Shall We Tell the President? (14 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

BOOK: Shall We Tell the President?
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“Good evening, Sam, beautiful evening.”
The only chauffeur in the employ of the FBI opened the back door of the Ford sedan.
Climb into car, check watch: 7:45.
Drive slowly—lots of time—don't want to be there early—never seems to be any traffic when you have all the time in the world—hope roses have arrived—take longer route to Georgetown, past Lincoln Memorial and up Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway—it's prettier—at least con yourself that's why you're doing it. Don't run yellow lights, even though man behind you is obviously late and gesticulating. Obey the law—con yourself again—you'd shoot through the lights if you were running late for her. Never embarrass the Bureau. Careful of trolley lines in Georgetown, so easy to skid on them. Turn right at end of street and find parking space. Circle slowly looking for perfect spot—no such thing. Doublepark and hope no traffic cop's around. Stroll nonchalantly towards house—bet she's still in the tub. Check watch: 8:04. Perfect. Ring doorbell.
“We're running a bit late, Sam.” Perhaps unwise to say that because he'll break the speed limit and might embarrass the Bureau. Why is there so much traffic when you're in a hurry? Damn Mercedes in front of us at the circle, stopping even before the lights turned red. Why have a car that can do 120 mph if you don't even want
to do thirty? Good, the Mercedes has turned off towards Georgetown. Probably one of the beautiful people. Down Pennsylvania Avenue. At last the White House in sight. Turn on to West Executive Avenue. Waved on by guard at gate. Pull up to West Portico. Met by Secret Service man in dinner jacket. His tie looks better than mine. Bet it's a clip-on. No, come to think of it, it's regulation to have to tie them in the White House. Damn it, the man must be married. Didn't do it himself. Follow him through foyer to West Wing Reception Room past Remington sculpture. Met by another Secret Service man also in dinner jacket. Also better tie. I give up. Escorted to elevator. Check watch: 8:06. Not bad. Enter West Sitting Hall.
“Good evening, Madam President.”
“Hello, lovely lady.”
She looks beautiful in that blue dress. Fantastic creature. How could I have any suspicions about her?
“Hello, Mark.”
“That's a terrific dress you're wearing.”
“Thank you. Would you like to come in for a minute?”
“No, I think we'd better go, I'm double-parked.”
“Fine, I'll just grab my coat.”
Open car door for her. Why didn't I just take her by the hand into the bedroom and make mad passionate love to her? I would have happily settled for a sandwich.
That way we could do what we both want to do and save a lot of time and trouble.
“Did you have a good day?”
“Very busy. How about you, Mark?”
Oh, managed to think about you for a few hours while I got some work done, but it wasn't easy.
“Busy as all hell. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to make it.”
Start car, right on M Street to Wisconsin. No parking spaces. Past Roy Rogers' Family Restaurant. Let's just get some chicken legs and head back home.
“Aah, success.”
Hell, where did that Volkswagen come from?
“What lousy luck. You'll find another one.”
“Yes, but four hundred yards away from the restaurant.”
“The walk will do us good.”
Did the roses come? I'll put that florist's girl in jail in the morning if she forgot to send them.
“Oh, Mark, how thoughtless of me not to mention it before; thank you for those glorious roses. Are you the white one? And the Shakespeare?”
“Think nothing of it, lovely lady.”
Liar. So you liked the Shakespeare, but what was your answer to the Cole Porter? Enter supersmooth French restaurant. Rive Gauche. Gauche is right. A Fed in a place like this? Bet it'll cost an arm and a leg. Full of snotty waiters with their hands out. What the hell, it's only money.
“Did you know that this place is responsible for making Washington the French-restaurant capital of America?”
Trying to impress her with a little inside dope.
“No, why?”
“Well, the owner keeps bringing his chefs over from France. One by one they quit and go off to start their own restaurants.”
“You G-men really do carry around a store of useless information.”
Look for the maître d'.
“Table in the name of Andrews.”
“Good evening, Mr. Andrews. How nice to see you.”
Damn man's never seen me before and probably will never see me again. Which table is he going to give me? Not too bad. She might even believe I've been here before. Slip him a five-dollar bill.
“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your dinner.”
They settled back in the deep red leather chairs. The restaurant was crowded.
“Good evening. Would you care for an aperitif, sir?”
“What will you have, Elizabeth?”
“Campari and soda, please.”
“One Campari and soda and I'll have a spritzer.”
Glance at menu. Chef Michel Laudier. The restaurant motto:
Fluctuat nec mergitur.
Oh, I'll
mergitur,
all right, cover charges, service charges. Ouch. And she has no
way of knowing. This is one of those sexy places where the man is given a menu with the prices.
“I'll have a first course, but only if you'll join me.”
“Of course, I'm going to have one, lovely lady.”
“Good, I'll have the avocado …”
Without prawns?
“ … with prawns, and then …”
… Caesar salad?
“ … the filet mignon Henri IV—rare, please.”
$20.50. To hell with it, she's worth every penny. I think I'll have the same.
“Have you decided, sir?”
“Yes, we'll both have the avocado with prawns and the filet mignon Henri IV, rare.”
“Would you care to look at the wine list?”
No, thank you, I'll have a beer.
“Would you like some wine, Elizabeth?”
“That would be lovely, Mark.”
“A bottle of Hospice de Beaune,
soixante-dix-huit,
please.”
I bet he can tell the only damn French I learned at school was the numbers.
“Very good, sir.”
The first course arrived and so did the sommelier with the wine.
If you think you're going to sell us two bottles, you damn frog, think again.
“Shall I serve the wine, sir?”
“Not yet, thank you. Open it and then serve it with the main course.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Your avocado, Mademoiselle.”
Prawns go before the fall.
“Good evening, Halt. How's life at the Bureau?”
“We're surviving, Madam.”
What banal remarks the mighty make to each other.
The Director glanced around the pleasant blue and gold room. H. Stuart Knight, the head of the Secret Service, stood alone at the far end. On the sofa, by the window overlooking the West Wing and the Executive Office Building, sat the Attorney General, Marian Edelman, talking to Senator Birch Bayh, the man who had succeeded Ted Kennedy as chairman of the Judiciary Committee. The hackneyed phrase “boyish good looks,” which had been applied to Bayh constantly during his campaigning in the 1976 Democratic presidential primaries, was still an accurate description. The thin, gaunt senator from Texas, Marvin Thornton, hovered over his colleague and Marian Edelman.
My God, let me have men about me that are fat …
“You see I've invited Thornton.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“We must try and talk him round on the Gun Control bill.”
The West Sitting Hall was a comfortable room on the family floor of the White House, adjacent to the First Gentleman's dressing-room. It was an honor to be entertained in this part of the White House. And to eat in the
small dining-room, rather than the President's dining-room downstairs, was a special privilege, since the former was usually reserved for strictly family dining. The fact that the President's husband was absent only confirmed how private this occasion had to be.
“What will you drink, Halt?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
“Scotch on the rocks for the Director and an orange juice for me. I'm watching my weight.”
Doesn't she know orange juice is the last thing to drink if you're dieting?
“How are the votes stacking up, Madam?”
“Well, the numbers are forty-eight for and forty-seven against at the moment, but it's got to go through on the tenth or I'll have to forget the whole thing until the next session. That's my biggest worry at the moment, what with my European tour and the New Hampshire primary less than a year off. I would have to drop the bill until I was re-elected and I can't afford it to be the main election issue. I want it out of the way and seen to be working before then.”
“Then let's hope it passes on the tenth, because it would certainly make my job easier, Madam President.”
“Marian's too. Another drink, Halt?”
“No, thank you, Madam.”
“Shall we go in to dinner?”
The President led her five guests into the dining-room. The wallpaper in the room depicted scenes from the American Revolution. It was furnished in the Federal style of the early nineteenth century.
I never get bored with the beauty of the White House.
The Director gazed at the plaster-composition mantel designed by Robert Welford of Philadelphia in 1815. It bore the famous report of Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry after the Battle of Lake Erie during the War of 1812: “We have met the enemy, and they are ours.”
“Five thousand people passed through this building today,” H. Stuart Knight was saying. “Nobody really grasps the security problems. This building may be the home of the President, but it still belongs to the people and that makes one continuous democratic headache.”
If he knew everything …
The President sat at the head of the table, the Attorney General at the other end, Bayh and Thornton on one side, the Director and Knight on the other. The first course was avocado with prawns.
I always get sick when I eat prawns.
“It's good to see my law officers together,” said the President. “I want to take this opportunity to discuss the Gun Control bill, which I remain determined will pass on 10 March. That's why I invited Birch and Marvin here tonight, because their support will influence the fate of this bill.”
10 March again. Perhaps Cassius has to keep to a deadline. Seem to remember Thornton being firmly against this bill, and he's on Andrews' list of seven.
“The rural states are going to be a problem, Madam President,” Marian Edelman was saying. “They won't be willing to hand over their guns all that readily.”
“A long amnesty period, say about six months, might be the answer,” the Director offered. “So the law remains unaffected for a statutory period. It's what always happens after a war. And the public relations boys can keep announcing that hundreds of weapons have been handed in to local police stations.”
“Good thinking, Halt,” said the President.
“It's going to be a hell of an operation,” said the Attorney General, “with seven million members of the National Rifle Association and probably fifty million firearms in America.”
No one disagreed with that conclusion.
The second course arrived.
Dover sole. Obviously the President is serious about her diet.
“Coffee or brandy, sir?”
“Don't let's bother,” said Elizabeth, touching Mark's hand gently. “Let's have it at home.”
“Nice idea.”
He smiled into her eyes and tried to guess what was going on in her mind …
“No, thank you. Just the check.”
The waiter scurried away obediently.
They always scurry away obediently when you ask for the check. She hasn't let go of my hand.
“A delicious meal, Mark. Thank you very much.”
“Yes, we must come here again sometime.”
The check arrived. Mark glanced at it in rueful bemusement.
$87.20, plus tax. If you can understand how a restaurant gets to its final figure you deserve to be Secretary of the Treasury. Hand over the American Express Card. The little piece of blue paper comes back to sign. Make it up to $100.00 and forget it until the envelope marked American Express arrives in the mail.

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