The President’s Bitch

by Andy King

“Nice looking man. So you’ve finally found someone? Oh Cheri, that’s wonderful. I’ve grieved for you so much since—”

  My hand shoots up. “Mother.”

  She won’t be denied. Now on her favorite subject, she won’t quit until I submit to her interrogation or she finally runs out of things to say. That could take hours, and she’s on a roll.

  “What did you do to him? I mean, to make him look so unhappy? What did you say to him? Did you have a fight? Please honey, you can tell your mother.”

  I take a deep breath. I really need to get moving, and ponder the path of least resistance, the quickest way out.

  I explain in few words that Jack and I have “dated,” and that we mutually decided to call it off. His work, my work, all of that. I can see that she’s not buying it.

  “No,” she says. “He looked very sad, and now I think about it, you weren’t exactly cheerful when I came in. No, there’s more.” Her eyes bore into mine. I feel like I’m five years old, caught at the drugstore candy bin shoveling sweets into my pocket.

  I stand up. “Carm! Mom’s ready for her tour.” I’m not going to be bullied into spilling the details of my personal life. Maybe later, but I need to get moving.

  My mother shoots me a dark look—she’s not done, not by a long shot—but she stands up, too. She gives me another quick hug, and whispers, “It’ll work out. He’ll come back.” Her expression is enigmatic.

  I gesture for her to walk ahead of me to Carmel’s office. An older agent and an older female guide are waiting. Carm’s the greatest, they’re perfect for Mom.

  My mother twiddles her fingers at me and glides out. As soon as she’s gone I look over at Carmel and roll my eyes. Then I march back into my office, sit down and bury my head in my arms. I already miss Jack.

  _______

  Paper is my life. Neat stacks stand at attention, waiting for me. I need to procrastinate for just another minute, and hold my glasses up to the light. Scrunching my lips at the smudged lenses, I open a drawer, grateful for folded, clean white handkerchiefs.

  My mind drifts as I wipe, the circular motion hypnotic. The bottom line is fear, and I’m guilty of ignoring it.

  Years ago Morrie and I dropped in at a tavern in the hamlet where I grew up. I can see it clearly, an old, wood room with a tall ceiling, narrow windows half-illuminating tiny tables, and broken, taped-together stools pushed up to the bar. The glaring, grey light cast long shadows from memorabilia nailed to the walls and paper money tacked to the ceiling.

  Daydreaming, I picture farmers, mechanics and postal workers, elbows on the bar, their voices bitter, lamenting freedom they had in the past. Two Army men step in. All talk halts. The soldiers look around, then depart, their hourly visit checked off their list. The grievances start again.

  People are right to be afraid. They’ve read about dictatorships, and seen a ton of heartache on TV. The by-products of a police state—obsessive control, informants and torture—are worth fearing.

  How can I guarantee that it will never happen? Unrest is certain in the face of a nuclear threat. Security is vital, security for citizens who don’t deserve rioting and looting, don’t deserve criminal activity that will creep out of crevices like roaches when the media fans the flames. I might have to dispatch the National Guard, ask governors to activate their troops. How can I explain it to the people directly, face-to-face, one-on-one, where all real meaning is conveyed?

  Sure, I could go on TV. Be candid, brave and reasoned, and everything might work out. So why do I have a feeling, a deep nauseous shift in my gut that says I need to keep my thoughts secret?

  Eyes closed, I see a building coming apart, brick by brick in slow motion, falling everywhere around me, an orchestral section of tympani the soundtrack. I shake my head.

  My shoulders jerk. Awake. I open my eyes, rub them, then slide my glasses on.

  Staring at me is the pile that Carm has designated most urgent. Memos and reports about the infrastructure needed to support an overseas ground war, should North Korea ignore China’s pressure and provoke the U.S. with another missile. I’ve been pushed into this against my will, but I’m serious about it. It’ll be NK’s third strike. They’re out.

  I stew over the fact that Presidents have gotten themselves into hot water over this kind of decision many times in the last sixty years, and sigh. The potential for a sinkhole is great. Wondering what it would take to supplement the initial force over the next twelve months, I dig through the mountain of paper.

  Twenty or thirty minutes into it, a figure catches my eye. Four hundred thousand army personnel, plus transport, communication and engineering. I squint, wondering if someone mistakenly added a zero. I had ordered General O’Hara to mobilize forty thousand as an advance guard to be sent to two bases in the Pacific for early readiness. The number on this piece of paper must be a mistake. I don’t want to jump to conclusions and call anybody, so I burn an hour tracing it back through hundreds of pages of documents.

  It seems authentic. I’m not convinced.

  Hold it. How could this have made it past analysts and aides, and landed on my desk if it wasn’t real? I still have a hard time believing it, and tap my finger, wondering who to call to get to the bottom of it. MacElvain and Laemmle are out of the question. I don’t want to bother Josh—yet, anyway. Someone in the White House, I think.

  I buzz Carm. “Who on your staff handles military data?”

  “Dick Sobeleski, you remember, older guy, white hair?”

  “Oh yeah. Could you get him on the line?”

  While waiting for Sobeleski, I study the report. I want to be able to seem intelligent about this. Though I can read people and know how to get results from them, I’m not always secure about my command of details. There are just so many of them.

  “Yes, Madame President.”

  I hesitate to ask Sobeleski to pull up the same document I’m reading; I want to attack this from another angle. So I tell him to compile all large personnel requests over the last week, from all military branches, and call me back.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’s on the line again. We work through troop movements and numbers while I take notes. I thank him for his time and hang up, then tell Carm to hold all calls. Perspiration dots my brow. I stare at the pages. The numbers don’t add up, that’s for sure. Everything Sobeleski told me shows troops moving in the hundreds and thousands, transferring from one base to another, and rotations overseas in a steady flow to replace returning soldiers. The forty thousand I requisitioned are represented in three groups, but there’s no way the total is anywhere near four hundred thousand.

  I throw down my pen and gaze at the desk, eyes unfocused. A chill creeps up my spine, then another one. I inspect the report again. It has the appropriate embossed insignia and codes in the corners.

  It looks like something big is going on. Someone—and I have a bad feeling that I know that “someone” well—is pulling something behind my back. It also seems like somebody else is looking out for me, trying to warn me that something’s happening. That person is routing the numbers to me. I wonder who it could be?

  Lacing my fingers behind my head, I lean back in my chair, zooming out to the thirty thousand foot view, trying to escape the myriad details. Could four hundred thousand troops and their support be enough to quell citizen unrest?

  My sense is that true martial law isn’t possible. The country’s too big and there are too many armed citizens who would object. Trying to impose military order, even with a million troops, might incite a revolution. I shiver at the thought.

  I’m lost in a haze of questions. Scenarios unfold in my head. Four hundred thousand U.S. Army personnel might be enough—in someone’s mind—to control strategic locations and infrastructure.

  Enough with speculating. My sixth sense is right. What is MacElvain thinking? My conversation with Josh looms like a locomotive’s headlamp. It’s time to call him.

  I rip a piece of paper from a pad and write down twenty names, tak
e the list to Carmel and explain what I need her to do.

  Then I call Josh. “When was the last time you had your phone certified secure?”

  “This morning.”

  “OK, here’s the problem.” Without editorializing, I lay it out for him, the documents I’m looking at and the phone call with Dick Sobelski.

  “Sounds pretty random, Cheri. Sounds nasty.”

  “My thoughts exactly. So I’m going ahead with my coffee chats. I should be able to take care of six or seven of them today and the rest tomorrow. I think I know who’s with me already, but I want to look into their eyes when I talk to them. It’ll also put the Gang of Five on notice.”

  “You sure you want to do that? Shouldn’t you contact the Attorney General?”

  “She’s my first coffee date, within the hour, I hope. Back to the military. I want you to contact the Commanders of the Combatant Commands, NorthCom, SoCom, CentCom and the rest. Tell them to expect a call from me directly. I’m bypassing Nick.”

  “That’s highly out of the ordinary.”

  “Tell them this comes from me, through you. If they object, tell them to bitch at me when I call them. I’m going to smoke out the traitors.” My knuckles are white, and my hand hurts from gripping the phone.

  “It’s going to be seen as a step toward martial law,” he says.

  “I’m aware of that. I need to head this whatever-it-is off before we get that far, before the glove’s on the other hand. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Madame President.”

  “I’m counting on you, Josh.”

  “I hear you, Cheri. Look, there’s something you need to know.”

  “Something else? Can it wait?”

  “You decide. The agent you’re seeing, Runyon—”

  “Was seeing—”

  “Doesn’t matter now. There are photos, JPGs, circulating of a young woman, along with screenshots of emails between Runyon and her. They imply that he got her pregnant and is refusing to take a DNA test.”

  “What?”

  “I had to warn you.”

  My forehead sinks into my free hand, sweat beading. “I’m glad you did, I guess.” My stomach is raw, churning with acid, and my shoulders are like sacks of sand. I hear my breathing, and remind myself that I need to get going.

  Josh says, “As far as I know it’s still internal. It’s only reached my desk in the last half hour—”

  “But it’ll hit the media pretty soon.”

  “Probably.”

  “Sonofabitch. As if I need this!”

  “I’d better get moving if I’m going to call Europe.”

  “Yeah, OK. If somebody balks, let me know right away, text me.”

  “Will do.”

  I hang up, nauseated. My hands and arms are weak with despair and depression. How could he? Jack’s not the man I thought he was.

  Suddenly I realize—it’s got to be MacElvain. He’s hitting below the belt, trying to distract me. All right. After I get through my first round of meetings, I’ll figure out what to do about it. Better yet…

  In Carm’s office I brief her on what I think MacElvain’s started. I’m working on a way to fight back, but if she thinks of something, please share. She bobs her head, and tells me that the Attorney General is about five minutes out. I’ve got just enough time to duck into my private bathroom.

  Sitting there, I feel a pang. It’s probably nerves, but it reminds me that I need to take care of something. When Jack and I had sex, there was no birth control involved. The last thing I need right now is a pregnancy. It’s unlikely, but you never know.

  I hustle to Carm’s office again. Quickly I lay it out. Call a doctor, not my regular physician. I don’t care who, as long as she or he is discreet. Pretend as if she, Carm, might be pregnant. Make an appointment and I’ll show up at the last minute.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if I get you a drugstore test kit?”

  “Are they a hundred percent foolproof?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Let me ask around. I’ll get back to you either way.” We look up. Attorney General Walsh strolls in.

  BeeBee Walsh looks like a grandmother. She probably is, for all I know. Short like me, but thirty pounds heavier, she has red cheeks and a jolly smile. We take care of pleasantries and adjourn to my office.

  She’s one of the few high-level appointments I’ve made. Stu’s pick for AG hadn’t been finalized and I’ve known BeeBee since she was one of my professors at law school. I trust her, and I know that her grasp of constitutional law is unsurpassed.

  Quickly I lay out my concerns, and ask the question: if I suspect a coup, masterminded by Cabinet members, is in progress, do I have the legal right to round them up preemptively?

  She queries me until she thinks she has the facts she needs. With a shoulder hitch, she says, “Why don’t you just replace him, MacElvain?”

  “Because it’s bigger than that.”

  “You’re concerned that chopping off the head won’t kill the hydra?”

  I push my lips to the side. “He could still participate after resigning.”

  “You’re saying you think you need proof.”

  “It’s treason if they try something, right?”

  BeeBee sits back, gazing toward the window, then looks at me. “Are you sure you’re willing to take this all the way? You might be impeached if you’re…detained.”

  “Can you think of any way around all this?”

  She falls silent again, considering it. Finally she says, “Not at the present, dear.”

  I flip a hand. “Unfortunately, I have more meetings.”

  She gathers her things and stands up. “I’ll consider this very seriously. I’ll work on nothing else until I have something for you, one way or the other, or until you tell me you’ve thought of another way.”

  “Do I have the authority?”

  “Your powers are broad, Cheri. Godspeed.” She takes my hands and kisses me on the cheek.

  My eyes trail after her. I have a lump in my throat. If only my own mother had been that protective. Speaking of whom, I wonder what she’s up to.

  Never mind that. Carm has lined up appointments with five Cabinet members and two of the Joint Chiefs in the next few hours. Dark clouds hover; my ears are chilled. Shivering, I wish that Jack was by my side. I take a deep breath and walk out to Carmel’s office.

  12

  Jack

  A few hours into my shift I manage to get another agent to cover for me, duck into my supervisor’s office and tell him the bad news. He’s an older guy, and he’s seen everything. There’s no shortage of qualified agents who want to work in the White House, so he’s stoic about it. I also ask him if I could get the rest of the day off, as soon as he can arrange for someone to take over my watch. An hour later a different agent comes up to me and says I’ve been relieved.

  I want to go home and talk to Anna. She might not be there, but I can run some searches and make some calls while I’m waiting, see what’s out there in terms of movers and storage. I don’t know where I might be sent—it’s up to District—but I’d like to be ready.

  I head down a hall on my way to my car. Three people are walking toward me. One’s a guide, another an older agent. They’re escorting a woman, talking about the decor. When they get closer, I realize that she was in Cheri’s office earlier, and even closer, I see the resemblance. I nearly stop, but I don’t want the reminder, and move out of their way. She looks over at me and smiles, then lifts a finger.

  “You’re the agent.” She glances at the guide. “I need to talk to this man. Could you please wait?”

  She steps over to me with a warm smile, her hand out. I shake it, and she clasps her other hand around mine, looking up into my eyes. “Kayla Taylor, Cheri’s mother. And you are?”

  “Agent Jack Runyon, ma’am.”

  “May I please have a word with you, Agent Runyon,” she waves with her head, “over there?”

  I can’t say no. Her eyes are like Cheri’
s, greyish green, the color of the sea. I try to let go of her hand, but she keeps holding on, leading me down the hall to an alcove.

  She looks up at me. “My daughter doesn’t know what’s good for her, sometimes.”

  I feel uncomfortable, on the spot. I broke it off with Cheri because I couldn’t have her all the way. It almost seems petty, now that I’ve thought it over, especially given who she is. But damn it, she’s mine.

  Cheri’s mother seems to read my thoughts. “You need to go to her and insist,” she says simply.

  What can I say? Any reply seems futile, but her eyes demand an answer. I decide to go with the truth. “I tried that, ma’am.”

  “Try harder. She needs somebody. She might not think so, but she does.”

  Cheri’s mother is still holding my hand. I squeeze hers gently. “Maybe it’s not meant to be.”

  “Agent Runyon, Jack, is that who you are? Are you going to back down and run away, or are you going to fight for what you believe in? You’re a man.” She looks me up and down.

  My palms are sweaty. “There are other considerations, Mrs. Taylor.”

  She drops my hand. “Then you’re not good enough for my daughter. Really Jack, what’s in your heart? Your heart of hearts? Do you think you’re too weak, that you don’t have the courage or strength to stand by her? Looking at you, I think you do, but only you can answer that.”

  I have no idea why, but I smile at her. She grins back. I lift her hand and kiss it. Where did that come from?

  Her smile broadens. “I thought so.”

  A surge of joy swells my chest. I stand up straight. Suddenly I have the strength of ten men. I feel like I could run a mile in two minutes or swim across the Atlantic. Cheri’s mother is right, I just need to make up my mind, stop screwing around and claim my mate. Cheri is strong, but taking care of her is what I’m supposed to do with my life.

  Right now I need to be respectful. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor,” I say softly.

  “Kayla.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Kayla.” I look over at the two people waiting. “I’m going to let you get back to your tour. I’ll see you soon, OK?”

  “I’m looking forward to it, very much.” With a wink, she walks back to the guide and the agent.