Code Name: Nanny (SEAL and Code Name #5)(56)

The yellow light blinked on his phone. “Yes, Margo.”

“Your brother’s calling, Senator. Line two.”

“Got it. When I’m done, let’s knock out the rest of these letters. Then you can go.” Leaning forward, he punched a button. “So, do we have our support for the wetlands conservancy or not, Greg?”

A chair creaked. Tate could almost see his chief political advisor dig into the pile of papers and press clippings that accompanied him everywhere. His ammunition dump, Greg called it.

“Better than I hoped. I’ve located two corporate sources ready to back your initiative, along with half a dozen grassroots conservation groups. It will make damned good press—more important, none of it will cost the public a cent. I’ve set up two interviews for you next week, but there’s just one problem.”

Wasn’t there always? “Who’s out for blood today? Sanders? Ashford?”

His brother gave a dry laugh. “Neither. This enemy is worse, Tate. It’s your own lack of time. Your schedule is completely booked, and I don’t know where to fit in anything else.”

“You and Margo can find a way to shoehorn them in. Something else bothering you?”

Papers rustled. “I ran into another reporter from The Wall Street Journal. He asked when you were going to formally declare.”

“And you put him off, politely but firmly.”

“Of course.” There was a brief hesitation. “He told me there’s a feeling you aren’t serious about becoming president. He was basically trying to bait me into an exclusive story, but it’s worrisome nevertheless. He also said . . .”

“Go on, Greg.”

“Damn it, he said a friend of his would double whatever salary I was getting from you.”

Tate studied the stuffed armadillo. “Nice offer. I trust that you told him no.”

“Of course I did. I’m not going anywhere, especially over to the media. We’ve had our differences, but that’s ancient history now. This means there’s more negative buzz about your presidential race. Someone could be trying to mow you down early.”

“Nothing we can’t handle. You’re better at your job than you realize, Greg.”

“It would be easier if you’d finalize, Tate. You’ve got a shot straight to the very top, and voters are ready for fresh ideas and new energy. I’m getting forty or fifty calls a day from people who want to volunteer for your campaign, even before it’s officially announced. Mother called today and said your demographics are off the chart, according to one of her lobbyist friends. Our only challenge will be timing. You need to set a date for the official announcement before these negative rumors snowball. I know you’re distracted with the wedding coming up—”

“My focus is hardly in question,” Tate said impatiently. “I’m taking the minimum time off, exactly as we agreed. Damn it, this is August recess, my only time free.” Why did he feel guilty for trying to have some semblance of a life?

“True enough, but the clock is ticking, remember that.”

“I’ll think about a date, Greg.” Tate glanced at his watch. “Gotta go, bro. Five more letters to dictate. Is there anything else?”

“Have you heard from Mother? She left a message here and sounded upset.”

Tate stared at the photo of his brother and his mother hiking in Alaska. “I spoke to her a while ago. She had to drop some things at Cara’s, and apparently there was some kind of problem with a dead rat in Cara’s car. Don’t worry, it’s nothing. She’s probably stressed from all the wedding preparations.”

“In that case, I’ll see you at the airport later. I’ve got those health-care documents you wanted to review.”

“If I don’t hurry, I won’t make it to the airport. Getting Cara to take three days off was no easy matter, either.”

“She has that Costello appeal coming up, as I remember. Any problems there? You’d hope a conviction of racketeering, vice, trafficking in human illegals, and a few counts of murder would stick.”

“Costello’s going down and staying down. Cara and her people built a solid case against him, and this appeal has no merit.”

“I heard one of the earlier witnesses wants to change his testimony.”

Tate frowned. “Really? Cara didn’t mention that to me.”

“She probably forgot with all the distractions. Now get finished there and go meet her.” Greg Winslow sighed. “As for me, I’ve got a date with two angry lobbyists. With a little luck I can keep them from strangling each other over Caesar salad and grilled chicken Florentine.”

“Rock on.” Smiling, Tate put down the phone. Then he picked up a file and started fleshing out answers to mail that couldn’t wait.



Cara stood at her office window watching a layer of gray haze climb up from the Pacific. The shot fired at the house had left her terrified, and she was determined to get the girls away as soon as possible. She had always considered herself a strong woman with a solid moral compass, but the last weeks had begun to tear away her strength, filling her with doubts.

As the gray haze continued to climb, she thought about the girls. How could she bring her children into danger? How could she let them suffer for the difficult job she did? And how could she inflict her past on Tate if it could harm his career?