The President’s Dining Room was a quaint piece of shit. It had once been a bedroom where Theodore Roosevelt’s daughter Alice had lived; she’d even had her appendix hacked out beneath this pale yellow ceiling. After first daughter Helen Taft, the Coolidge boys, and a host of other presidential offspring had done whatever the hell kids do in bedrooms, it had been converted into a family room where Truman had lounged humorlessly behind his wire-rims, restrained and self-important. Then Jackie had overhauled the joint as Kennedys did, plastering the walls with antique wallpaper depicting battle scenes from the American Revolution. Johnson and Nixon, man’s men and assholes to the marrow, had left it untouched, but a passel of Fords, Carters, Reagans, Bushes, and Clintons had fought it out ever since until the room had lowest-common-denominatored its way into its present state, where bland cream wall coverings and frilly valances prevailed.
Jonathan Bennett had no kids, thank God, and no wife. He didn’t give a two-minute fuck about design, leaving such matters in the hands of his underlings.
In the few seconds per twenty-four hours he had alone, he wanted to use the dining room to dine. And that meant eating select meals procured from prescreened suppliers, transported to the White House by the Secret Service itself, unpacked and prepared by chefs and food handlers with security clearances.
The proverbial “they” said that Bennett was the most paranoid president since Nixon. Perhaps that was because he had accrued the most enemies since Tricky Dick flashed his preternaturally long fingers in the V salute and banged drunkenly around the Oval Office.
And besides, as the tired aphorism went, they can’t call you paranoid if you’re right. Given Bennett’s decades at the Department of Defense, he knew this better than the politician saps who’d occupied the West Wing before him.
He knew what was out there.
He’d played in those sandboxes.
Hell, he’d put the action figures into those sandboxes. He’d used them to play his own games.
He smeared foie gras onto crostini now and washed it down with a two-thousand-dollar Domaine de la Romané e-Conti Richebourg Grand Cru.
Orphan X was out there somewhere, living rough, holed up like the international war criminal he’d been designated as since he’d left the Program. That was all well and good. Bennett sat in his fortress at the nucleus of power in the known universe, enjoying the finest pleasures life could offer.
He heard high heels tapping and smelled the Hermè s perfume before she stepped into view.
He took another bite, enjoying his last moment of solitude.
“Jonathan,” she said.
He closed his eyes, let the full-bodied burgundy burn a delightful trail down his throat. Then he turned to face his vice president.
Victoria Donahue-Carr was by most accounts a formidable woman, highly capable and—at fifty-four—in the political sweet spot as far as age was concerned. Old enough to be considered an adult with enough experience under her sensible pantsuit belt to lead the free world should the need arise. And young enough to preempt any charges of being too long in the tooth to run once Bennett had served out his second term.
She leaned against the chair opposite his but didn’t sit, her jacket bunching beneath her crossed arms. She’d sworn off horizontal stripes after their first term due to midsection spread. Once shapely, she’d turned into an obstinate block of a woman, which Bennett supposed was a fine metaphor for the deterioration of their relationship.
He read her face, her body posture, picking up a host of nonverbal tells that signaled discomfort.
“You’re here to discuss the congressional subpoena that’s rumored to make an appearance next week,” he told her.
“I am.”
“I have executive immunity. They can’t compel me to appear at an investigative hearing.”
“Let’s think this through, Jonathan. Yes, you can claim executive privilege. But the investigation is centered on activities that predate your time in office. They have nothing to do with the presidency itself. Which means you’ll be hard-pressed to claim immunity.”
Donahue-Carr was a former constitutional lawyer and never tired of reminding him about it.
He swirled his wine, checked its legs.
“The constitutional demands of due process of the law are gonna outweigh executive privilege here,” she continued. “This isn’t some penny-ante case, Jonathan. It’s a multibillion -dollar investigation. And leaving questions unanswered—questions about relationships with defense contractors—we can’t afford that.”
“Careful, Vicky, you sound like you believe what you’re reading on the Huffington Post.”
“Wilson, Truman, Ford, TR—all of them testified before Congress,” she said. “Even fucking Lincoln.”
She was growing exasperated. Exasperated was good. It made people ineffective and careless. He noted that she was gripping the back of the chair. Still he did not invite her to sit.
“Voluntarily,” he said calmly. “They appeared voluntarily.” He took another sip. “I can ignore a subpoena.”
“Can,” she said. “But shouldn’t. There’s talk of impeachment.”
“Impeachment.” He allowed himself a rare chuckle. “It didn’t matter for Andrew Johnson. Didn’t matter for Clinton. And it won’t matter against me. Impeachment of the president of the United States has a perfect record: oh for two.”
“The sample size is hardly reassuring.”
He set down his fork and his knife, streaked with organ meat. “When I first took office, they were serving on the Reagans’ china pattern. Bold red border rimmed with a gold band. I found it too … obvious. So I went with the Wilson service here.” He picked up his plate and tilted it so the food slid off and plopped onto the tablecloth. He displayed the smudged face of the china. “The first one to be manufactured in the United States.”
Donahue-Carr took in the sight.
“You know what both plates have in common?” he asked.
“The Presidential Seal,” she said.
“That’s right,” he said. “In case I forget who I am.” He set down the plate, thumbed the outer band of matte gold encrusted with stars and stripes. “The thing is? I don’t forget. Not for a single moment since I put my hand on that Bible. Ask a dozen people what the president’s job is and you’ll get a dozen answers. But above all else, the job of the president is to demonstrate order. To maintain security. To project power. That keeps citizens from the realm of chaos. It keeps them from having to contemplate the realm of chaos. It keeps them happy and industrious, minding the laws of the land and paying their taxes and letting the grown-ups do what needs to be done. Having the president hauled before Congress undermines those American necessities.”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of just how bad public sentiment is, Jonathan. You’re balanced on a seesaw right now. One step the wrong way and the whole thing tilts. There’s only so much we can sustain.”
“We?” He looked up at her. “Because I’m feeling like I’m the one doing all the sustaining these days, Vicky. So when you say there’s only so much we can sustain, do you mean our ticket? Or our party?”
“I mean the country .”
As soon as the words escaped, he saw the regret writ large on her face. The wrinkles around her eyes had rearranged themselves, her lips taut and bloodless.
So there it was. He’d pushed her buttons and forced an outburst, and the truth was laid bare. She’d shown that her loyalty, already worn down from the attrition of the past years, had grown dangerously thin.
Helpful data.
He couldn’t stretch the fabric of his influence so tightly that it gave way. And judging from the expression on his vice president’s face, it was reaching that point. If she turned on him, the whole house of cards would collapse.
“I’ll take your counsel under advisement, Vicky,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
She started out.
“John Nance Garner said the vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit,” Bennett said. “It’s likely apocryphal, but hell, you catch the drift. I don’t think that’s a fair characterization of the office. Do you?”
Donahue-Carr cleared her throat. “No, I don’t.”
“After all,” Bennett said, “you’ve done your job for me. You delivered Pennsylvania twice. And we squeezed just enough mileage out of that one-eighth of you that’s Venezuelan to get over the hump with the Hispanics. Didn’t we?”
The rims of her nostrils reddened, but she held her composure admirably. “We did.”
“The unions have your respect. That proved helpful. And your track record gave me cover against concerns that I was in bed with Wall Street. You’re pretty but not threatening. That helped bring men to the polls while not putting women off. I owe you for that as well.”
When he slid his chair out, it made a scuffing sound on the square-patterned rug. He stood, set his napkin beside his plate. “What do all those benefits you offer have in common?”
Her breathing had quickened, the rise of her chest visible. “I don’t know.”
“They’re all in the past. I’ve won both of my elections already. You’d do well to remain useful to me in the future.”
Her nod was more like a tremor. “I understand, Mr. President.”
She exited, her footfall quicker than before.