I Do Solemnly Swear (7 page)

“Madam President,” Ellenwood said, “why would you appoint a commission when the CIA is readily at your disposal?”

“The situation is much too explosive to be handled by one agency,” Kate said. “A cooperative effort makes more sense.”

“Not to me, Madam President.” Ellenwood’s voice tensed. “My department is quite capable of handling this exclusively.”

“I do not dispute that, Victor. However, this is an enormous undertaking, and a well-chosen commission would produce greater results.”

“Do you question the competency of my department?” Ellenwood almost shouted.

“I am neither attacking the CIA’s integrity nor trivializing their role in government. I am merely stating that a carefully selected commission will be more effective.”

“Like the Warren Commission was?” Ellenwood said.

“I’m not going to spar with you, Victor.”

Secretary of State Mitchell stood. “Surely we can come to a mutually agreeable compromise.”

“There
can’t
be a compromise,” Ellenwood insisted. “Either the CIA handles the investigation exclusively or they don’t.”

“I agree with you, Madam President,” Olivia Carter said. “The controversy surrounding President Kennedy’s death consumed the Johnson administration. Why do you think he chose not to
run for reelection? To this day, no one has an accurate account of how and why Kennedy was assassinated. If we do not employ every resource available to apprehend the assassin in a timely manner, public opinion will grow unfavorable. And this administration cannot afford to jeopardize its credibility.”

Kate was impressed with the young strategist’s incandescent zeal.

Victor Ellenwood hammered a fist on the table. “Ms. Carter, the last thing we need in Washington is another snotty-nose kid trying to get an A on her Government 101 exam.”

“Victor,” Kate said, “I have zero tolerance for comments like that. Let’s keep this meeting productive.”

Walter Owens raised his hand as if he were in grade school. “I must concur with Victor, Madam President. An assassination requires an international investigation. For such a formidable task, who is better equipped than the CIA?”

David Rodgers, on several occasions, had spoken highly of Carl Kramer, Ellenwood’s deputy director. In fact, Rodgers had hinted that he wished to convince Ellenwood to retire early and appoint the less rigid Kramer as DCI. Perhaps by selecting Kramer to head the investigation, Kate thought, she could placate Ellenwood and at the same time recruit a competent leader for the commission.

“Mr. Kramer, how would you feel about heading this investigation?”

The muscular deputy director slid his palm across his crewcut hair and looked at his boss. For an instant, there was an esoteric communication between the two men. Ellenwood eyed Kate, his cold stare like Arctic ice. Kramer’s look shifted to the president. Kate had not intended to place Kramer in a compromising situation with Ellenwood.

“Perhaps you need some time to think about it, Mr. Kramer?” Kate offered.

“Madam President, my only hesitation is that I am overwhelmed you have enough confidence in me to head the investigation. I would be honored to accept this responsibility.”

Neither Ellenwood nor Owens was pleased. This was obvious to Kate. She understood Ellenwood’s viewpoint, but why was Owens against appointing a special commission? She could hear their faint grumbles of disapproval. Her role as president was not to win the Miss Congeniality award. She had a job to do. None of the other attending members appeared to have further comments. Or they had determined that Kate’s position was so rigid that it would be futile to offer any further suggestions.

“Does anyone have anything more to add?” Kate said.

No one said a word.

“In light of the situation, I’d like to adjourn. Let’s reschedule another meeting later this week. And remember, recommendations on my desk by noon. I want this commission to begin its investigation in forty-eight hours.”

Traces of conversation lingered as they filed out of the room. For the first time since entering the Cabinet Room, Kate sat down in the blue leather armchair with the presidential seal embossed on the upper part of the seat back. Sitting where President Rodgers had sat several days ago gave her an eerie feeling. Reminders of him clamored in her head like crashing cymbals. Kate remained at the head of the table studying her notes. McDermott approached her.

“Madam President, as your senior advisor, may I speak freely?”

She gazed up at him and felt a kink in her neck. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“Watch out for Ellenwood. Been around Washington a long time. Has a lot of clout with influential people. The less you lock horns with him, the better.”

“Thanks, Charles. I’ll keep that in mind.” There was more than a warning reflected in his eyes. “Do you disagree with my decision?”

“My opinion’s immaterial.”

“Didn’t you just remind me that you’re my senior advisor?”

He nodded.

“Then advise. Did I act inappropriately?”

He chewed on his lip. “You did fine, Madam President.”

“I can live without undeserved accolades, Charles. I need your objective opinions.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Kate wasn’t so sure.

***

In spite of the former president’s death, Katherine Miles still had to deal with the business of running the country. Her day ended at ten thirty p.m.

She was sitting in the Oval Room, sipping a cup of herbal tea, munching a garlic bagel with salmon cream cheese, reflecting on a day of revelations and self-recrimination. She was troubled by the undertone of the meeting, disturbed by the lack of participation from Cabinet members. Perhaps she had been
too
rigid? She’d always had a difficult time distinguishing between assertiveness and arrogance. She had not endeared herself to her constituents. Their silence spoke volumes.

The luxury of her private quarters was conspicuous to the point of interrupting her deep concentration. She could not focus her eyes anywhere without viewing priceless antiques, original oil paintings, or sculptures. As president, she expected certain
luxuries, but her political platform, the foundation of her value system, was based on a philosophy condemning big government and senseless spending. How, then, could she reside in such a lavish environment without feeling like a hypocrite?

The Oval Room served as the main living room. Adjacent was a magnificent dining room and a gourmet kitchen that would please the most discriminating chef. There were four spacious bedroom suites, each with private dressing rooms and lavish baths. And of course, the pride of White House accommodations were the historic Lincoln Room, a suite for distinguished guests, and the Queen’s Bedroom, a unique sanctuary designed especially for royal visitors. All this room and comfort and her husband hadn’t spent one night with her.

She extended her legs on the yellow couch and sipped her tea, recalling what McDermott had told her. As president of the United States, she was entitled to refurnish her living quarters and the executive offices in the West Wing. The silverware, china, lamps, rugs, furniture, bedding—virtually everything could be replaced at her whim. To preserve the integrity of the White House, however, she had to select the finest American and French furnishings associated with the heritage of past presidents, a tradition initiated by Jackie Kennedy. When she’d asked McDermott what would happen to the current furnishings, he’d said, “Who cares?”

She cared. And Kate wasn’t going to spend one hard-earned tax dollar senselessly.

With teacup in hand, Kate explored her elegant quarters. She walked through suites, inspected closets, wandered in and out of rooms she’d never been in. Finally, with excitement and apprehension, she accepted that the White House would be her residence for the next three years—if the Grim Reaper did not pay
her an untimely visit, which now appeared to be a startling reality. She collapsed on her lonely bed at one twenty-three a.m. McDermott and Olivia Carter were meeting her in the Oval Office at seven forty-five so they could all watch William Riley’s press conference.

***

McDermott grabbed the remote, turned on the television, and sat next to Olivia on the striped couch. She moved a few inches away from him. Still yawning from another sleepless night, Kate sat at her desk, intently watching Press Secretary Riley on the Sony TV. He stood before a crowded room of journalists who Kate believed had no idea what the press conference was about. When he made the jolting announcement, Kate watched the anxious group turn into a pool of hungry piranhas. Cameras flashed, cellular phones lit up, and frenzied reporters waved their arms frantically, all asking pointed questions.

At eight twenty a.m., McDermott clicked off the Sony LED.

Kate could barely suppress her seething anger. “Who approved that announcement, Charles?”

“I did.”

“And you’re comfortable with what he said?”

“He tossed enough crumbs to keep the vultures at bay.”

“The only point he conveyed with clarity was that President Rodgers didn’t die of heart failure. Shouldn’t he have been more specific?”

“Too much honesty and the press would turn his words into a soap opera. I think Riley’s announcement was politically favorable.”

“What are your thoughts, Olivia?” Kate asked. She noticed a strange gleam in Olivia’s eyes, like an understudy who’d just been offered the lead role in a Broadway play.

“By now, everybody in the White House knows President Rodgers was poisoned. Why postpone telling the public something they’re going to find out anyway? If an overzealous reporter finds out before we make an official announcement, we’re going to have a cover-up scandal hanging over our heads.”

“I agree with you, Olivia,” Kate said. “We’ve placed ourselves in a vulnerable position, Charles.”

“Madam President, in another week, when we have more definitive information, we’ll give the press what they want.”

“In another week, my face is going to be plastered on the covers of every seedy tabloid in the country. Tell Riley to schedule another press conference. I have no intention of concealing information the public has a right to know.”

McDermott’s face filled with blood. “Whatever you say, Madam President.”

***

The thought of telling Elizabeth Rodgers that her husband had indeed been assassinated filled Kate with dread. She sat adjacent to the former First Lady, trying to compose a speech with gentle diplomacy. She remembered what Elizabeth had whispered in her ear:
Be careful. Things are not as they seem.
Elizabeth had known something about David’s death, and Kate was convinced it was more than conjecture or intuition.

Kate had never been preoccupied with death, not until she’d entered the Oval Office and the possibility of assassination became so real. And of course, there were the nightmares during restless moments of sleep. Vivid images—a mannequin-like man pointing a gun at her, a grotesque hand sprinkling cyanide on her food, a pillow covering her face—flashed through her dreams like frames of a horror film spliced into the wrong movie. Kate now bitterly understood that if someone wanted her dead, and
possessed enough ambition, there was virtually no place for her to hide.

As far as Kate knew, David Rodgers had been poisoned in the security of his private quarters, surrounded by Secret Service agents. What could she possibly do to protect herself from a determined assassin? Confine herself to a cage? Live her life in a solitary environment with armed guards?

As she studied Elizabeth’s tense face, it was obvious that the former First Lady was more than grief stricken; she was devastated. She suspected that Elizabeth knew she hadn’t been invited to the Oval Office for tea and crumpets.

“What is it, my dear?” Elizabeth’s intuitive question caught Kate by surprise.

“I have something to tell you about David.”

“If it’s dirty laundry, I don’t care to know. Let him rest in peace. And let me embrace my sweet memories.”

With little forethought—long before she had a chance to examine her words—Kate blurted, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but in all probability, David was assassinated.”

Seemingly undaunted by the harsh announcement, Elizabeth looked as if Kate had just told her that a button was missing on her sweater.

“Did you hear what I said?” Kate’s voice was a few decibels too loud.

“Quite clearly.”

Kate and Elizabeth stared at each other in silence.

After studying her fingernails in great detail, Elizabeth leaned forward. “Kate, I didn’t discourage David from entering the presidential campaign. He was much too enthusiastic. From the moment he took the oath, I silently feared for his life. It was
like being married to a policeman or fireman. Each morning, I wondered if today would be the last day we’d share. His idealistic platform won the hearts of Americans. But it alienated many people—too many, perhaps. One man, no matter how determined, cannot take on the most powerful people in the world and not expect consequences. David laughed when I suggested he not try to save the world single-handedly. He used to say, ‘One day, my face is going to be carved into Mount Rushmore, right next to Teddy Roosevelt.’”

Elizabeth paused for a moment. Kate watched her eyes fill with tears. But suddenly, like some kind of Frankenstein monster being charged with electricity, Elizabeth came to life in a fit of rage. Her face contorted, she clenched her fists, and pounded one on Kate’s desk. “I want the bastards to
die
, Madam President! Life in prison is
much
too humane.
Find them
!
Execute them
!”

Aghast at such a dramatic transformation, Kate sat back in the chair as if Elizabeth were going to strike her. She waited for the wave of emotions to pass. Kate told Elizabeth about the intensive investigation, that she’d appointed a special commission. Kate swore that there would be no mercy; whoever was responsible would pay dearly, that her husband’s death had not been in vain. But Kate couldn’t tell her who, how, or why. Only that an unknown toxin killed him.

“How did you know, Elizabeth? What I’m telling you cannot be a total surprise.”