She helped him lower the body into the grave and cover it with dirt. When they were finished, she knelt beside the grave and rocked back and forth in her grief. Slowly, the Hebrew words came as she rocked, “Shma Yisrael… In the beginning God created …” Habish’s hand clamped down hard on her shoulder, stopping her. She looked around and saw a man in a white turban and long flowing black robes standing behind them — a mullah.
Zack stood in the doorway of his wife’s bedroom, not wanting to disturb the moment. He was vaguely aware of the young, dark-suited Secret Service agent in the far corner of the main hall who was trying to blend in with the woodwork. They do try to give me space, he thought. But a President is never really alone. Zack accepted the inevitability of what that meant and knew the young agent would breathe easier if he went inside and closed the door behind him. I’ll wait, he decided. They don’t need me right now.
Sitting on the edge of his grandmother’s bed, Matt was gently holding her hand in his and speaking softly. His voice had changed, not so strident and young. “I’m okay now, Grandmother. A good friend helped me get through … my wizzo.”
A good friend? Pontowski thought. His wizzo? Before it had always been the girl of the moment whom Matt had talked about when bringing Tosh up to date on his private life. And he’s wearing his class A uniform. He had never done that before and had always been in a hurry to get into civvies. My God, he does look like his father …
The image of Matt’s father was now painted in large brushstrokes across Zack’s memory. You were on the way when Zack Junior was your age, he thought.
“No.” Matt smiled at his grandmother and answered another question. “There’s no one special right now.”
That was as close as Tosh will come to asking about your love life, Pontowski thought. She wants a great-grandchild, hopefully a boy, to carry on the Pontowski name. Pontowski… a good Polish name that could trace its lineage back to a king. No doubt on the wrong side of the bedsheets, if the truth be known. The Pontowskis always were a lusty lot. Damn it, Matt, get with the program. You’re the last of the line, almost the same age as your father when he was killed in Vietnam.
“Will you make the Air Force a career now?” Tosh asked.
“Probably. I seem to have my act together now and …”
It is true, you do have your act together. Thanks to the Air Force. But at what a price. They tell me Locke was one of the finest officers they had, a superb pilot, a leader, a future general. Must we waste our best men? I’ve got to change that. Is there a price for Matt to pay?
“And, well”—Matt hesitated looking for the right words—“I’m good at it. I can fly the beast.” He was serious now. “And I love the challenge. When I’m flying, I’m alive.”
Now you understand yourself. Is that the beginning of discipline? Oh yes, I know about being alive, when food tastes better, love is sweeter. Someday I’ll have to sit down with you and talk about the Big One, World War Two, when I was flying Mosquitoes for the RAF and met your grandmother. You can do both — be a pilot and a husband. Be honest, you want a great-grandson as badly as Tosh.
“Zack”—Tosh looked around her grandson—“come in and quit ignoring your family.”
Zachary Matthew Pontowski, the President of the United States, savored the moment and felt a rare warmth work through him. I suppose, he thought, that each of us in only given a few limited moments of happiness and contentment in this life. Are they the same? The secret isn’t to wish for more of those moments but to know when you’re having one.
He walked through the door and closed it behind him.
“Oh, this is nice,” the girl said as she looked around the elegant apartment that Fraser kept at the Watergate complex for such occasions. They had met at a dinner party that evening and after a show of interest on his part, the girl had easily gravitated into his circle. No one had objected, for Tara Tyndle was young, extremely well-endowed and gorgeous, and could carry on an intelligent conversation. She shook out her blond hair when Fraser took her wrap, creating the effect she wanted.
“I’m glad you like it. Drink?”
“Please. White wine.” She walked around the room and touched the stereo. She gave him a look and arched an eyebrow. He nodded and she turned the stereo on. She knew exactly where to find the FM station she wanted. “I used to dance to music like this,” she told him.
“I didn’t know you’re a dancer. Ballet?”
“Was a dancer. I gave it up. I assure you, this is not music for ballet.” She could tell he was interested.
“That’s too bad, I’d of like to seen you dance.”
“It’s not too late.” She shook her head again, threw her hair to one side, and arched the same eyebrow. Fraser liked the way she communicated with him and again nodded.
Tara smiled and started to move with the music. She walked across the floor with the same sure step of a showgirl on a runway at a casino in Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Then she was behind his favorite chair, patting the high back for him to sit down. He did and she moved out in front. Now she was rubbing the sides of her hips, pulling her dress up her thighs. With an easy, practiced motion, she pulled the dress over her head and threw it aside, again shaking her hair out. Her movements slowed with the music as she teased him, slowly taking her bra off. Then her back was to him and she bent over, pulling her panties down, looking back at him. Slowly, she moved toward him and straddled his left leg, moving with the music.
Fraser’s pager buzzed at him and she backed away, her sensuous movements blending with the music. She kicked off her high heels. He fumbled at the pager and glanced at the call number. “Goddamn it! What does that bitch want now!” B. J. Allison’s phone number was flashing at him. He fought to control his breathing. When he was in control, he jabbed at the buttons of the phone next to him. His voice was pleasant and showed no traces of what he felt. “B.J., you do work late. How do you expect an old fart like me to keep up with you?” He listened. “Yes, of course. No … I don’t mind coming. right over. You called at a good time. I’m free.”
The girl moved to the hall closet, took out his topcoat, and held it demurely in front of her. She was still moving to the music, swaying back and forth behind his topcoat. “Must you go?” she asked. He grunted and disappeared out the door. Tara walked back into the room and methodically searched it for bugs and a hidden VCR. It was clean. She sat down in Fraser’s chair and crossed her long bare legs as she dialed a number. “Hello. Yes, it worked.” She gave a low laugh, “Oh, yes. He’s definitely interested but I won’t be here when he gets back.” She hung up and rapidly dressed. Just before she left, she scribbled her phone number for him to call.
Fraser knew Allison was sending him a message and that he would have to cool his heels for a while longer before she made an entrance. Of course she would bubble with apologies, but the message would remain — she was angry at the way she had been treated at the White House. After all, she had only been three minutes late for the meeting, and while it was a deliberate three minutes, Fraser should have smoothed things over with the President. Her money, power, and influence demanded that. She was determined to make that point with Fraser.
“Tom, you do spoil me.” B.J. swept into the room, looking bright and cheerful for one o’clock in the morning. As always, he wondered how old she really was when he took her hand and tried to act courtly. She led him into the sitting room she used as an office and sat down. A secretary brought over a silver tea service and poured two cups. When he was finished, B.J. waved the young man and two other secretaries out of the room. “Now, Tom, we really must talk.” Fraser braced himself for a brutal session.