Sitting on the other side of his wide and polished desk is Parker Hoyt, his chief of staff, the man who has been behind the scenes for years—making the deals, pulling the strings, putting out the fires that took him from the Ohio Statehouse to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. His dark blue eyes are solemn, his gray-white hair crew cut, and he has a hawklike nose mocked by political cartoonists from coast to coast.
Parker gives him a sympathetic glance. “I told you that you’d eventually get caught.”
“I know.”
“I told you that the most-photographed, most-watched man in the world couldn’t get away with having an affair forever.”
“I know.”
“I told you—”
Harrison holds up his right hand. “Damn it, Parker, no more I-told-you-so’s, all right? Give me a plan, a blueprint, something to get me out in front of this story, to get me … out of this mess.”
Parker says, “Well, speaking of this story, we have about a dozen members of the press in the rear of this aircraft waiting for a statement.”
“Let them wait.” Harrison shifts in his seat, looks out the row of five windows, the drape hanging to the left, seeing the empty, wooded landscape of southeast America pass underneath. So much open space in this country … and he has a brief moment of envy, of men his age living down there in small towns, with small homes and even smaller problems.
He swivels his chair back and says, “Parker …”
His chief of staff crisply nods. “All right. We’re going to need to come clean about your relationship with Tammy Doyle.”
A hard, cold feeling settles into his chest. “Can’t we just say she’s … well, a friend? A travel companion? Someone to keep me company on these long trips?”
A brutal shake of the head. “Mr. President, with all due respect, grow up. You’ve tossed a huge piece of raw meat to the press four weeks before the election. They’re going to chase down her background, her travel records, her relationship with you. They’ll match up your campaign stops with trips she’s made to check on her lobbyist clients. That’s step one. Step two, they’ll start talking to people, and people love to talk. All it’ll take is one chambermaid, one room service clerk, one loose-lipped person looking for his or her fifteen minutes of fame, to verify that the two of you spent the night together somewhere, in New Orleans, or LA, or Chicago.”
Harrison sighs. “Never Chicago.”
“Lucky you,” Parker says. “So we need to get ahead of the story, and that means following a script. And fair warning, you’re going to hate it.”
The cold feeling in his chest is still there, but he knows from experience to trust Parker Hoyt. His chief of staff not only knows where the bodies are buried, but also had a hand in putting them there in the first place. Harrison likes to think of himself as a realist—something he told the voters four years ago during his first run for the White House—and knows he wouldn’t be sitting here without Parker’s advice and counsel.
“All right,” Harrison says. “What’s the script?”
Parker nods with satisfaction. “It starts with a phone call to your wife, then a day or two at a retreat, an apology, and then a photo of you walking hand in hand across the South Lawn as you take Marine One to Camp David. Maybe get a prominent religious figure to come spend some time to counsel you. Then some carefully placed leaks to the news media that the First Lady is furious with you, is making you sleep on a couch or in the White House bomb shelter, but that she is open to forgiveness and eventual reconciliation.”
Harrison rubs at his face. “What about Tammy?”
Parker utters an obscenity. “You forget about her, right now, right this minute.”
“But she—”
“I don’t care if she’s Mother Teresa on the outside, the world’s greatest lover on the inside, a political genius, and gourmet cook as well—she’s out of the picture. You’ve got to worry about your reelection, worry about the First Lady. Besides being angry and hurt, she’s now in the mood to cut off your manhood and toss it into the Potomac. And there’ll be a large section of the population … voters, Mr. President … who would cheer her on. We can’t have that.”
Harrison stays quiet. The interior of Air Force One is so insulated and well built that the sound of the powerful jet engines is just a distant whisper.
He says, “Is there any other way?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mr. President … to save your presidency, to continue to serve this nation for the next four years … you need to make the call. Otherwise … well, you’re clearing the way for a West Coast governor to kick you out of the White House in four weeks. The same governor, I’ll remind you, that three hundred leading economists said last month would destroy our nation’s economy if he were elected.”
Parker’s words resonate with him. There’s been progress here and around the world, but there’s still so much more to be done.
And he knows he’s the man to do it.
Parker is right.
He hesitates, picks up the phone, talks to the on-duty communications officer, who has the talents and technical ability to reach anyone with a phone, anywhere in the world:
“Please get me the First Lady.”
CHAPTER 4
BUCK UP, THE First Lady thinks, and with the lights in her office still off, she strides over and picks up the receiver.
“Yes?”
From the crackle and snap of static, she instantly recognizes the call is coming from Air Force One, and the communications officer flying up there somewhere says, “Please hold for the President.”
Grace leans against the edge of her desk.
Waits.
She’s amazed at how calm she is.
“Grace?” comes the voice that used to excite her, intrigue her, and now, for the last years, often disappoints her.
“Yes,” she says, not wanting to say anything more.
More cracks and pops of static. Let him go first, let him set the tone.
“Grace, I don’t know what to say, I mean, I’m so sorry about—”
“Shut up, Harry,” she says. “Save it for your girl, whoever she is …. And who is she?”
“She’s uh, well, we can talk about it when I get back—”
She interrupts him. “Talk? What shall we talk about? Is she the first? Is she? Or is she one in a long line of eager young ladies looking to service the President of the United States?”
“Yes,” he snaps back. “She’s the first. And the only one. And she’s not just—”
“Oh, spare me, Harry, how she’s much more than just a mistress or a woman you’ve cheated with,” she says. “Don’t tell me that this secret, sordid business of yours was so special, so romantic. Are you proud of yourself? Are you? You’ve managed to humiliate me, make a mockery of our marriage, and you’ve also given voters something else to think about when they vote in four weeks. When they get into that voting booth, what are they going to see? The honorable Harrison Tucker, President of the United States, or a cheating husband?”