A deathly silence ruled the room. The gifts announced that Vashin knew where, and how, they lived.
The Swiss banker was the first to recover. “These are most flattering and I cannot thank you enough. We will be talking in the very near future.” The others rapidly agreed and the evening was over. They had much to think about.
The German banker was the last to leave. He joined Vashin by the fire and spoke in Russian. “Chancellor Gunder sends his regards and asks if you would consider meeting with his representative to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
“I would be honored,” Vashin replied.
Madeline Turner glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. It was 7:20 A.M. and she was alone in her office in the residence on the second floor. She tried to concentrate on the “Quadrennial Defense Review” in her lap but the combination of bureaucratic and military jargon defeated her. I need an interpreter for this, she thought. Felipe, her favorite steward, poured her another cup of coffee. She took a sip, enjoying the aroma, as she waited for her Kitchen Cabinet to arrive for breakfast.
Noreen will be first. Noreen Coker was the most direct of the four friends who were her personal advisors and support group. She read another page of the “Quadrennial Defense Review” and dropped it in a briefcase in frustration. I’m missing something here. A knock at the door, a tactful pause, and Noreen entered. Turner smiled. “I’m glad you’re early. We need to talk.”
The tall African American congresswoman from Los Angeles collapsed into an overstuffed chair. “For God’s sake, coffee. No normal human being gets up at this hour.” Felipe handed her a steaming cup.
“Thank you, Felipe,” said Turner. “That will be all.” The steward withdrew, leaving them alone. Turner studied her friend. “Are you putting on weight?”
An unhappy nod from Noreen. “Is it obvious?”
“A man?”
Another nod. “He’s no good but he does stir my bones.”
“I hope that’s all he’s stirring.” Turner wanted to say more but Noreen knew the rules in Washington. Women politicians had to be masters of the double standard. What a male politician could get away with was a career breaker for a woman. “I’m glad you’re early. There’s something we need to discuss. I’m thinking of running for reelection.”
Somewhere deep in Noreen a switch turned and the consummate political professional emerged. She was no longer the flashy congresswoman who represented a poverty-stricken district but the shrewd Washington insider. “I’m not surprised. You’ve got the political base to capture the nomination. But most incumbents do, unless they’re total idiots. Most of the press loves you but a few of the bastards run with Leland and his pack. We can handle them. It’s too early to announce and you need to play coy for a while, at least until after the congressional elections next month, perhaps until after the first of the year. We’ve got to keep the opposition guessing for as long as possible. Otherwise, they’ll get organized and start raising money. Finances will be a problem for us. We’ll need someone with muscle.”
“I know. I was thinking of bringing Patrick in.”
“Don’t stand too close to that man.”
Turner didn’t answer. But she knew the truth of it. The ugly fact of life in national politics was the amount of money needed to mount a successful presidential campaign. Raising it was not the problem. Keeping it at arm’s length was. Shaw would do the dirty work and be the lightning rod drawing the anger of her opponents. And the more successful her campaign, the stronger the attack. After the election he would have to disappear into the background or she would dump him. Turner glanced at the clock. “The others should be here.” She rose and led the way into the dining room where her Kitchen Cabinet gathered for breakfast.
“Maura will be against it,” Noreen cautioned. “She hates this place.” The switch moved and the facade was back in place. “Girl, you’d think I’d know better than to mess with a man at my age.”
Joe Litton, the press secretary, stood aside as Madeline Turner took the podium in the press briefing room. Everyone was standing and applauding and even Sam Donaldson had exchanged his sharklike grin for a warm smile. As the senior correspondent, Donaldson was the dean of the press corps and sat front and center. “Madame President,” he asked, “the pictures of you horseback riding with Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski have received wide coverage. Is there some romantic interest here?”
For a moment, the room was absolutely silent. Donaldson was not one of Turner’s tame reporters she could rely on to spin her side of the story. She gave him a little smile. “Not that I’m aware of, Sam.”
“So should we assume you’re horse fanciers?”
“Well, you could assume that, but we’re not. Brian and General Pontowski’s son are roommates at NMMI. We have a common interest as concerned parents. Sam, you graduated from there. You know how difficult the freshman year is.”
Donaldson looked down as if caught up in his own memories. Elizabeth Gordon from CNC-TV was next. She was one of Turner’s tame reporters. “Madame President, is it true that Amadis Escalante willed you one of her paintings?”
“Not exactly willed,” Turner replied. “There is some confusion whether it’s a gift or not. I was quite moved by the thought and the painting. For the time being, it’s hanging in my bedroom. But after I leave the White House, it will be sent to the Smithsonian as part of the national collection.”
Her answer satisfied the reporters and they turned to the hard questions about the economy, defense, and public education. The press secretary leaned against the side wall and relaxed. It was going to be a good day.
The black limousine took the long way from Foggy Bottom to the White House. Normally, the drive from the State Department lasted only a few minutes. But Stephan Serick, the secretary of state, needed the time to abuse his two deputies. His hands twisted in a vain attempt to strangle his cane. “The president knew about Bender’s security-aid package before I did. Why?”
“We’re still staffing it,” the head of the European desk said. “It arrived on my desk less than two weeks ago.”
Serick scowled but the man was right. Two weeks was not even time for the head of a desk to clear his throat, much less digest and forward a cable from an ambassador. Two months was more reasonable. “Unfortunately,” Serick grumbled, “you do not have to discuss it with the president. I do.”
“Bender has overstepped his bounds,” the under secretary said. “Ambassadors do not initiate major policy proposals.”
Serick almost shouted. “This one has.” His heavy jowls quivered and his Latvian accent grew thick. “How did she learn about it?” From his glare, the two professional diplomats knew they were in trouble.
“Not from State,” the under secretary said. “Turner recalled him for discussions and the national security advisor talked to him when he arrived.” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton was a much hated person in the State Department and she was only referred to by her title, never her name.
“And what is our position on this so-called security-aid package?” Serick asked.
Two heads shook as one. State didn’t have a clue.
The limousine went through the southwest appointment gate and deposited Serick at the west entrance to the West Wing. A Marine guard opened the door and Serick stumped into the White House, his right hand clenching his cane, still trying to strangle it. Dennis was waiting for him and led him into the Oval Office.