responsibilities to attend to. Good day.”

He fired off another salute, this one looking like an obscene gesture, possibly Sicilian, turned smartly and stepped off as if on a parade ground.

“Come back here!” General Reynolds yelled, but his voice no longer had command. Barker gave the senior officer nothing but his back as he strode out of the room.

In the outer room, he said, “Start packing up, soldier. You've got an hour and this location will no longer be secured.”

General Reynolds had spent a long career making contacts that would serve him well at just such a moment as this. He knew more powerful people, in and out of the military, than any ten other general officers. But when he started making calls he found no one would take his.

He was a general without a command.