During his long years in the Congress, Russell had been known as diligent, hard-working, and dull, but also, unlike many of his colleagues, modest and self-effacing. There was none of that now. He was confident, decisive, without any apparent doubts about anything.
“There was no one else. The choice was obvious. Hillary Constable changed the definition of first lady. No one knows more about the way government works. No one is more dedicated to public service. And let me add: No one cares more about others and less about herself. I think the record proves that,” he said in a way that by its very ambiguity reminded everyone of what she had gone through with her husband.
“I have a question for Mrs. Constable!” shouted a young reporter at the end of the first row. “Philip Carlyle of the New York Times. Do you intend to report the money that you and your husband received over the years from a financial institution in France, tens of millions of dollars from The Four Sisters?”
Hillary Constable stiffened, but only for an instant, and then she had the look of a woman used to being treated badly.
“I think you’re referring to certain charitable contributions made to one of the foundations established by my husband to provide assistance to people who need it,” she replied with a weary, and much put upon expression. “That has been reported every year, so far as I know, by the people responsible. I was not involved in any of that, so I could not say with complete certainty, but I believe that to be true.”
She turned away, but Carlyle was not finished.
“No, I’m talking about tens of millions of dollars paid into various accounts, money that benefited you directly. Do you have any comment?”
“You’ve obviously been misinformed.” She looked at him as if she had suddenly realized what he was saying. “You think my husband, who, whatever human faults he may have had, dedicated his life to this country, would have done something like that-taken money from someone? What kind of people do you think we are? You really ought to know what you’re talking about before you ask a question like that!”
“You deny it then?”
“Of course I deny it! I’ve never done anything like that in my life!”
Careful to get it down exactly the way she said it, Carlyle did not fail to notice that she had shifted ground and was now talking only about what she had done. Not that it mattered, given what he had learned.
“President Russell!” he shouted as he scribbled the last few words in his notebook. “Do you have any comment, anything you would like to say about The Four Sisters?”
If Russell heard the question, he ignored it. With a quick smile and a brief wave he thanked everyone and with Hillary Constable beside him walked toward the West Wing as if everything had gone just as planned. Privately, the president was furious.
“I thought this story died with your husband,” he said with a withering glance.
Hillary Constable ignored him. She looked around the Oval Office, noticing the changes. The photographs on the credenza were now pictures of Russell and his dowdy middle-aged wife, pictures of their children and their grandchildren, traditional family pictures instead of the endless gallery of famous and important people that Robert Constable had kept there to remind himself how far he had come from his hardscrabble beginnings in America’s heartland. Russell had not yet replaced the desk, the one that had been used by Theodore Roosevelt, the one that Constable had chosen to paint himself as less partisan than some of his immediate predecessors, the desk that seemed to give him tangible proof that he was as good, or could be as good, as the great ones had been.
“This ‘story,’ as you put it,” she replied finally, “is the only reason you’re sitting in that chair. I wouldn’t think you could have forgotten that.”
No one sat down in the Oval Office until they were first invited to do so, but Hillary did not think she needed anyone’s permission. She took a chair in front of the desk and began to remove her gloves.
“How much do you think he knows?” asked Russell. The lines in his forehead deepened with worry. “It seemed like he knew a lot. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything was supposed to be taken care of. Atwood said-”
“Atwood said!” cried Hillary angrily. “You’re really quite pathetic! You decide you want something, but you’re afraid to go get it. You spent too much of your life making deals. You should have stayed in Congress! You can’t compromise your way out of this! You knew what you were doing when you got involved, when you blackmailed your way onto the ticket four years ago.”
Russell’s face turned red. The veins in his temples throbbed.
“I did no such thing! If anything, it was the other way round. It was your idea-his idea-not mine!”
A dismissive smile spread across her face and stayed there, taunting him with her indifference to how he chose to remember things. He could rewrite the past any way he wished; what was important was what they had to do now.
“No one can prove anything, not if we keep our story straight. That reporter-Carlyle-maybe he learned something from Quentin Burdick, but all he has are questions. He doesn’t know anything.”
Russell was not so sure.
“Burdick may not have known anything either,” he said with a caustic glance. “And look what happened to Robert.”
They stared at each other, reluctant to say anything more about the murder that had led to this, a forced marriage of ambition that neither of them had wanted.
“None of this would have happened if it had not been for The Four Sisters. I tried to warn him. Even after it started, I tried to get him to stop. I told him there was too much to lose, that sooner or later someone would find out, but nothing was ever enough for him. He thought that nothing could touch him, that he was indestructible. And then, when the whole thing started to come undone, when that damn Burdick started asking questions, he was like some scared kid caught trying to steal something. He could have lied his way through it, but he was too much a coward for that. He would have told Burdick everything, and tried to blame it all on other people.” She looked straight at Russell. “But you won’t have a problem doing what you have to do, will you?”
Russell picked up the telephone.
“Will you send in Mr. Atwood.”
He turned back to Hillary.
“I think you’re right. No one is going to be much interested in something that may have happened between President Constable and some investment firm overseas. The only thing the public wants to know is when we’re going to catch the man responsible for his murder.”
A moment later, the door opened and Clarence Atwood stepped inside.
“Sit down,” said Russell, gesturing impatiently toward the chair next to the one Hillary was occupying. “What’s happened since I talked to you this morning?”
Atwood seemed nervous, ill at ease. His shoulders slouched forward; his jaw began to tighten. He looked from Russell to Hillary and then back to the president.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, nothing at all? You don’t know anything about where he has disappeared?”
“He’s not in Paris…at least we don’t think he is.”
Russell glared at him. He had expected more than this.
“The FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service-all the resources of this government, and the help of other governments as well-and the best you can do is tell us that you don’t think he’s still in Paris?”
Atwood bent his lanky frame closer to the president.
“We have run into some problems with the French.”
“What kind of problems?” demanded Hillary. “There aren’t supposed to be any problems-remember? You knew how to take care of everything!”