The Washington Stratagem Read Free Page A

had the build and posture of former soldiers, wore blue suits, white shirts, and navy ties emblazoned with “PG.” Two heavily built men, dressed in the same outfit, sat on the leather sofas at each end of the foyer. All had copies of the Washington Post on their laps. The four men seemed to be waiting for someone, but they did not pick up or read their newspapers.
    One wall was covered with photographs of board members: two vice presidents, three former secretaries of state—one dating back to the Kissinger era—an equal number of former national security advisers, and at least a dozen former congressmen and senior diplomats, including two former US ambassadors to the United Nations. The latest addition to the board of the Prometheus Group was Eugene Packard, a hugely popular television evangelist.
    Yael walked back across the lobby with Samantha. They stood by the wooden door, which was firmly closed. Yael watched with interest as Samantha rested her right palm on a small monitor mounted on the wall. There was a keypad above. The monitor lit up; Samantha covered the pad with her left hand and punched in a six-figure code. The keypad beeped once. Samantha then placed her right thumb in the center of the screen. It beeped again, the main door opened, and they rode the elevator together. It stopped at the twelfth floor but the door did not open. Samantha inserted a special key, embossed with the PG logo, into a narrow slot on the side of the cabin. The door slid aside, and they stepped into an anteroom. A slim Southeast Asian lady in her sixties, elegantly dressed in a green business suit, sat at her desk in front of a computer monitor, wearing a headset and microphone. She smiled at the two women and buzzed Clairborne, informing him that his visitor had arrived. The door to his office swung open.
    “Ms. Az-ou- lay ,” exclaimed Clairborne, stretching out the syllables of her surname in his Alabama accent as he bounded forward to greet her. “Thank you so much for making the time to visit with us today.”
    Everything about Clarence Homer Lincoln Clairborne III was big. His shoulders, a reminder of his time as a linebacker on the University of Alabama football team; his hands, the flesh of which swelled around his wedding and college rings; his hair, a stiff helmet of red and gray, held in place by gel and spray; his face, burned mahogany on the deck of his oceangoing yacht and the golf course; his hand-tailored suit with its roomy, two-button jacket and deep lapels that could not conceal the epic swell of his stomach. Even his voice was big, booming across his office as he greeted Yael.
    Clairborne ushered her to a corner, where two leather armchairs stood, identical to those in the reception area. A small side table stood between them, a jug of water and a large cigar box standing on it, its lid embossed with a large “PG.”
    Yael sat down, the polished leather squeaking underneath. Her pulse quickened; her senses were on full alert as she scoped her surroundings, totally focused now. The parquet wooden floor was covered with an enormous single Persian rug, the walls wood paneled, while an old-fashioned desk with a rectangle of green leather on the writing surface took up most of one corner. Two photographs in silver frames, of a young woman and a teenage boy who looked like a youthful version of Clairborne, stood on its right-hand corner. The lighting was muted and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and fresh coffee. The most important signifier in any Washington office, Yael knew, was the occupant’s power wall. Company foyers showcased an array of formal portraits of the board members, while the CEO’s office usually had more relaxed shots, showing him glad-handing, eating, and drinking with the great and good. There was a hierarchy to decode: a snatched picture at an event with a DC rainmaker was lower on the totem pole than a common table at a charity dinner. Best of all was something à deux : just the