Scott took a cab back to the Ritz Carlton, returned to his room and began to pack his overnight case. During the past year he’d considered a hundred ways that the Israelis might plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein, but all of them had flaws because of the massive protection that always surrounded the Iraqi President wherever he went. Scott felt certain also that Prime Minister Rabin would never sanction such an operation unless there was a good chance that his operatives would get home alive. Israel didn’t need that sort of humiliation on top of all its other problems.
Scott flicked on the evening news. The President was heading to Houston to carry out a fund-raiser for Senator Krueger before the special May elections. His plane had been late taking off from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was running behind schedule—the new President was quickly gaining a reputation for working by Clinton Standard Time. All the White House correspondent was willing to say was that he had been locked in talks with the Secretary of State. Scott switched off the news and checked his watch. It was a little after seven, and his flight wasn’t scheduled until 9:40. Just enough time to grab a bite before he left for the airport. He’d only been offered sandwiches and a glass of milk all day, and figured that the CIA at least owed him a decent meal.
Scott went downstairs to the Jockey Club and was taken to a seat in the corner. A noisy congressman was telling a blonde half his age that the President had been locked in a meeting with Warren Christopher because “they were discussing my amendment to the defense budget.” The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maître d’ didn’t.
Scott ordered the smoked salmon, a sirloin steak and a half bottle of Mouton Cadet before once again going over everything the Israeli Prime Minister had said at the meeting. But he concluded that the shrewd politician h
ad given no clues as to how or when—or even whether—the Israelis would carry out their threat.
On the recommendation of the maître d’, he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate soufflé. He convinced himself that he wasn’t going to be fed like this again for some time and, in any case, he could work it off in the gym the next day. When he had finished the last mouthful, Scott checked his watch: three minutes past eight—just enough time for coffee before grabbing a taxi to the airport.
Scott decided against a second cup, raised his hand and scribbled in the air to indicate that he’d like the check. When the maître d’ returned, he had his MasterCard ready.
“Your guest has just arrived,” said the maître d’, without indicating the slightest surprise.
“My guest…?” began Scott.
“Hello, Scott. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but the President just went on and on asking questions.”
Scott stood up and slipped his MasterCard back into his pocket before kissing Susan on the cheek.
“You did say eight o’clock, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” said Scott, as if he had simply been waiting for her.
The maître d’ reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers.
“I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,” she said without even a flicker of a smile.
“No, that sounds a bit too much for me,” said Susan. “But don’t let me stop you, Scott.”
“No, President Clinton’s not the only one dieting,” said Scott. “The consommé and the house salad will suit me just fine.” Scott looked at Susan as she studied the menu, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She had changed from her well-cut dark blue suit into a calf-length pink dress that emphasized her slim figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely onto her shoulders and for the first time in his memory she was wearing lipstick. She looked up and smiled.
“I’ll have the crab cakes,” she told the maître d’.
“What did the President have to say?” asked Scott, as if they were still in a State Department briefing.
“Not a lot,” she said, lowering her voice. “Except that if Saddam were to be assassinated he feels that he would automatically become the Iraqis’ number one target.”
“A human enough response,” suggested Scott.
“Let’s not talk politics,” said Susan. “Let’s talk about more interesting things. Why do you feel Ciseri is underestimated and Bellini overestimated?” she inquired. Scott realized Susan must have also read his internal file from cover to cover.
“So that’s why you came. You’re an art freak.”
For the next hour they discussed Bellini, Ciseri, Caravaggio, Florence and Venice, which kept them fully occupied until the maître d’ reappeared by their side.
She recommended the chocolate soufflé, and seemed disappointed that they both rejected the suggestion.
Over coffee, Scott told his guest about his life at Yale, and Susan admitted that she sometimes regretted she had not taken up an offer to teach at Stanford.
“One of the five universities you’ve honored with your scholarship.”
“But never Yale, Professor Bradley,” she said before folding her napkin. Scott smiled. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she added as the maître d’ returned with the check.
Scott signed it quickly, hoping she couldn’t see, and that the CIA accounts department wouldn’t query why it was a bill for three people.
When Susan went to the ladies’ room Scott checked his watch: 10:25. The last plane had taken off nearly an hour before. He walked down to the front desk and asked if they could book him in for another night. The receptionist pressed a few keys on the computer, studied the result and said, “Yes, that will be fine, Professor Bradley. Continental breakfast at seven and the Washington Post as usual?”