under the tap and wiped her hands on a dishcloth. 'All right, then,' she said with a mischievous smile. 'If I told you I had asked her to drop by tonight, would your spirit soar or would it plunge?'
West chuckled. 'As a companion, there is no one living I would rather have dinner with than Mary Newman. She is attractive, amusing, attentive and intelligent. But, let me tell you, in the Principals Committee, Mary's a pain in the ass, and tonight, Pete and I have to chew over events as only old friends can.'
Caroline reached up into a cupboard above the sink, her hands just managing to touch the dinner plates. West stepped forward. 'Here, let me do that. I must have six inches on you and it's not often that a US President has the privilege of laying a table.'
'Thanks, Jim. The side plates are right next to them. They can come down, too.' Caroline pulled open a drawer and took out three sets of knives and forks. West glanced down at her. 'Only three?' he asked lightly.
Caroline grinned. 'Don't worry. I'd never pull one like that.'
West separated the dinner plates and put them on the table. Caroline collected them up again. 'Not so fast. I need to warm them. But the side plates can go on.'
'Maybe one day I'd welcome it,' said West. 'A surprise date arranged by my closest friends.'
Brock, in a fresh short-sleeved red shirt, stood at the doorway. 'She may be right, you know, Jim.'
'About me?' joked West. 'That I know.'
Brock poured himself a glass of the Merlot. 'She called about half an hour ago - about poor old Asif Khan.'
'Khan, eh?' said West, leaning against the kitchen dresser and sipping his wine.
'She doubts it's a one-off.'
'The thing about Mary is that she never gives off smoke without knowing there's a little fire burning away somewhere.'
Caroline stepped quietly to her husband's side and put her arm around his waist. They had met the year before Brock joined the navy when they were both students at Georgetown University. They now lived across the road from its campus. Caroline had remained in academia, rising to head her department, specializing in international studies and non-proliferation.
Tonight, her husband was trying to show a light-hearted face, but Caroline detected that he was distracted by Khan's assassination. The Gulf War, the Kosovo War, the War against Terror, Iraq, each one started by a single incident, a bomb, a border invasion, a massacre, an assassination. You never knew what could flare up and turn your life upside down.
'Why don't you two go through, while I finish off getting this ready?' she said, slipping her arm away. 'Hopefully, issues of state will be done with by the time we eat.'
Inside the study, Brock brought down the The Times Atlas of the World from a shelf filled with large, unwieldy reference books, ran his finger across the inside cover page to find the map he wanted, opened it up on page nineteen and laid the atlas down on his desk. It was a high-ceilinged corner room, furnished with two leather armchairs and a swivel chair at the desk. This was Brock's sanctuary, a masculine room of dark textured colours, mementos and photographs with international figures, which themselves told part of the story of how he had transformed himself from an impoverished navy pilot to the National Security Advisor to the President.
'Khan gets killed here,' he said, flipping over to page eighteen and brushing his finger over Penang on the north-eastern coast of Malaysia. He flipped the page back. 'The first reported act of violence after that was here, a military airfield in Dipolog in the southern Philippines.' Brock loudly snapped together his finger and thumb. 'Then, too quickly for anyone to keep count, the whole damn region is on fire, Malaysia, Indonesia, even Brunei which must be the most tranquil place in the world.'
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. The first channel to come up was BBC World, which Caroline enjoyed watching. Its reporter was speaking from the
West chuckled. 'As a companion, there is no one living I would rather have dinner with than Mary Newman. She is attractive, amusing, attentive and intelligent. But, let me tell you, in the Principals Committee, Mary's a pain in the ass, and tonight, Pete and I have to chew over events as only old friends can.'
Caroline reached up into a cupboard above the sink, her hands just managing to touch the dinner plates. West stepped forward. 'Here, let me do that. I must have six inches on you and it's not often that a US President has the privilege of laying a table.'
'Thanks, Jim. The side plates are right next to them. They can come down, too.' Caroline pulled open a drawer and took out three sets of knives and forks. West glanced down at her. 'Only three?' he asked lightly.
Caroline grinned. 'Don't worry. I'd never pull one like that.'
West separated the dinner plates and put them on the table. Caroline collected them up again. 'Not so fast. I need to warm them. But the side plates can go on.'
'Maybe one day I'd welcome it,' said West. 'A surprise date arranged by my closest friends.'
Brock, in a fresh short-sleeved red shirt, stood at the doorway. 'She may be right, you know, Jim.'
'About me?' joked West. 'That I know.'
Brock poured himself a glass of the Merlot. 'She called about half an hour ago - about poor old Asif Khan.'
'Khan, eh?' said West, leaning against the kitchen dresser and sipping his wine.
'She doubts it's a one-off.'
'The thing about Mary is that she never gives off smoke without knowing there's a little fire burning away somewhere.'
Caroline stepped quietly to her husband's side and put her arm around his waist. They had met the year before Brock joined the navy when they were both students at Georgetown University. They now lived across the road from its campus. Caroline had remained in academia, rising to head her department, specializing in international studies and non-proliferation.
Tonight, her husband was trying to show a light-hearted face, but Caroline detected that he was distracted by Khan's assassination. The Gulf War, the Kosovo War, the War against Terror, Iraq, each one started by a single incident, a bomb, a border invasion, a massacre, an assassination. You never knew what could flare up and turn your life upside down.
'Why don't you two go through, while I finish off getting this ready?' she said, slipping her arm away. 'Hopefully, issues of state will be done with by the time we eat.'
Inside the study, Brock brought down the The Times Atlas of the World from a shelf filled with large, unwieldy reference books, ran his finger across the inside cover page to find the map he wanted, opened it up on page nineteen and laid the atlas down on his desk. It was a high-ceilinged corner room, furnished with two leather armchairs and a swivel chair at the desk. This was Brock's sanctuary, a masculine room of dark textured colours, mementos and photographs with international figures, which themselves told part of the story of how he had transformed himself from an impoverished navy pilot to the National Security Advisor to the President.
'Khan gets killed here,' he said, flipping over to page eighteen and brushing his finger over Penang on the north-eastern coast of Malaysia. He flipped the page back. 'The first reported act of violence after that was here, a military airfield in Dipolog in the southern Philippines.' Brock loudly snapped together his finger and thumb. 'Then, too quickly for anyone to keep count, the whole damn region is on fire, Malaysia, Indonesia, even Brunei which must be the most tranquil place in the world.'
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. The first channel to come up was BBC World, which Caroline enjoyed watching. Its reporter was speaking from the
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