The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  They smiled obligingly—just the cue the man needed to launch into his life story. He was studying law and loved politics and British rock bands. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

  Doggie thought he was nice and smelled good.

  * * *

  —

  Bruce Jansen took one female prizewinner under each arm as they walked towards the welcoming deputation of photographers, cameramen, and journalists in Beijing’s airport. The weather was cold and gray, and everyone was talking at once. After the obligatory questions from the Chinese press, the governor turned to face the international press that was standing behind a row of blue-clad Chinese soldiers.

  Doggie quickly noticed one of the journalists, a very little man with intense, dark eyes and a receding hairline. A man who was obviously receiving more attention than the others and got all his questions answered, one after the other. When the interview was over, the governor and his wife disappeared in a black limousine, along with two Chinese officials. The rest of his staff followed in another official car, and the crowd of journalists began breaking up. Apparently, the diminutive, dark-eyed journalist was the only one who seemed interested in the rest of Jansen’s party. He waved to his photographer and made straight for the little group.

  “Hey, my name’s John Bugatti,” he said with a hoarse voice, and cleared his throat. “I work for NBC. I’m supposed to follow along with you and Jansen on the whole tour, so I thought I’d say hello.” Close up, Doggie could see he had more freckles than she’d ever seen. An irresistible little guy. She was really enjoying this trip—her father’s objections had been completely unfounded.

  * * *

  —

  Doggie Curtis’s last day in Beijing began like a fairy tale, just like all the others. As usual, the little group of Americans had begun by eating breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, surrounded by smiling waiters. Aside from Rosalie Lee and Caroll Jansen, whose finer motor functions seemed to be on the level of a stranded jellyfish, everyone was eating with chopsticks.

  Doggie gazed through the large windows at the city’s skyline, with its scalelike tiled roofs on clusters of hutongs. They had wandered through the Summer Palace’s enchanting, long corridors, breathed the air at Beihai Lake, and silently contemplated the calm that enveloped the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests. The days had flown by, and now they were going to take a bus ride to the silk market, followed by a walk along the market’s narrow streets to the nearby American consulate. That evening they were going to the circus, and the next day they would begin a trip around the Chinese countryside—Xi’an, the Yellow River, Hangzhou, Shanghai, and back again. It was a question of getting as much out of these remaining days as possible.

  * * *

  —

  The market seemed remarkably quiet. Even the few curious people who were following along after the group were silent. None called out to them; no one was pushy.

  “They sure do business in an orderly fashion here,” whispered John Bugatti at Doggie’s side. “You should see how they assault you in Hong Kong or Taipei. It’ll probably be like that here in a couple of years, just wait and see.”

  She nodded and let her eyes wander over counters overflowing with bolts of material and multicolored silk dresses and scarves. One she saw would look perfect on her mother.

  “What do you think that one costs? What’s that say?” she asked Bugatti, pointing at a sign written in Chinese.

  Suddenly, Caroll Jansen came out of nowhere and put her arm around Doggie’s shoulder. “That one would look perfect on you!” She smiled, took out her wallet, gave the seller some money, and chose to ignore the fact that he didn’t smile back as he folded up the scarf and handed it over the counter’s rough planks.

  “Come over here, Doggie!” called out Governor Jansen, who was standing before a large population of small Chinese figurines of an indeterminable material. “Look! This one brings good luck. May I have permission to give you one?”

  The shopping took only a few more minutes, and they were on their way towards the consulate, Doggie with a new scarf over her shoulder and a little, hollow Buddha figurine under her arm. She was proud and happy. Governor Jansen had looked her deep in the eyes and assured her that the little icon symbolized an eternal bond of friendship between them. “You just come to me if you ever need help,” he said. It was amazing.

  She hunched her shoulders and took a deep breath of the sharp morning air. Everything was perfect: her traveling companions, the exotic trees, and all the people going about their business. She smiled at the workers sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with chopsticks and small bowls, eating warm food from the stalls lined up behind them.

  Wesley Barefoot was walking in front of her with a smile so broad, she could see it from behind.

  He was pointing in all directions with one eye glued to a cheap, newly acquired camera. T. Perkins was walking along beside him, eyes alert, a plastic bag in each hand filled with all kinds of toys for nieces and nephews. At the head of the procession strode Governor Bruce Jansen in the best of moods with his wife under his arm. As they approached the consulate, he waved to one of the officials who was on his way across the street to greet them. Doggie looked up at the building. As she expected, it was smaller than the embassy on Xiushui Bei’jie where they’d eaten a delicious welcoming dinner two days before, but it still made a vivid, pompous impression in the sunshine, with the Stars and Stripes flapping in the breeze and an erect Chinese sentry standing on a low platform before the entry gate.

  Doggie glanced over her shoulder, back down the crowded, narrow street of tradesmen and their stalls. There was a world of difference between the Western-style, official opulence of the consulate and the flimsy, thrown-together stalls of the silk market. It revealed a huge gulf in wealth and customs.

  A little street seller was casting one of his many colorful dragon kites up into the breeze, and the group paused to watch it wriggle towards the sky.

  Then it happened.

  Caroll Jansen suddenly screamed and struck out with both arms, her purse clutched in one hand. Doggie whirled around as her cry ended abruptly and she sank to the ground, blood squirting from her neck, while Governor Jansen’s advisor, Thomas Sunderland, lunged after the young Chinese attacker. Sheriff T. Perkins flung away his plastic bags, so the sidewalk in front of the consulate came to life with bouncing rubber balls and small, plastic animals of every description, and in one leap he succeeded in cutting off the man’s escape route back into the teaming silk market. Doggie would always remember the assailant’s bloody knife, still gleaming as he tried to ward off the charging sheriff.

  Next she saw Governor Jansen falling to his knees, the figure in his arms already lifeless. Her lips moved silently as people rushed from all directions to help. She saw everything: Rosalie Lee shredding her best blouse into strips to try and stem Caroll Jansen’s bleeding, the soldiers racing over to T. Perkins, who, with blood running down his arm, had pinned the kicking, howling killer to the ground. And she saw Wesley Barefoot, standing still as a statue in the middle of everything, his face white as a corpse.

  She was also witnessing the moment when Wesley Barefoot became a man. The toothpaste smile would never be the same.

  There was a crowd growing and a tumult of cries and confusion as John Bugatti and the governor’s advisor, Thomas Sunderland, struggled to carry Caroll Jansen into the consulate building. People were left standing in shock with their heads in their hands, in stark contrast to the quiet whimpering of the captured assassin.

  Doggie sank down on the sentries’ platform, her back against a pillar bearing a gigantic brass plate identifying the US consulate. And there she remained.

  * * *

  —

  “Come here, my girl!” T. Perkins was calling to Doggie. By now it was ten minutes since the fatal attack. He kneeled down, put his arm around her, and held her close. “Did you see
it happen?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid she died, Doggie.” He kept still a moment as though to see her reaction, but Doggie said nothing. She already knew.

  He got her into a large, white room in the consulate where a couple of employees had been assigned to try and help them. The atmosphere was hectic and crackling with tension. Most of the officials were wearing grim expressions as they pecked at their computers or talked on the phone. This was clearly a serious crisis. A great number of authorities in China and the United States had to be contacted and consulted. Secretary of State James Baker’s name was mentioned several times.

  Outside, one could hear the hurried steps of people running back and forth on the street. The young Chinese attacker was now standing under guard, pressed up against a wall, shaking. His wild eyes suggested he had no idea what was happening.

  “I don’t think he’s normal, Doggie,” said Rosalie Lee, who then squeezed her arm.

  They watched as men in uniform screamed their rage and contempt in his face. Then a flatbed truck came with more men in uniform, and they tossed him in the back. The young man’s eyes were terrified.

  “A shot in the back of his head within two days, wanna bet?” grunted one of the consulate employees.

  Doggie stood up, trying not to lose sight of the doomed assailant. Nothing was making sense; all she knew was that she wanted to go home. Then she sat down quietly again and stared into space until John Bugatti stuck a cup of steaming tea in her hand.

  “It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, Doggie,” he said, attempting a smile. “We’re all so sorry you had to witness this, but you mustn’t let it shatter your soul, do you hear me?”

  She nodded. It was a strange way of putting it, but she understood him.

  “It’s just by chance you were here, that’s all. I can understand if right now you’re feeling small and afraid and very, very sad, but it’s over now. In a couple of days we’ll be home again.”

  Doggie took a deep breath. “Yes, but we were supposed to go see all kinds of things. . . .” She was just beginning to realize that the great adventure was over. “The mountains and the Ming graves and the terra-cotta soldiers . . . We were supposed to see all that, weren’t we?” Now she could feel that pain in her soul.

  Bugatti laid his arm on her shoulder. “Listen, Doggie, what happened will bind us all closer together,” he said, as Rosalie Lee nodded her agreement. “Because of what we’ve experienced today, we belong together from now on. All of us: you and me and T. Perkins and Rosalie Lee and Wesley. Do you understand?”

  Doggie looked at them. Each was sitting there with his or her own version of confirmation of Bugatti’s statement painted on their face. Wesley tried to nod his agreement, but he couldn’t. It was like his body was paralyzed.

  Bugatti cleared his throat. “I think from now on we’ll belong together in a special way, and we’ll always be able to seek each other out if we need comforting. Remember that, Doggie. From now on you’ll always be able to call me if you need my help. I’m sure the others feel the same way.”

  Rosalie and T. Perkins both nodded.

  Doggie gave them a dejected look. That was just something people said. “How would I ever be able to get hold of you?” she asked. “You’re probably always in China or New York or Camp David or somewhere.” She shook her head. “You’re a famous journalist, and I’m only me! Don’t you think I know that?”

  Bugatti nodded. Then, with permission, he took the Buddha figurine that Bruce Jansen had given her only a half hour ago and put it in his lap. Again asking permission, he borrowed T’s gilded dart and scratched a little paint off the Buddha’s parted lips, thus making a small opening into its hollow insides. Then he pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket. “Look, Doggie,” he said. “I’m going to give you the phone number of my dear uncle Danny. You can always call Danny, because if there’s one person who knows where I am, he’s the man.” He rolled the slip of paper tightly together and forced it into the figurine’s mouth. “There! Now you can always get hold of me if you need me.”

  At that moment Governor Jansen stepped into the room, closely followed by Thomas Sunderland. Neither of them looked well.

  Jansen stood still for a moment, shoulders sagging, with sad, empty eyes staring straight ahead. Next he straightened up in a way that made everyone avert his gaze, and then came the part Doggie would never forget:

  “My dear friends,” he said. “You did what you could. May God bless you for . . . for . . .” Then no more words would come.

  CHAPTER 2

  Fall 2008

  ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

  This was the third team of journalists Doggie had let onto the campaign bus. By now she knew many of them well, and she tried to smile, but she was tired and irritable. The first half of their campaign tour through the United States had been a piece of cake. The Democratic frontrunner in the 2008 presidential election, Senator Bruce Jansen, and his beautiful wife, Mimi Todd Jansen, had campaigned in twenty states, conquering one after another. It had been nothing less than a triumphal procession, and Doggie ought to have been in high spirits. The problem was that she hadn’t caught much sleep the past forty-eight hours, and her batteries were low.

  Cary Simmons, a hard-bitten journalist from The Washington Post, noticed her shaky state immediately and took her aside. “Come on, let someone else take over, Doggie. Get some sleep, else you’ll just begin snapping at us, and who the hell needs that? Happy birthday, by the way.”

  Doggie smiled and nodded. He was right.

  She called over one of the latest arrivals on Bruce Jansen’s campaign team, a live wire by the name of Donald Beglaubter, and had him fill in for her. Then she threw herself down on the bus’s back seat. No, it didn’t pay to be snapping at people, but that was the kind of day she’d had.

  * * *

  —

  Early that morning her father had called to congratulate her on her thirtieth birthday. Thirty! This was the age where one found out whether one’s choices in life had led to dead ends or not. It was the moment where one had to evaluate whether one was doing the right thing. She’d discussed this with other women, as though that would help. Now she was thirty, and half of her girlfriends were already decorating the bedroom for child number three. She might have felt better if some of them envied her a little, but they didn’t. Why work so hard when her father was wealthy? Why put off what women were put on earth to do? She knew what they thought, which is why she didn’t feel like seeing them anymore.

  At first her father had been sweet enough, but then came the inevitable needling over the fact that his only child worked for a Democratic presidential candidate. She’d asked him to stop, but that had made him come down even harder on Jansen and use language that she hated. So she’d answered him in kind, which only made her angry with herself, because he loved it when she fought back.

  “You think Jansen’s an angel?” he’d said with a laugh. “Why do you defend that bastard, Doggie? Are you trying to get your hooks in him? Are you trying to oust that dirty communist bitch Mimi Todd?”

  At that point she’d flown into a full-blown rage. Then she just sat there, sneering at him long after she’d hung up on him. Everyone on the bus had been able to figure out why she was in a lousy mood—even Thomas Sunderland and Wesley Barefoot up by the driver’s seat. Bud Curtis’s political views and temperament were well known and so were his daughter’s.

  * * *

  —

  There were only a couple of people left on Bruce Jansen’s staff from the fateful trip to Beijing sixteen years earlier. They were the ones who had followed Jansen through the course of his successful career, first as governor, then as spokesman for a series of key issues in the House of Representatives, then his period as senator, and now through one of the most outstanding presidential campaigns the country had ever experienced.
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  People were crazy about Jansen, which gave the Republican candidate—brother to the departing president—something to think about. Every single opinion poll was condemning the present government’s politics to the trash bin of history, and people close to the president said he seemed severely shook up, which was understandable.

  Day by day, Jansen’s charm offensive gave his Republican opponent’s campaign leaders new gray hairs, not to mention his own Democratic rivals. Thanks to Jansen’s easily understood, logical arguments, unofficial estimates were already giving the senator 61 percent of the delegates’ votes at the coming Democratic Convention. It was looking like a landslide.

  Jansen’s staff hadn’t been sleeping on the job, either. They’d all been working hard for months under Thomas Sunderland, Jansen’s hard-nosed campaign manager, and therefore it was understandable that Sunderland’s star was rising fastest among the staff workers. Sunderland was lean and unsmiling, a decorated military officer who’d always stood at Bruce Jansen’s side—and in his shadow—through thick and thin, and now his reward, in the form of a powerful position in government, was within reach. Different possibilities were being mentioned, particularly White House chief of staff.

  * * *

  —

  Doggie had joined Jansen’s team just after receiving her law degree and, after a few months’ loyal assistance, was promised an office job in the White House if they won the election. This scenario suited her fine.

  Wesley Barefoot had been Jansen’s man since the fateful trip to Beijing. Like Doggie, he’d attended Harvard Law School, passing his bar exam four years before she did, and would likely become her boss in the West Wing. He was very bright and an exceptionally adroit communicator—not to mention manipulator. He was popular, and sooner or later a majority of the prettiest and smartest females attending Harvard had surrendered to the combined firepower of his charm, good looks, and gift of verbal persuasion.