Shaw was still looking out the window. “Go talk to them. Be humble, be awed.”
“I am,” Turner replied.
Shaw hunched in front of the window trying to gauge the size of the crowd. He was brisk: “You’ve got the popularity, Mizz President. Now challenge the generals to deliver the goods.”
Winslow James was about to do the bravest thing in his life. He was going to resign as Bender’s DCM. He carefully adjusted his tie, buttoned his coat, and marched resolutely across the Red Room and into Bender’s office. “Thank you for seeing me,” he began. Bender waved him to a seat. “I’d prefer to remain standing. Mr. Ambassador, I’m afraid we are at total cross-purposes here.”
“How so?”
“Apparently, sir, you are operating under several misconceptions. An embassy is not an action agency like the military.”
“And what would you call the entire third floor?”
“The CIA functions entirely within the scope of a legation as an intelligence-gathering body. We are, if you will, legal spies.”
“I assure you, Winslow, that what the CIA is doing is not legal.”
James refused to be swayed. “Further, you appear to be under the illusion that, as ambassador, you are utterly free to conceive and act in policy formation. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are here to represent the president of the United States and implement her foreign policy, not make it.”
“And what if the president’s foreign policy is for us to conceive and act in certain areas?”
“Then you must do so. But not at the expense of the dignity and integrity of your staff.”
“You’re still angry about the hostage incident.”
“I was abused,” James replied, his voice huffy and strained.
“I understand Ewa Pawlik was the interpreter in the staff car. What did she tell you when you were stopped?”
“She said it was a police exercise and to follow their instructions.”
“Have you ever planned or participated in a hostage exercise?” James shook his head. “Then,” Bender continued, “perhaps you learned something and will be better prepared if the real thing should occur. I understand there’s an embassy operating instruction on terrorist and hostage situations.” Another nod from James. “You’re in a unique position because of your experience and I can’t think of anyone who can speak with more authority than you on this subject. Perhaps this would be the ideal time to update the operation instruction and brief the staff. Perhaps even an exercise—” He stopped at the look on James’s face.
“I might be able to do something in that regard,” James allowed, hedging his commitment.
“Why don’t you think about it and get back to me.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.” James spun around and left. Halfway back to his office, he stopped and remembered his original purpose. For the first time in months, he was excited and felt good. He wanted to update the antiterrorist/hostage operation instruction and test it. Perhaps it could even be a model for other embassies. His resignation could wait.
Shaw was on a roll.
“We got momentum here, Mizz President. I’ve never seen anything like it. After the turnout at the airport, those Chicago fat cats rolled over and begged you to stroke their bellies.” He laughed. “And you did. I never heard ’em purr like that. My Gawd, it was almost obscene, they were so contented. Now let’s see if we can repeat it in the land of la-la.” An aide handed him the latest news clips taken off the Internet. He hunched over and studied them. “It’s a slow news day. We’re on page one because nothin’ else is hot.” He paced the president’s cabin, waving the pages in the air like a fly swatter. “Hollywood is the heart of the beast.”
“Hollywood doesn’t have a heart,” Richard Parrish muttered.
Shaw shook his head. “Americans crave theater. Entertain me, entertain me. But they also want someone to look up to and admire. Since we ain’t got a king or queen to stand up and be deified, the public picks whoever is available. More often than not, the whoever comes from Hollywood. If you don’t believe me, just schedule yourself opposite the Academy Awards and find out who comes in suckin’ hind tit.”
“What’s your point?” Turner asked.
Shaw sat down. “This is gonna take a different approach. Substance doesn’t count here, style does. In Chicago, you had to challenge ’em. Here you got to wow ’em.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“Well, Mizz President, give ’em what they want and they’ll come out every time.”
Turner was equal parts annoyance and amusement. “Patrick, I’ve heard that line before. Get to the point.”
“I had a fashion designer work up a new wardrobe for this trip,” Shaw said. Turner arched an eyebrow in disapproval and he grew very serious. “Trust me on this one, Madame President.” He gave a friendly shrug. “Couldn’t hurt to look.”
The chartered aircraft carrying the press on the presidential tour landed at Burbank thirty minutes before Air Force One arrived. The size of the crowd the Secret Service was predicting would have totally disrupted Los Angeles International and the airport authorities asked the White House to find another arrival location. Although the change was announced twenty-four hours in advance, there was still confusion and many of the reporters could not find their TV crews.
Liz Gordon from CNC-TV scrambled to find her cameraman and was running toward the arrival area when Air Force One taxied in. Shaw had warned her to find a location that would give her a good shot of the president getting off the plane. Liz pushed her way through the crowd and bullied past lesser luminaries in the reporting world. Her cameraman was still setting up when the stairs were pushed against the forward entrance of the 747 and the door opened. Liz gave her hair a shake and did a sound balance. Then she was live, looking into the camera with Air Force One in the background.
“This is the fourth stop on President Turner’s whirlwind tour. While it is becoming increasingly obvious that…”
“Go to the president,” a voice in her earphone said.
Gordon never missed a beat as she turned toward the aircraft. “…the president is personally testing the depth of her support in key states.” She stopped at a loss for words, not sure if she was seeing the president or not. A woman stood in the doorway wearing a stylish hip length leather jacket and very chic but impeccably tailored pants. A tie belt snared her narrow waist and the collar to her jacket was open enough to reveal a man’s-style white silk shirt. Then it hit. It was Maddy Turner.
“Talk,” the voice in Gordon’s earphone commanded.
“This is the first time,” Gordon managed to say, “that the president has appeared in public wearing trousers. Judging by the reaction around me, she has caused a sensation. I hope the camera can capture the full effect she is having on this crowd. By simply changing her style of dress, she has reached out to them and said, ‘I am one of you.’”
Aboard Air Force One, Shaw charted her progress from a TV monitor in the communications section. He grunted in satisfaction as he channel surfed. The reaction was unanimously favorable. “That got their attention,” he muttered to himself.
Peter Duncan collapsed on the couch in Bender’s office. He was freshly showered and shaved but fatigue was etched on his face. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in two days. Automatically, Bender buzzed the outer office for coffee. “It’s too early,” he grumbled. His staff still hadn’t gotten the word that he liked to start work early. Ewa Pawlik answered on the fourth ring and promised to bring a tray in.
“Problems,” Duncan muttered. “I’ve been on a field exercise with Special Public Services for the last thirty-six hours. They’re peaked and ready to go. I don’t envy their commander. It’s like having two hundred hungry Doberman pinschers in your backyard with their balls all tied to the same tree.”