“Yes, sir.”
After he hangs up, Harrison impatiently paces the office— careful never to step on the Presidential Seal in the center of the rug, which is considered bad luck, and he doesn’t want any more bad luck today—and the dark part of him wonders, who does he want to hear from first? Parker Hoyt, telling him where Grace has been found? Or the anonymous telephone operator somewhere on the grounds, telling him she’s located the woman he really loves?
What kind of man is he, he thinks, what kind of husband is he, that he would worry about both his wife and his mistress at the same time?
Good question, he thinks.
And no answer.
He reaches into his left pants pocket, takes out a thick challenge coin, stamped with an outline of Air Force One over the White House, and on the reverse, the logo of the 89th Airlift Wing and its Latin motto, Experto Crede. If he were to push the center of the coin and hold it down for three seconds, this room would be flooded with Secret Service agents.
His wife wears a similar object around her neck.
It hasn’t been activated. He puts his challenge coin back in his pocket, seeing that as a good sign. If she were in trouble—
The phone rings. He goes to his ornately carved desk, picks up the phone. “Mr. President,” says the clear voice of the switchboard operator, who again sounds neutral and professional on this “Ambush in Atlanta” day of days, “I have your party on the line.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” and there’s a click as the line is secured, belonging to him and his caller, and he says, “Tammy? Are you there?”
“Oh, Harry,” comes her sweet and tired voice, and he sits down with relief in his leather office chair. At least one wait is over.
But there’s something off in the tone of her voice. “Tammy, are you all right?”
And then the love of his life starts sobbing.
CHAPTER 26
THE PRESIDENT OF the United States says, “Tammy … please … what happened?”
The sobbing goes on for long seconds, and that sound stabs at him, for it’s the first time in their relationship that he’s ever heard her cry. He may be the most powerful man in the world at this very second, but he feels so damn helpless.
Over the phone he hears her take a deep breath. “Oh, Harry … I’m sorry. The flight home was all right but then I got in a car accident and—”
“A car accident? What happened? Are you all right?”
Her voice sounds stronger. “Yes, I’m fine … a bit achy, but the cab I took from the airport was hit. We were on the highway just east of Dulles when a pickup truck crossed the median and hit the trunk of the cab. Spun us around and thank God the cabbie was a sharp guy, otherwise … oh, Harry. What a rotten day. And the media were camped out at my condo when I got here.”
He swivels the tiniest bit in his chair in front of his ornate wooden desk. “What did you say to them?”
“Harry? What?”
He instantly realizes his mistake. He isn’t acting as her lover, her friend, her man. He is responding as a politician, trying to minimize a mistake. Not trying to take care of a woman he loves. Shit.
“I … I just wanted to see if you said anything to them. Or if they said anything to you. It must have been rough.”
“No, Harry, I didn’t say a word … I mean … what could I say?”
He rubs at his eyes. This isn’t going well, damn it.
“That’s good. I’m … sorry, I know you won’t say anything.”
Tammy says, “Harry … what am I going to do? What are we going to do?”
“You … take care of yourself, first and foremost,” he says, thinking rapidly. “Call in sick tomorrow if you have to. Or work from home. And we’re going to fix this.”
“We?”
“Parker Hoyt … he’s working on it right now.”
“By doing what?”
“He’s … doing a lot of things. And he’s working on … doing what’s right.”
God, he thinks. Another close miss with Tammy. He was about to tell her that Parker Hoyt is looking out for him and his reelection, which, of course, would lead to the question, well, what about me?
What about Tammy, indeed. He can’t tell her what his advisers told him not more than ten minutes ago: dump her, and dump her publicly.
“Is there … anything I can do for you?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.
A bitter laugh. “Arrest the reporters outside my condo?”
He manages to laugh back. “If I could, I would …”
A pause, and she says, quietly, “When can I see you, Harry?”
“Not for a while,” he says. “You know how it is.”
Her voice is sharp. “For at least four weeks, right?”
“Tammy …”
He rubs at his eyes again, and she says, “How are things with Grace?”
A jolt of surprise. In the months they’ve been together, she’s hardly ever asked about the First Lady.
“Angry. Upset. You can imagine.”
“I can,” she says, voice soft, full of understanding. “Where is she now? In her office, practicing throwing lamps?”
He turns in his chair, peering out at the three greenish-tinged glass windows, floor to ceiling, which are green because they are bulletproof.
“She’s … in the East Wing,” he says, speaking quickly. “Trying to gather her thoughts together.”
“But is she going to speak to the press? Is she still going to keep her public schedule?”
He can’t do this anymore. From the very beginning, he’s always been straight with her, never making promises he can’t keep, always being upfront as to when he can see her and when he can’t.
But now?
“She’s … ah … look, Tammy, I have to go. All right? Hang in there … we’ll get through this together. Honest.”
And he hangs up the phone, disconnecting the secure call, swivels his chair once more.
What a rotten conversation.
And what was that all about, her asking about Grace?
Then he realizes something else.
For the very first time, he’s lied to the woman he loves.
Tammy is stunned as the President brusquely cuts her off.
Of course he’s under pressure, and of course the news of their … relationship is on his mind, especially with the election so close.
But never had he been so short with her and never had he …
Lied?
She recalls what Amanda Price told her, just a few minutes ago.
The First Lady can’t be found.
But her Harry—the President of the United States—just told her something else, that Grace Fuller Tucker was in the East Wing, definitely not missing.
And when Tammy tried to press him on that …
He hung up on her.
Her phone rings and she’s startled, and she checks the caller ID.
CBS NEW YORK.
She switches off the phone.
Curls up in her chair.
Waits.
For what, she doesn’t know.
But the hard core inside of her, that took her from a dumpy three-story tenement building in South Boston to Beacon Hill and Boston College and then Harvard and then to the center of the world—the District of Columbia—knows she won’t wait forever.