The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

made her mood the fouler, a thought that stopped her in her tracks and forced a
self-directed smile she never bothered displaying for any of the security
personnel who checked her pass every morning at the west ground-level entrance.
They were just cops, after all, and cops were nothing to get excited about. Food
was served by Navy stewards, and the only good thing about them was that they
were largely minorities, many Filipinos in what she deemed a disgraceful
carryover from America's colonial-exploitation period. The long-service
secretaries and other support personnel were not political, hence mere
bureaucrats of one description or another. The important people in this building
were political. What little charm E.E. had was saved for them. The Secret
Service agents observed her movements with about as much interest as they might
have accorded the President's dog, if he'd had a dog, which he didn't. Both they
and the professionals who ran the White House, despite the arrivals and
departures of various self-inflated egos in human form, regarded her as just
another of many politically-elevated individuals who would depart in due course
while the pros stayed on, faithfully doing their duty in accordance with their
oaths of office. The White House caste system was an old one, with each
regarding all the others as less than itself.
Elliot returned to her desk, and set her coffee down to get a good stretch. The
swivel chair was comfortable – the physical arrangements here were first-rate,
far better than those at Bennington – but the endless weeks of early mornings
and late nights had taken a physical toll in addition to that on her character.
She told herself that she ought to return to working out. At least to walk.
Many staffers took part of lunch to pace up and down the mall. The more
energetic even jogged. Some female staffers took to jogging with military
officers detailed to the building, especially the single ones, doubtless drawn
to the short haircuts and simplistic mentalities that attached to uniformed
service. But E.E. didn't have time for that, and so she settled for a stretch
before sitting down with a muttered curse. Department head at America's most
important women's college, and here she was playing secretary to a goddamned
Yalie. But bitching didn't ever fix things, and she went back to work.
She was halfway through the Bird, and flipped to a new page as she picked up her
yellow highlighting pen. The articles were unevenly set. Almost all were just
crooked enough on the redacted pages to annoy, and E.E. was a pathologically
neat person. At the top of page eleven was a small piece from the Hartford
Courant. ALDEN PATERNITY CASE read the headline. Her coffee mug stopped in
mid-flight.
What?
Suit papers will be filed this week in New Haven by Ms. Marsha Blum, alleging
that her newly-born daughter was fathered by Professor Charles W. Alden, former
Chairman of the Department of History at Yale, and currently National Security
Advisor to President Fowler. Claiming a two-year relationship with Dr Alden, Ms.
Blum, herself a doctoral candidate in Russian history, is suing Alden for lack
of child support . . .
'That randy old goat,' Elliot whispered to herself.
And it was true. That thought came to her in a blazing moment of clarity. It had
to be. Alden's amorous adventures were already the subject of humorous columns