“MISSY, MY LOVE, I’m afraid we’re going to have to continue this at another time,” Stone said, helping Missy to extricate herself from beneath his authentic replica of John F. Kennedy’s famous Oval Office desk. The one with the famous picture of John-John hiding in it.
As soon as Missy had redressed and left, Stone sat alone in the Oval Office, chewing on the news Malcolm had just delivered. The likely death of former President Noah Daniels
He tucked in his shirt, re-zipped his trousers, and padded back over to the room’s hidden bar and poured himself another drink. He was conflicted as to how he should feel. A former President and a good man was dead. But honestly, all he felt was relief.
It had been Daniel’s arrogance that had put him in the White House. Something that he could have never done on his own.
He was aware of what the American people thought of him. He knew that most political insiders had thought that he was a joke. A clown. A reality star who’d lost his grip on reality. And that most Americans, his wife included, figured he wasn’t capable of handling the job. And that at some point – after he’d made some God awful mistake, like Zhamis had – that he’d realize it and relinquish the Presidency back to someone with political experience who knew what they were doing, like Noah Daniels. Taking a sip of his drink, he laughed aloud at that, thinking, The now disgraced and very dead Noah Daniels, he laughed again, with a smile.
But, where the hell was that girl, Ruyah bin Caneer? And how much had Daniels told her?
He crossed back over to the desk where he and Missy and been enjoying themselves – he could still smell her perfume – and pulled the Red phone from the bottom desk drawer.
He’d dialed six of the eleven numbers of his foreign collaborator in all of this, then stopped.
It crossed his mind that the man was dangerous even when he wasn’t being pushed for answers. And trying to get the information he wanted to know out of him, would surely irritate him. The man, and his brother, were a set of power hungry psychopaths bent on worldwide manipulation. And in the past few months, he’d come to understand that there was not a trace of empathy in them for their fellow man, foreign or domestic. All that mattered was what they wanted.
Stone disconnected the call and put the Red phone back in the bottom desk drawer. He eased back in his big leather Presidential chair and thought for a few minutes; going over the least hazardous options. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
He leaned forward, and once again, pulled the bottom drawer of this authentic replica of John F. Kennedy’s desk open and fumbled in back of the Red phone and pulled out a burner phone – one he’d bought long before becoming a candidate for the Presidency, in order to keep in touch with his extramarital sex partners – and dialed Demyan Zakharov’s number.
“Demyan! What’s going on? My man just came back and he tells me that the job is only half done. I thought we had a deal. Daniels and that wretched girl, dead, and you get to become an American citizen, and your handlers get to continue raping Syria. What the hell happened? Malcolm tells me that there was no sign of that insufferable terrorist bitch’s body.”
Eliza D. Ankum
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The Hunt For Red November A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2
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