by Tom Grace
A White House photographer documented their arrival at the reception. Inside, dozens of couples milled about. Some faces Egan recognized, but most were unknown to him. A beautifully decorated twelve-foot tree stood on the opposite side of the oval, flanked by two windows decorated with wreaths.
“What are you thinking about?” Niki asked.
“Maggie was always better at social events than me. She would have really enjoyed this. My being here is a fitting tribute to her life’s work.”
“May I offer you a drink?” a server asked.
Niki requested a white wine, Egan a cranberry juice over ice.
As the server withdrew, the President and the First Lady appeared in the doorway. She was draped in golden silk brocade, the delicate fabric shimmering in the light. The President, known for his cool demeanor, wore his tailored tuxedo as comfortably as James Bond.
“Good evening,” the President said warmly—all conversation in the room stopped. “My wife and I are thrilled that you could join us tonight to honor President and Mrs. Mensah of Dutannuru. Our guests will arrive soon, and we will join you shortly. In the meantime, enjoy.”
The First Couple nodded to a few friends, then turned and swept away.
“Did you see that dress?” Niki asked softly. “I might as well be wearing a paper bag.”
“It’s rude to outshine a bride at her wedding,” Egan chided, “and equally rude to do so to our hostess on such an important occasion. But as elegant and attractive a woman as the First Lady is, she can only dream of wearing a dress the way you do.”
Niki blushed and dropped her gaze with a bemused smile.
“I could never—”
“Niki,” Egan said, cutting her off. “The only polite response to a compliment is thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After their drinks arrived, a couple broke away from a group of guests near the tree and moved toward them. The man looked to be in his early forties, thin and wiry with a hatchet face of sharp, angular planes. The woman on his arm was an attractive brunette, well into her second trimester.
“Ross Egan?” the man asked.
Egan nodded and offered his hand. “And you’re Daniel Page. A pleasure to meet you.”
Page accepted Egan’s hand in a firm, bony, grip. “The pleasure is mine. It’s an honor to meet a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Once the President and the guest of honor arrive, the place will be thick with them.”
“Indeed,” Page chuckled. “And this is my wife, Elena.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Elena said with genuine warmth. “What you did in Dutannuru was quite simply amazing.”
“Thank you,” Egan replied, shooting a quick glance at Niki. “And I assume you saw the photograph of that famous night?”
“Why yes.”
“My guest is the photographer,” Egan said proudly. “May I introduce Niki Adashi.”
“You were there?” Elena asked, amazed.
“Yes,” Niki replied.
“Oh my,” Elena gasped, her free hand shooting to her abdomen.
“Another kick?” Page asked.
Elena nodded. “This child is a gymnast, I swear. Would you mind sitting on the couch with me for a moment? I have about a million questions to ask you, but I simply must get off my feet.”
“Of course,” Niki replied.
Arm in arm, the two women moved to one of the finely upholstered sofas.
“I won’t let my wife monopolize your guest,” Page promised.
“Judging by the other ladies gathering around them, I think she might be the perfect icebreaker.”
“I have to admit, I’m surprised you know who I am. Are you into politics?”
“Not really, but I have a friend who is, and she made up a set of flash cards so I’d know who’s who. If I remember your card correctly, you managed the President’s last campaign and even wrote a book about it. So, I guess we have that in common.”
“You ran a presidential campaign?” Page joked.
“God no. I co-wrote a book with President Mensah. It’s coming out after the first of the year.”
“Then you’ll be hitting the promotional trail about the time we start campaigning in earnest.” Page sipped his drink, his flinty eyes still locked on Egan.
“Our schedule looks brutal, but it’s only for a few months. Then I can slip back into obscurity. I can’t imagine the gauntlet you and your boss have to run through until November.”
“We should have the nomination sewn up before my next child is born,” Page said confidently. “Then we’ll get a bit of a breather before the convention and fall campaign.”
“You don’t think Governor Lynn will give you a run for your money?”
“I thought you weren’t into politics.”
“I’m not,” Egan replied, “other than to educate myself on who the candidates on my ballot are and their views on key issues. I take voting seriously.”
Page tapped his glass to Egan’s. “Here’s to an educated voting public.”
Both men took a sip to complete the toast.
“Regarding the governor of the great state of Pennsylvania, I think an intraparty challenge to a sitting president is a suicide mission.”
“She must think the President is vulnerable if she’s willing to take a shot.”
“That, and she’ll be four years older next time around, and running against a field of young up-and-comers. In the governor’s mind, it’s now or never. I admire her nerve, but her campaign is quixotic.”
Egan chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Page asked.
“As a guy who knows a little about windmills, I find the thought of tilting at them amusing,” Egan explained. “My father owns a wind farm in Michigan.”
“I see. And as I recall, your field of expertise is electrical power?”
“Yes.”
“Given that and your notoriety over that business in Dutannuru, I’d wager that you would be a more formidable opponent than Governor Lynn.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not running.”
“Good for the President. Another thing that would be good for the President is your endorsement.”
Egan shook his head in disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“I’m a campaign manager. I never joke about contributions and endorsements. You’re a hot commodity, so your endorsement translates into votes.”
“But I don’t belong to any party,” Egan said.
“All the better,” Page countered. “Independents will decide this election.”
“Fame is a poor substitute for making an educated decision. The President has a record to run on and the voting public should decide to retain him based on that and not the endorsement of an actress or a rock star. I won’t shill for any politician, but I will give every candidate, including the President, my fair consideration and make my decision privately.”
Page studied Egan carefully for a moment, and then nodded.
“I respect that, but I had to ask. You don’t seem at all pleased with the notoriety that comes with winning a Nobel Prize.”
“If I’d won a Nobel for having discovered something that benefited mankind, that would be one thing. The path to peace was shown to us two thousand years ago, and it remains the road less traveled. All Mensah and I did was transplant a shoot from the American tree of Liberty, in Africa.”
“No small feat.”
“Perhaps, but the prize really belongs to the people of Dutannuru for seizing peace out of war. The real demonstration of that comes in a couple of weeks.”
“Oh?” Page asked.
“I’ve heard it said that the only job better than president is ex-president. Mensah is popular enough that if he wanted the job for another term, the legislature would have offered an amendment to the people and changed the constitution on presidential term limits. Like George Washington, he sees the importance of holding power for only s
o long. The beauty of our system is that we peacefully create ex-presidents.”
“Not too soon, I hope,” Page said wryly. “Otherwise, I’m out of a job. Speaking of jobs, we do have one that might be of interest you. Would you consider being our next ambassador to Dutannuru?”
“Is Quimby stepping down?”
“No, but there’s another post opening up unexpectedly and we’re thinking of shifting her there. You’d be a perfect fit for Dutannuru and I see no problem getting you through the confirmation process.”
“I’m committed through the first half of next year, but my publisher would shoot me if I didn’t consider your offer seriously. It’s the kind of publicity I think she’d kill for.”
“It wouldn’t hurt us, either. We’re looking at making the shift in late spring, but I would appreciate it if you would keep this between us for now. I’ll let the President know that you are open to the idea.”
“Fair enough.”
The President and the First Lady returned to the Yellow Oval with the guests of honor and their entourage. Page excused himself and joined his wife, and Niki returned to Egan.
Instead of a formal receiving line, the two presidential couples made a slow circuit of the room, with the hosts making the introductions. Egan and Niki held their place, waiting their turn.
“Is this not exciting? We are going to meet the President,” Niki said in a low voice.
“We’ve already met Mensah,” Egan replied.
“Not him, the President of the United States,” Niki said with the pride of a recently naturalized citizen.
As the two presidential couples moved toward them, Egan caught the President sharing a quick glance with his campaign manager. Page gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
“These two, I believe I should introduce to you,” Mensah announced to the President and the First Lady. “It is with great pleasure that I present Ms. Niki Adashi, a daughter of Dutannuru and a fine photographer who has recently won the Pulitzer Prize for her work in my country.”
“Ms. Adashi, my wife and I are delighted that you could be with us tonight,” the President said warmly.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Niki replied breathlessly. “Madam, everything is just beautiful, and your dress is simply stunning.”
“The White House Staff is amazing,” the First Lady agreed. “As for my dress, I honestly think Marcia Amagansett could make a sack of potatoes in a dress look divine.”
“Dear, you are no sack of potatoes,” the President chided affectionately.
“And this,” Mensah continued, “is a very good friend to me, and to all the people of Dutannuru—Ross Egan.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” the President said as he extended his hand. “I am truly honored to have you here with us tonight.”
A White House photographer captured the meeting between three recent winners of the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Thank you for inviting me here to honor my friend. This is a unique privilege.” Egan then turned to the First Lady. “The graciousness of a house is a reflection of the people who make it their home. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome,” the First Lady said with a soft smile. “I hope you both enjoy the evening.”
The reception in the Yellow Oval continued for another forty-five minutes, then the guests were ushered down the stairs into the Entrance Hall, where the majority of those invited to the state dinner waited. Egan and Niki crossed the marble floor, a checkerboard of light and dark polished stone, and found a spot to stand along the colonnade.
After a few moments, the President, his wife, and the guests of honor descended the Grand Staircase. The United States Marine Band played four “Ruffles and Flourishes” followed by “Hail to the Chief” and the national anthems of Dutannuru and the United States.
After all the guests had filed through a formal receiving line, the two presidential couples walked down the Cross Hall to the State Dining Room, which was exquisitely decorated for the holiday season. Both presidents spoke briefly as the guests enjoyed a five-course meal that would have earned any restaurant a James Beard Foundation Award.
“I wish I had not worn so tight a dress,” Niki moaned as the dessert plates were cleared away and the guests moved on to the opulent East Room for the evening’s entertainment.
“The great thing about tuxedos is they have these fasteners on the waist that allow you to loosen them a bit.”
“You men are very fortunate indeed.”
“I thank the Good Lord and my father for my Y-chromosome each and every day.”
As they stepped into the East Room, Egan was immediately struck by the size of the space. It was larger than any place he had called home. Fresh garlands with blue hydrangea and eucalyptus accented the four fireplaces in the room, which had magnificently decorated fir trees standing at each end.
Seating for all the guests was arranged in a semicircle around an area that contained an array of traditional and electronic instruments. Once the guests were seated, the President moved to center stage.
“The musicians who will entertain us tonight,” the President began, “have been the joyful stewards of the modern soundtrack of the Christmas season for many years. I am very pleased to present Mannheim Steamroller.”
“I enjoy this group very much,” Niki said as the musicians appeared from the adjacent Green Room and took the stage. “Maggie played them for me during her first Christmas in my village.”
Mannheim Steamroller performed an hour-long set of seasonal music in their uniquely elegant style, culminating in their stirring rendition of “Stille Nacht.”
The musicians took their bows to an audience that included some of the nation’s most powerful people, all on their feet applauding the outstanding performance. And as they clapped, several members of the audience felt their cell phones vibrating in their pockets. Others rushed to quell their contribution to a cacophony of disparate ringtones.
“What’s happening?” the President tersely asked his campaign manager, alarmed that a situation might be emerging somewhere.
“I don’t know,” Page replied as he fumbled with his phone.
Egan watched as Niki fished a thin handset out of her clutch purse. Having left his phone at the hotel, he was one of the few people in the room not trying to quell a buzzing or chiming gadget.
“This message is very strange,” Niki said, puzzled, as she read the luminous screen.
“You got an odd text, too?” a Texan in a tuxedo asked, his brow furrowed as he read the message on his iPhone.
Niki nodded. “I have never received one without a sender’s name or a phone number.”
The Texan glanced over Niki’s shoulder. “I got the same damn thing.”
“What’s it say?” Egan asked.
Niki turned her phone toward him. It read:
WHO IS I?
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEVILS LAKE, NORTH DAKOTA
DECEMBER 31
Two Arctic Cat snowmobiles cruised across the frozen lake—a gray-white slab of solid ice ten times the size of Manhattan. An early freeze roared out of Canada in a series of blasts that sealed the vast lake completely by Thanksgiving weekend. Six weeks of polar temperatures had thickened the ice to eighteen inches at mid-lake and the winter fishing season was in full swing.
Mike Unden rode beside his father, Jacob, toward a cluster of shanties out on the lake. The structures ranged from simple wooden sheds to elaborate constructions outfitted with all the amenities. A mix of pickup trucks, SUVs, and snowmobiles were parked chaotically on the ice as several fishermen set up beside one of the larger shanties for a bowl game tailgate party.
Mike eased back on the throttle, slowing his sled to a crawl as they neared his father’s unusual shanty. Inspired by a visit to Disney’s Epcot, the old farmer had built a small geodesic dome with an elongated airlock entry that he called his igloo. The entire structure could be easily broken down by two people with a ladder and a ra
tchet wrench and fit in back of a trailer pulled by Jacob’s F-150.
Once assembled, the igloo was anchored to the ice to keep it from blowing away in the gusts that roared across the lake. A small satellite dish mounted atop the dome hinted at the simple comforts hidden inside.
Both men parked their sleds and dismounted, the elder a tad slower than his son.
“How you doing, Pa?” Mike asked.
“Little stiff, but a bad day of fishing beats a great day of work.”
“So I’ve heard. Let me help you with the cooler.”
Mike unwound the bungee cords holding a large rectangular cooler to the back of his father’s Bearcat Z1 XT. The utility sled was a steady draft horse compared with the thoroughbred that was Mike’s CFR 1000, but both men shared a passion for their winter mounts.
As Mike hefted the cooler, his father unlocked the igloo’s outer door and they stepped into the dome. The bright morning sun shone through triangular windows, warming and illuminating the interior. The shanty floor, like the rest of the dome, was made from insulated panels that sealed the structure tight.
“How’s the hole?” Mike asked as he set the cooler beside a bench that served as the igloo’s kitchen counter.
Jacob opened a hinged door in the floor to reveal the lake below. Several inches of new ice covered the top of a hole in the center of the exposed frozen lake.
“Needs a reaming.”
“On it.”
Mike grabbed a six-inch offset auger and quickly reopened the hole in the ice. As his father unloaded bait from the cooler, Mike dragged a small generator and propane tank out of the igloo. Just to the left of the entry, he plugged the generator into an electrical box and connected the propane tank to a quick-disconnect gas line. He pulled the starter cord, bringing the four-stroke engine rumbling to life. Satisfied, he returned inside.
“You got power for the TV and the heater’s ready to go.”
Mike slipped off a glove, picked up the remote, and flipped through the channels. It was too early for the pregame shows, so he stopped on a documentary about the Vietnam War.
“You wanna watch this?”
Jacob glanced at the screen and shook his head. “Saw enough when I was there. See if you can find me a western.”
