“But you know all this, Shahzad. Go in haste. Allah be praised.”
* * *
CHAPTER 71
President St. Clair got the news when his son Jack burst into the President’s Dining Room off the Oval Office where St. Clair was having a one-on-one working meeting with the top researcher he’d selected to help him shape his autobiography, something he could plan on writing now, since he’d lost the election.
“I was hoping we would be getting into this four years from now,” the President joked when suddenly the door burst open and Jack came rushing in, out of breath.
“My God, Jack. What the—?”
Jack stood there, sweat on his forehead.
“Mowbray! It’s Mowbray! The man just died!”
The President didn’t even acknowledge his top researcher. Didn’t say a word to him. He just got up and walked down the short hallway to the Oval Office, Jack following him, his face drained of color.
“Get Bill on the phone.”
As they went into the Oval Office, Jack skirted around his dad and went to the other side of the room where the door was still open giving onto the secretarial staff outside.
“Helen, get Dumaine on the phone—now!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Over at Transition headquarters on K Street, Dumaine was in a meeting with Tim and Agent Rodriguez, as well as a couple of other agents going over preliminary plans the Secret Service had drawn up to secure the area around the Dumaine residence at Hawk’s Landing. Dumaine wanted Tim to act as liaison with the Secret Service on this project because he couldn’t get away from Washington as long as Mowbray was hospitalized.
Just then, an out-of-breath Phil Thuris came rushing through the door.
“Phil, what the—?”
“The son of a bitch is dead!”
Dumaine jumped to his feet.
“Who’s dead?” said Tim.
Phil shook his head, getting rid of the cobwebs.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m talking about Mowbray! Mowbray! He’s dead!”
“Whoa!” said Tim in a small whisper, his mind suddenly racing as he absorbed the ramifications.
“My God!” said Dumaine, falling back into his chair with a heavy thud.
Just then, Bianca appeared in the doorway, clutching her chest in shock.
Everybody turned to look at her.
“So it’s true.”
Cornelia Strate, now part of the Transition press team, edged past Bianca.
“The President is on line one, Bill.”
“Yeah, right.”
Dumaine reached over, picked up a phone and touched a button.
“Yes, Mr. President, I just heard.”
“Bill, I want to be the first to extend my sincere condolences to you. I could tell at our little Thanksgiving dinner that you and Doug had forged a genuine friendship since the days of the convention after going through the campaign. You’d have made a great team.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate that.”
“I’m going to call Gloria Mowbray right now. She must be beside herself.”
“Yes, I’ll call her, too.” Dumaine looked up, saw that everybody in the room was hanging on his every word, imagining what the President was saying on his end of the line. He noted Agent Rodriguez gathering up the papers, surveys and plans for Hawk’s Landing and handing them to one of the other agents. Rodriguez knew the last thing they’d be working on today was the security situation at Hawk’s Landing.
“Here’s what I’m gonna suggest, Bill. I’ll call Gloria now, then you call her. Then you come on over here and we’ll make a joint appearance, reassure the people that the system works, everything is fine, and there were be no disruption in the orderly transfer of power, that kind of thing.”
“Yes, Mr. President. A good idea.” Dumaine couldn’t believe how calmly President St. Clair was handling all this. Would he be as confident as this warhorse in a similar situation?
“And I wouldn’t make any comment to the press till we make our joint appearance. Then you and your people can deal with the press as you see fit, but in these cases, the less said the better.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. President.”
“Bear up, Bill. You’ll weather this storm just fine. I have every confidence in you.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. See you shortly.” He dropped the phone into its cradle.
“Cornelia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait five minutes and put me through to Gloria Mowbray.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Agent Rodriguez, we’re on our way to the White House right after I make that call.”
“On it, sir! Cars’ll be waiting for you outside.”
He and the other agents swept out of the room, past Bianca, who moved further into the room toward Bill.
Phil’s eyes had been on Bianca all this time.
Phil thought it strange that she had such a crestfallen, sad look on her face. Here, after all these years, the prize of prizes, and she looked like a forlorn washerwoman. He, himself, could barely contain his happiness. He was at pains to keep from showing it.
When Bianca reached Bill, they gave each other a big, tight hug. As he held her close, Bill glanced at Tim, who was leaning against the wall in the corner, slowly shaking his head. He knew exactly what Tim was thinking. But Tim stood up, then shifted his eyes slightly toward Phil, which meant to Bill that Phil was watching them closely, so Bill closed his eyes, squeezing them tight.
“We’ll get through this,” he said, releasing Bianca and wishing he could be holding Tim. “We all have to be strong and handle this whole thing—this whole difficult situation—with the dignity that it demands.”
Now his manner changed and Dumaine was all business.
“Cornelia, I’ll take that call to Gloria in the outer office, and then let’s get the hell outta here and over to the White House.”
Everybody rushed out of the room, Dumaine leading the way. Tim saw Phil move toward Bianca, who had held back. He put one arm around her shoulder and squeezed. Just as Tim left the room, following the others, he heard Phil whisper to Bianca:
“Merry Christmas.”
* * *
CHAPTER 72
Dumaine and his party left the Transition headquarters in K Street and went out into the blistering, cold December weather. The Secret Service had cordoned off the entire sidewalk, forcing ordinary pedestrians out into the street in a kind of detour. Dumaine and his people swarmed into the SUVs parked outside and took off with a police escort toward the White House just a few blocks away. Motorcycle cops cleared the path—to Dumaine it looked like any number of funeral processions he’d been in. Only this procession was taking him to the White House.
St. Clair had given instructions to have them enter through the South Gate so Dumaine would arrive under the South Portico—this was the place where Presidents greeted foreign heads of state when they arrived at the White House. Very much more impressive than slipping in through the side gates if you were going to the West Wing.
When the motorcade arrived at the gates, the guards alerted the Oval Office and St. Clair with his reception committee walked down to the portico and went out into the foul weather to greet the new President-elect.
The whole press corps poured out into the bad weather to record the moment when Dumaine left his SUV with Bianca at his side and walked up the steps to be greeted (very warmly) by President St. Clair.
With no comment to the press, they went back into the White House and walked down to the Oval Office. Other members of Dumaine’s party were given coffee and pastries in the Diplomatic Reception Room while St. Clair and Dumaine spent a few minutes in the Oval Office alone with no aides, except for Jack.
St. Clair settled himself behind Teddy Roosevelt’s desk and called for Lonnie, who came in from the butler’s pantry.
“Bill, what’ll you have to drink? Some coffee? Something stro
nger?”
“Coffee, black.”
“Lonnie, you got any of that Lagavulin whisky down here?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I’ll have a good stiff pour, please. Jack?”
“Café con leche, Lonnie, thanks.”
“It was his heart, right?”
“Yep,” said St. Clair, lifting a single sheet of paper off his desk and passing it to Dumaine.
“It’s called an acute myocardial infarction. Or what you and I would call a major heart attack. They immediately opened him up and were operating on him when he had another seizure, and this was too much for the guy.”
Dumaine read the paper and winced.
“Poor man.”
“Gloria is just in hysterics. She was with him when all this happened, outside the OR, and when Dr. Moore came out to tell her, she collapsed. They had to sedate her.”
“When I talked to her, she wasn’t making much sense.”
“Understandable,” said Jack.
“What we’ll do here, Bill, is just sit for a couple of minutes, like we’ve been talking about the issues facing the country, all that crap, and then in a couple of minutes we’ll go out and say those same things to the country.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. President.”
“I say we move over to the fireplace.”
The three men got up and moved over to the sofas and chairs by the fireplace at the other end of the room. Jack pulled aside the screen and threw a couple of well-manicured logs onto the flames.
Lonnie came out and put the drinks down on the coffee table and left them alone.
“I remember when you first moved into the White House, Mr. President, and you had them get these fireplaces to work.”
“That’s right.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d know much about fireplaces, coming from Miami. Up in Massachusetts, we know all about them.”
“We used to have chilly winters,” Jack said. “By which I mean you could burn a fire a few days in January.”
“And maybe a few in February,” added the President. “but that’s about all.”
“All the original houses on St. Clair Island have fireplaces.”
“A lot of them.”
“How many does the White House have?”
“Actually,” said the President, “I’m not sure. I think it’s twenty-five or so. But I had them fix a couple so they’d work again. Caused a big stink.”
“I remember,” smiled Dumaine, drinking from his cup.
“Somebody in Congress wanted to have hearings on the subject,” scoffed Jack. “Some crap about secondhand smoke, that kind of shit.”
“Well, the fireplaces hadn’t been used in years. Or they had fake fires powered by gas logs, that kind of thing. But I like fireplaces, I like the smell they give off, the sound they make. We went through a whole cord of wood my first year in office, before Sofia died.”
“I find it strange we’re talking about fireplaces when Douglas Mowbray just died.”
“The only reason we’re in here hiding,” said Jack, “is that we want to give the impression you and my dad are bonding for the purpose of assuring the country that everything’s going to be all right.”
“That’s right,” said St. Clair. He looked at his watch and knocked back the remaining Lagavulin, smacking his lips.
“Wow! That’s a fine whisky. It’s time, boys. Let’s go.”
As they left the Oval Office, St. Clair leaned over to Dumaine.
“I will go up on the platform and you will follow me. Stand just behind me to my left. I’ll make a couple of comments and introduce you and you’ll step forward, say your piece and we walk out of there unless you feel like taking questions. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The President led the way down a West Wing corridor to the Press Briefing Room, which was naturally packed to overflowing. The President marched in and took the platform with Dumaine standing to his left.
“It’s with great sadness that I confirm news reports about the sudden death by heart attack of President-elect Mowbray,” he began. “Our hearts go out to his wife Gloria and the rest of his extended family. Even though I fought Governor Mowbray in a tough election, I never for one minute doubted the authenticity of his character and the deep patriotic fervor he brought to the campaign trail.”
Dumaine heard the words “authenticity of his character” echo in his head. How could he possibly live up to such words, given the lie he was living? Tim had been right all along, he concluded, standing there behind the President. Right all along. They would have to separate. With Phil and Bianca in on their little secret, there was no way he could go on living the lie and hope to be an effective President.
Still…
“Our Constitution provides for most calamities, large and small. This is a large one, make no mistake about it. But the Constitution, in the form of the Twentieth Amendment, is crystal clear. If a President-elect is unable to fulfill his duty and cannot be sworn in because of death or any other reason, the Vice President-elect will be elevated to the post of President-elect and sworn in as President on Inauguration Day.”
There was a rustle throughout the room as the reporters took in the details. Cameras clicked, like a convention of mating locusts.
“After the new President is sworn in, he will nominate a person to become the new Vice President and this nominee must be approved by the Congress. The Transition will go on as planned, and the American system of Government will be shown to be—again, on this Christmas Eve—the strongest and best prepared as any in the world.” He stood aside and turned to Dumaine. “I give you President-elect Dumaine.”
There actually was applause in the Briefing Room as the buzz rose and fell. Dumaine held up his hands for quiet.
“I’d just like to say that President St. Clair has been most gracious during this difficult period not only for me personally, but for the American people as well. Our hearts go out to Gloria Mowbray and her family, but the business of Government must and will go on. The genius and majesty of the American system of Government cannot have a better example than the one we’re experiencing this very minute; it proves that whatever calamity befalls us, our institutions are strong, the transfer of power is smooth, and all the American people are the beneficiaries.” He thought for a minute about questions, but decided he might as well. “Questions?”
“How will your Administration differ from Mr. Mowbray’s?”
“My Administration will carry out the policies outlined in the platform that Douglas Mowbray and I ran on. There will be, above all, a grand continuity in our design.”
“There was some conflict between you and Mr. Mowbray about the extremes the new Administration would initiate to choke off the Iranian nuclear effort.”
“It’s not just Iran; it’s any terrorist or rogue state that defies the international community. I’d say in my Administration we can be expected to take a harder line on this than Doug Mowbray would have.”
“So you are going to pursue the banking approach in an effort to shut them down.”
“As I said during the campaign; we don’t need troops to conquer these outlaws. We don’t need bombs. We need to strangle their access to money. There’s not a country in the world that would forfeit trading with us in order to trade with Iran. It would be economic suicide for them. We mean to hold their feet to the fire. We’ll root them out and freeze their ability to do us harm.”
President St. Clair, standing just a couple of feet behind Dumaine, cleared his throat.
Dumaine immediately understood that St. Clair meant, This is not the time, and realized it had been a mistake to take questions in the first place.
“But, ladies and gentleman, this is not the appropriate time to discuss foreign policy or any other kind of policy. It’s time to mourn the passing of a great American, Douglas Mowbray, and a time for us to grieve and a time for us to heal.”
He turned, nodded to St. Clair, who offered him a pater
nal smile, and they both left the room.
* * *
CHAPTER 73
On the other side of the world, the Supreme Leader listened to Dumaine’s comments and thought, I hope I haven’t held up Shahzad so long that he cannot complete this operation.
But, as usual, the Supreme Leader had underestimated Reza Shahzad. Within fifteen minutes of leaving, Shahzad had returned to VASAK headquarters and activated Dumaine Contingency Plan 6, which called for covert ops inside the U.S. to kill Dumaine.
Within two hours, he and the personnel selected to travel with him were ready to go and all other members of the unit all over the world had been activated and were on the move.
Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, operatives from his unit would begin arriving at U.S. airports from such diverse locations as Madrid, London, Rome, Paris, Moscow, Mexico City, Stockholm, Montevideo, Tokyo and Berlin.
The Americans foolishly focused on screening Iranians entering U.S. airports. But not a single one of his operatives carried an Iranian passport. They had all been handpicked by Shahzad personally because they didn’t look like Iranians. Many were fair-skinned like himself. In fact, he once told the Supreme Leader that if you lined up his men in a single file, they’d look like they belonged in the German Army in World War II rather than an elite Iranian commando unit today. None looked enough like your typically dark-skinned, dark-haired “Persian” that the American profilers always looked for. He fully expected that all his people would make it through U.S. Customs.
The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller) Page 26
