Chapter One
“Have you seen this article?” the President demanded of his Secretary of Homeland Defense. He threw the paper down on the table where it nearly knocked over the china cup of Blue Jamaican coffee. Oliver Sustain looked up in surprise, the President was normally an unflappable sort, not one to give in to his emotions but he was clearly in a rage.
Sustain picked up the Washington Post and read the screaming headlines about an offhand derogatory mark the President had made to an aide over an international figure. “How did anyone hear me?” He demanded.
Sustain said mildly, “maybe your aide sold you out.”
“No way in hell,” President Rickover returned. “He knows he’d be canned. And besides, I checked. He’s been incommunicado with my wife at Camp David.”
“Cell phones and text,” Sustain shrugged.
“No phone calls or texts went out. I checked. And this isn’t the first time, Oliver. I’ve called several other people who’ve had the same type of scenarios. Some were the only ones there, and yet someone overheard them. And don’t say they were bugged, one of them was a CIA Director, for God’s sake.”
“Are you saying we have a spy in the White House and Langley?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying, Oliver,” the President sighed. “I just know my supposedly private conversations or sometimes not so private.”
“Are there any common factors, Jason?” Sustain asked. “A common place, same room, same person?”
“No. Some occurred at home, some here in the White House, the National Museum office, the Park. One even inside the New York Stock Exchange. That one instance netted someone an advance tip on a five hundred thousand dollars stock transaction made with a thousand dollar purchase. The SEC is looking into that one.”
Sustain looked at the paper. “Well, you didn’t have to call the Secretary of the United Nations a fat dyke bitch, Jason,” he said mildly. “Are you going to deny it?”
“Well, there’s no proof.”
“Unless they track down the aide and subpoena him.”
President Rickover sighed and sat in the spindle backed chair, petting the smooth head of the golden retriever named Dusty. Almost every White House administration had an official White House dog and Dusty was Rickover’s pride and joy. A female apricot Golden retriever four years old rescued from the pound, she accompanied Rickover everywhere from jogging to trips on Air Force One. Her coat was burnished gold with feathers that Rickover kept groomed and neat by himself and he always made time for her care. She was a sweet tempered dog, well trained in obedience; fiercely protective of her master, his wife and Rickover’s two daughters.
“What do you want me to do?” Sustain asked, reaching for his coffee. He drank, staring over the rim at the president.
“Find out how the shit is getting out there. Morton himself is the one came to me with all these instances. He has over a hundred of them.”
“What are you going to do about this?” He pointed to the paper.
“Lie, lie, deny,” Rickover grinned as he reached for a cup and a bran muffin. “Besides, it’s true. She is a fat dyke bitch.”
Sustain sighed, and finished his morning coffee before the rest of the Presidents staff entered the room to discuss the day’s events. Dusty snored, turned around twice and laid down under her master’s feet, resting her nose on her paws.