“Are you watching this flight?” the President asked.
“The Prime Minister really knows how to make a point, doesn’t he?” she said.
The President laughed loudly. “Coming from you that’s high praise.”
“My intent was never to make things harder for you,” she said. “I hope you understand that.”
“Of course,” the President said honestly. “You didn’t make things easier, necessarily, but you know that. Sometimes I appreciate the moral clarity. Not always… Moral clarity is not usually the currency of choice in Washington.” It was not clear from the President’s tone if he was answering her question, musing aloud, or both. Cecelia Dodds listened, in any event.
Air India One did a low (1,750 feet), slow flyover of the Capitol Mall, dipping its wings as it passed over the White House. Tourists gawked at the enormous 747 flying bizarrely low over the city. Government workers hustled outside to witness the arrival of the historic flight. The Prime Minister was at the controls the whole way. Moments later the plane landed without incident at Joint Base Andrews. The landing and subsequent arrival ceremony was the most watched television event in Indian history—half a billion viewers—with many viewers in remote villages watching on their new televisions. The jumbo jet and its precious cargo taxied to a halt in an area where the President and First Lady were waiting. Seats had been set up on the tarmac for other VIPs. The entire NIH crisis group was there, as well as the White House staff who had worked on the Outbreak and the senior diplomats from the Indian Embassy. I was sitting in the second row with Jenna. The NIH Director, part of the official delegation welcoming the Prime Minister, stood slightly behind the President. Rows of Army trucks were parked near the terminal building, ready for the Dormigen to be unloaded and then reloaded onto the Air Force cargo planes that would fly it to the major population centers. One could feel the logistics folks ready to spring into action; the President had ordered them to stand down until the Prime Minister had his moment in the spotlight. (Of course, no one in the White House had anticipated how good the Prime Minister would be at shining the spotlight on himself—all down the Eastern Seaboard and over the Capitol at 1,750 feet.)
I found it all thrilling. The disappointment that we could not ward off the crisis with a scientific miracle had given way to the realization—valid, I still believe—that we had been part of a successful team effort. We were watching history, like being at Cape Canaveral when the moon shot was launched. The 747 taxied into position, the huge Indian and American flags on the fuselage gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun. Was that choreographed, or was it just luck? In any event, the perfectly illuminated flags provided an idyllic backdrop for the subsequent photos. A Marine band struck up a tune, something I could not identify but that felt vaguely familiar. The staircase was wheeled into position as the jet door popped open. The Prime Minister appeared and waved jauntily to the crowd.
The President walked to the bottom of the stairs, leaving the First Lady (wearing her wedding ring once again) and the others in the welcome party behind. The Prime Minister descended slowly, pausing about halfway to give a crisp salute in the direction of the Marine color guard standing at attention on the tarmac. The President, almost instinctively, began to climb the stairs so that the two men met on the second step. The Prime Minister extended his hand, which the President grasped, pulling the Prime Minister into an embrace, almost like two children. This was the photograph broadcast around the world: the two leaders locked in a bear hug. The Prime Minister was looking over the President’s shoulder, beaming at the adoring crowd. The President had closed his eyes in an expression that looked like profound relief.[32] Two politicians. Two statesmen, I suppose, though even now I would be hard-pressed to explain the difference. “I’m very glad to see you,” the President whispered to the Prime Minister, who laughed heartily.
“It’s good to be here,” the Prime Minister replied. “Yes, it’s good to be here,” he repeated. “And how are you doing, Mr. President?”
In a moment of candor—one elected head of state to another—the President of the United States replied, “I’m very tired.”
Epilogue
THE FOLLOWING EVENING THE PRESIDENT HOSTED A DINNER at the White House for the Indian Prime Minister. It was not an official state dinner. The exact protocol of that was lost on me, other than it meant I could wear a suit rather than having to rent a tuxedo. The guest list included White House officials, the Washington diplomatic corps, a handful of CEOs, prominent members of the Indian-American community, and an array of celebrities, including some Indian film stars. I took Ellen as my guest—I figured I owed her that much—though I spent much of the evening talking to Jenna. We would start dating several weeks later. Giscard was there, of course; he spent most of his time hitting on an Indian film star. I could not say that I had come to like him, but I had grown to appreciate his force of personality. He was wearing a burgundy suit with a matching scarf—always the scarf. Who else could pull that off?
The Chief of Staff was there with her entire family: her husband and two daughters. The daughters looked like they would rather be anywhere else. At one point I watched the Chief of Staff tell the older one to put her phone away, which apparently prompted some snippy response, because the two of them argued briefly before the daughter went storming off, high heels wobbling slightly, as only a teenager (in the wrong) can manage. I found the whole scene oddly reassuring, even sweet. It made me feel like life was back to normal.
There were elaborate toasts before dinner. By then the Indian Dormigen had been distributed across the country with relatively few hiccups. The American supply would be back online in hours. The crisis was unequivocally over. “This is the beginning of a new chapter in American-Indian relations,” the President declared in his toast. I had been around him enough to know when he was being sincere and when he was going through the motions. This felt genuine to me, not least because the world is a dangerous place and I had been persuaded that the world’s most powerful democracy and the world’s most populous democracy ought to be close allies.
The Strategist was there, basking in the success of the fake polling that had set the India strategy in motion. “I got it wrong,” he said with false modesty (to the small group who knew about this activity). In fact, the Prime Minister’s heroic flight to the U.S. had been even more popular than the Strategist’s fictional polling had suggested: 91 percent of Indians supported the Dormigen donation to the U.S.; 83 percent felt relations between the two countries should be closer. I said hello to the Strategist and exchanged pleasantries. “What do you think of my date?” he asked, nodding toward a large-breasted woman in a very short dress who had to be at least twenty years younger than he was. “She’s a professional,” he said with a wink. I had no idea what to say. I think he was telling the truth.
The menu was vegetarian out of respect for the Indian vegetarians among the guests. The centerpieces were made of lotuses, the national flower of India. (I did not notice this detail; someone pointed it out to me.) I was amazed by what had been pulled together in thirty-six hours. The President had nothing to do with the planning, obviously. There was an entire White House office for this kind of thing: flowers, food, seating arrangements, protocol. The President did make one specific request for the evening: the Speaker of the House and the Chinese Ambassador were seated next to one another. I could not help but look at them as they sat there glumly all night.