“And the Cellar takes action when need be. Sanctions.”
She frowned that he even dared mention the name and the term, even here in the sanctity of the White House. “We have operatives who take action at Hannah’s directive.”
“But you’re not one of those operatives?”
“I keep the book, sir.”
Templeton got up. He walked to the table and took the book, turning it to face him, and looked down on a page where the Keep had been writing in longhand, adding Templeton’s comments to its contents. “The Book of Truths. Really torpedoes campaign promises and lofty goals when you walk in the room and lay it out.”
“It doesn’t have to, sir,” the Keep said. “It just makes the world real.”
“Same thing. Blew Kennedy’s missile gap right out of the water when he read the truth about the numbers in this book. There was a gap all right, but it was the opposite of what the Pentagon and the CIA and the defense industry was telling everyone.”
“It was the truth,” the Keep said. “It helped him make the right choices during the Missile Crisis.”
Templeton shook his head. “This shouldn’t be called the Book of Truths. It should be the Book of Secrets. Why don’t we just publish the thing and let the American public know all the truths in it?” He didn’t wait for, or expect, an answer. “That’s why they’re secrets.”
There was a loud crash from downstairs and voices raised in alarm.
The president headed for the door. “‘What fresh hell is this?’” he quoted. “Shakespeare always had a good line for any occasion.”
“It’s not Shakespeare,” the Keep informed him as he left the room to investigate. “Dorothy Parker.”
“Great,” the president muttered. “Can’t even let me get Shakespeare right.”
Just a minute earlier, Debbie Templeton had bolted from her Secret Service limo and darted into the Entrance Hall, two stories below where her father was. She immediately ran into some stewards who were carrying boxes of ornaments that flew out of their arms and onto the pink and white marble floor. The sound of breaking glass and ceramic filled the hall, followed by gasps of dismay from both stewards.
One of them fell to his knees, as if he could magically reassemble that which had been broken beyond repair. “They’re so old and precious!”
“Irreplaceable,” the other steward said in shock.
“Precious?” Debbie hissed in her best Gollum imitation. She shifted to her regular voice. “What the hell is wrong with you? They’re just balls of glass. Balls like your balls, if you had any.” She found this quite amusing and cackled maniacally.
This trumped the broken ornaments and the entire Entrance Hall froze in shock: the stewards touching up the decorations on the towering tree that dominated the room (adding ornaments from the states of a delegation of congressmen coming later in the day, pulling ones from states not represented), the carpenters adding to the gingerbread house display (produce from same states being featured, removing said produce from same nonrepresented states), and the waitstaff cleaning up after a reception for some group and preparing for the next.
Never a dull moment.
“Debbie!” The First Lady’s voice was pitched in a tone everyone recognized. She strode across the hall like she owned it instead of borrowing it for four years. She gripped Debbie’s upper arm in a vise grip and hauled her out of the hall and toward the State Dining Room, cutting a hard right and shoving her into the elevator. The door shut before the First Lady’s own two Secret Service guards could enter, so they sprinted up the stairs next to the elevator.
Inside the elevator, Helen Templeton pressed her daughter against the wall. “What has gotten into you?”
Debbie was laughing and crying at the same time, which basically made her a mess. She started blubbering. “Brennan, Mom. They took Brennan away. He cheated on me.”
“He cheated on you? Who took him away?” Mrs. Templeton handled the statements in her view of the order of priority.
“In high school! That’s why we didn’t go to the prom. He got a blowjob. From Mary McCarthy of all people. Can you believe that?”
The elevator doors opened on the top level revealing the president, the Keep standing behind him, thick leather book in her arms, and farther in the distance the aide with the football. Seconds later, two winded Secret Service agents came dashing out of the stairwell to their right.
“I always knew that boy was no good,” the First Lady said.
“Oh, Helen, give the girl a break,” the president said instinctively. “What boy? Brennan?”
“You don’t even know what’s going on,” the First Lady snapped at him. She spotted the Keep in the background. “What’s she doing here?”
The First Lady had gone on a purge the first months in the White House and any woman she considered attractive, aka a threat, was banished from the main residence. She’d forgotten about the Keep, whom she’d added to the list. Everyone, it seemed, forgot about the Keep.
It was also why a female officer never carried the football, something the president hadn’t noticed.
The president ignored his wife and removed her hand from his daughter’s arm. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Debbie collapsed into his arms, heaving with sobs, yet bursts of laughter poked through. “Brennan. He always accused me of sleeping with that stupid quarterback who cheated off me all senior year. Turns out he was the one who cheated. And all these years he’d been putting that on me. How shitty is that?” Just as quickly, her mind jumped tracks as she looked over her shoulder at her mother. “Do you think you have enough Botox, Mom? Really? For God’s sake, you haven’t been able to smile in years.”
“Debbie,” her father said.
“What are Rifts?” Debbie asked. “Fireflies? Bren seemed upset about them. More secrets?”
In the background, the Keep was startled, which meant she clenched her left fist tight and dug her fingernails in to prevent showing any sign of being startled.
“And Pinnacle?” Debbie said. “He said something about Pinnacle?”
The president swallowed, ignored the questions, and misdirected, the way four years of dealing with the White House Press Corps had taught him. “I don’t care how upset you are, that’s no way to talk to your mother.”
Debbie pushed out of his arms and looked at him. “You’re not much better. Look at all the makeup you have on.”
“I have to address the press and the cameras wash you out so—” Templeton began to explain what he knew she already knew, but she cut him off by placing her hands on his face and trying to rub off the fake rose on his cheeks.
“Stop that!” Helen cried out. “It took that girl”—the First Lady rarely remembered any of the staff’s names, relying on “that girl” or “that guy”—“twenty minutes to do your father’s face.”
“I’m calling the doctor,” the president said as he gripped Debbie’s hands and pulled them away. Several Secret Service agents hovered in the background, uncertain what to do. Was this a threat to the First Family from the First Family, or was this a family squabble? Who, exactly, were they to protect from whom?
Their job sucked.
“Yes!” Debbie screeched, struggling against him. He was so surprised he let go. “Call the doctor,” Debbie continued, “and have him check out this loon you married.”