Power Curve by Richard Herman

man, you had better audition for the job.” She threw the covers back and waited for him before turning out the light.
     
    “Have you taken a vow of stupidity?” Shaw asked. He propped the telephone on his shoulder and listened to the reply while he rifled through the paperwork on his desk, organizing the 8 A.M. meeting that started Turner’s workday.
    “This isn’t La-La Land over here,” the director of Central Intelligence protested. “We don’t make up intelligence, we only report it. And as long as I’m the DCI—”
    “Which may be about one more day,” Shaw said, “unless you start taking a hard look at China.”
    “As I was saying,” the DCI continued, “as long as I’m the director, the President’s Daily Brief will contain only the best and most current intelligence we can produce. Nothing is happening in China that warrants the president’s attention.”
    Shaw looked at his watch. “In exactly seventy-two minutes, I’m going to hand the PDB to the president. Given her concern about the Far East, I’d suggest that it include a statement to that effect.” He smiled. “Considering your sterling performance on the Beijing Pact, she’ll find warmth and comfort in your reassurances.” He waited for the DCI’s wheels to grind. Sooner or later, he would realize that if China went hot, he’d be out of a job and heaped with scorn and ridicule for missing it.
    “This discussion is beyond the security classification of this phone,” the DCI huffed.
    He needs some enlightenment , Shaw decided. “The president can take bad news,” he said, “but hates surprises. I mean, she really hates them. You saw what happened to defense—” He deliberately let his voice trail off. The DCI would fill in the rest.
    “An amended PDB will be on your desk in an hour,” the DCI said. “With relevant intelligence on China.”
    “I do like dealing with you rocket scientists,” Shaw said, breaking the connection. He finished arranging the stack of papers he would carry to the meeting before he picked up the letter. “Now what do I do about this?” he muttered. He jabbed at his intercom. “Get Bender in here.” He glanced at his watch. Three minutes, he calculated.
    Bender was standing in the doorway with eighteen seconds to spare. Shaw held up the offending letter with his thumb and forefinger. “I need to speak to you about that,” Bender began.
    “There’s nothing to say,” Shaw replied, cutting him off. “Your president needs your help.” He let the letter fall to his desk. “Where’s your loyalty, General?”
    Who would believe? Bender thought. He wants me to retract the letter . Maybe it was time to do a little politicking of his own. “One of the reasons I requested reassignment is because of Chuck Sanford and Wayne Adams.”
    “Who the hell are they?” Shaw grumbled.
    “The two Secret Service agents you had relieved from the president’s detail after St. Louis. I hear they’re undergoing an administrative discharge.”
    Shaw’s right fingers drummed on the desk. Damn right I had them sacked , he thought. So you want to wheel and deal. I can do that. Anything to keep Maddy happy—and distracted from tax reform . “I don’t interfere with Secret Service internal matters,” he countered, feeling Bender out. The general’s look was an eloquent statement of disbelief. “But I can check into it. We don’t want anyone abusing our people.” It was a done deal.
    “I’d appreciate that,” Bender said. He picked up the letter and turned to leave. “Shall I leave the door open, Mr. Shaw?”
    “Close it,” Shaw said. He cocked his big head to one side and watched Bender leave. So you want to play hardball , he thought. Never do that when I’ve got another turn at bat .
     
    Sarah Turner shot out of the family dining room and almost bowled into the serving cart William was pushing down the corridor. “Sorry,” she called. Then she thought better of it and came back. “I