I Do Solemnly Swear (9 page)

“It will be so noted, Charles.”

“In writing, please, Madam President.”

“
What
?”

“If you’re going to ignore my advice on an issue as important as your safety, I want my warning officially noted.”

The corners of her mouth curled up. “They taught you a lot more than law at Harvard, hey, Mr. McDermott?”

“Just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s.”

“What you want is to cover your ass in case I’m mingling with the taxpayers and one of them decides to put a bullet in my head.”

“Call it whatever you will.”

She could smell alcohol on his breath. If it were after lunch, Kate might not have given it a second thought. Although frowned upon, three-martini lunches were not uncommon. But it was ten forty-five. “That’s the name of the game in Washington, isn’t it, Charles? Cover your ass. It’s as much a part of politics as corruption.”

McDermott looked like a whipped puppy. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Madam—”

“Write a memo and I’ll sign it, Charles.”

She walked back to her desk and opened her daily planner. “I need to speak with Carl Kramer ASAP.” She thought for a moment. “And set up a meeting with Albert Cranston. If I’m going to be out in the world rubbing elbows with assassins, I’d like to know how the Secret Service plans to protect me.”

***

Peter Miles waited patiently at Ben’s Café. He thought he’d left DC to get away from politics for a while, but he’d quickly learned that Washington was like dog shit. Once you stepped in it, the smell stuck to your heels. Late last night, he had received the call from Charles McDermott. He had told Peter that a man named
Jack Miller, CIA Special Agent, needed to meet him. And it was urgent. He sipped a brandy and looked at his Movado watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. Why had they contacted him? Peter Miles was a litigator, not a politician. He knew that it had something to do with Kate. What else could it be? Maybe she’d ruffled some feathers? Could it be that Kate wanted him back in DC and had sent one of her minions to twist his arm? It didn’t seem like Kate’s MO. Then again, she’d never been president of the United States.

Easing his way toward Peter, a short, stocky man in a darkbrown suit approached Peter’s table. The man stopped several feet in front of Peter. He discretely looked to his left, then to his right.

“Mr. Miles?” he whispered.

Peter stood. The man’s cheeks were pink and slick, like the butt end of a cured ham. He had spooky eyes. Peter reluctantly extended his hand. The man shook it loosely, and Peter felt like he was grasping a dead fish.

The man flashed his identification. “Jack Miller. Sorry to have kept you waiting.” The man sat across from Peter. “I’m with the CIA, and we have a situation in Washington that requires your assistance.”

Barely able to hear his whisper, Peter leaned toward him. “What kind of situation?”

“As you and the rest of the world now know, President Rodgers was assassinated. We’re deeply concerned that your wife may also be a target.”

Peter Miles lifted the snifter and gulped the rest of his brandy. He studied the man’s cratered face. Peter didn’t like his squinty eyes.

“She’s in serious jeopardy, Mr. Miles.”

“If the CIA and Secret Service can’t control the situation, what the fuck do you expect a midwestern attorney to do? Stand in front of her wearing a bulletproof vest?”

“The president of the United States was assassinated, Mr. Miles. We have reliable information suggesting that your wife is in grave danger. Are you prepared to take responsibility?”

Almost yelling, Peter’s voice raised an octave. “What the
hell
do you expect
me
to do?”

“Talk to her. You’re a persuasive man.”

“And what should I persuade her to do?”

“She’s not safe in Washington.”

Peter clasped his hands together and turned them inside out. His knuckles cracked. “Are you suggesting that I ask her to
resign
?”

“It’s in her best interests.”

Peter laughed. “You apparently don’t know Kate very well, do you? You talk to her. Or better yet, tell McDermott to have a chat with her. I’d pay to see that performance.”

“This is not a game, Mr. Miles. If you don’t help us...Your wife’s demise will rest on your conscience.”

“Why hasn’t someone in Washington approached Kate directly?”

“We feel that you will have greater influence.”

“You guys really didn’t do your homework, did you? What makes you think she will listen to me?”

“All I can say is that we have our reasons.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Peter gulped the rest of his brandy. “OK, let me get this straight. I fly to DC, convince my wife to resign, and then what? Isn’t her successor going to be in danger as well?”

Miller shook his head. “David Rodgers and your wife are Independents, Mr. Miles. We believe that some very powerful
and influential people stand to lose a great deal if your wife proceeds with their radical agenda.”

Peter Miles sat back in his chair and motioned for a cocktail waitress. “I’ll fly back to Washington in the morning. But it’s a waste of time.”

Jack Miller reached inside his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and laid it on the table. “There’s a nine o’clock flight tonight. Be on it.”

Shaking his head, Peter picked up the envelope. “You guys are right out of a Tom Clancy novel, aren’t you?”

Miller stood up and pushed in his chair. “There’s one more thing, Mr. Miles. This conversation never took place.”

Cranky and light-headed, totally pissed off that Kate hadn’t honored his request to be free from Secret Service agents, Peter Miles arrived at Dulles Airport just before midnight. After retrieving two pieces of luggage from the baggage claim, the agents walking in his shadow, Peter decided that he really needed a cup of coffee, but the airport restaurants were closed.

“You guys mind if I have a smoke outside while we wait for the limo?” Peter said to the agents.

“The limo is already waiting, sir,” the taller agent said.

“Well, let it fucking wait.”

He stepped outside, the agents close behind, and like a junkie needing a quick fix, he frisked his pockets, frantically trying to locate his Camels. He might survive without caffeine, but nicotine was as vital as oxygen. He yanked the pack from his inside pocket. Only two left. Using the Zippo with the Marines insignia, he fought the wind to light the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with the calming smoke.

Why did Miller want
him
to talk to Kate? What did he expect
him
to say? Miller had been vague. Peter did not believe that Kate’s welfare concerned them. Something didn’t feel right. They
were purposefully trying to wedge him in the middle of a dangerous power play.

Then Peter finally understood that he, too, could be in danger.

The black limo with the presidential seal
.

Peter glanced to his left, then to his right. He took a deep hit on his cigarette. The area was dotted with people. An overweight black woman was hailing a cab. A pretty redhead pushed an elderly man in a wheelchair. Two men were talking, looking his way, one staring at Peter longer than a stranger should. Maybe sizing him up?

If Kate’s life was in danger—the mere thought of it terrified him—then so was his. Every time he sat next to her in the presidential limo, every time he stood by her side, every time he boarded Air Force One, he could potentially be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Maybe her resigning wasn’t such a bad idea, after all
.

***

Kate was sitting in the Oval Room, sipping a glass of lemony spring water, futilely attempting to read, when Peter opened the door. Prior to his arrival, Kate had been contacted by the Secret Service to ensure that she wouldn’t be startled when Peter walked in at one a.m.

She was draped in a satiny navy-blue robe, her bare feet tucked beneath her, hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail. She heard him drop the luggage on the foyer floor but didn’t look his way. He came over to her, leaned forward, and gave her a chaste kiss on her left cheek. She rubbed her face where his sandpaper-like stubble prickled her sensitive skin.

She focused on the book and didn’t utter a sound.

Peter sat next to her, bent forward, unlaced his shoes, and slipped them off. “Sorry if I woke you.” He was out of breath.

A big fan of the classics, Kate was reading
The Old Man and the Sea
and didn’t lift her eyes from the text. “No reason to apologize. You know me. Always a night owl.” She dropped the Hemingway classic on the sofa. “So, what brings you back to Washington?”

He exhaled heavily. “Kate, I know you’re pissed off, and you have every reason to be.”

“It’s nice to know that there are still a few issues upon which we agree.”

His narrow eyes scoured her face. “I am
not
looking for a fight, Kate.”

“Why haven’t you called?”

“I thought about it, but I was too busy.”

“Too busy to telephone your wife?”

“I’ve been a bit self-absorbed.”

“I never would have guessed.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shaking his head.

“My trip to Topeka wasn’t just to help Ben with the Alexander trial. I needed some time to think.”

Her eyes met his for the first time. “Is there someone else, Peter?”

“God no, Kate, it’s nothing like that.”

It never is
, she thought. “Are you going to explain or torture me further?”

“It’s late, and we’re both irritable. Why don’t we talk in the morning?”

“It
is
morning, Peter.”

He combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching, Kate. Neither you nor I have any business being in the White House.”

“There are about fifty-three million voters who might disagree.”

“We had a good life in Topeka. I hate DC, and I don’t believe you like it, either.”

“I don’t. As a matter of fact, I find it overrun with whiny adolescents representing themselves as responsible adults. But I
am
the president of the United States, and unfortunately, the White House was built in Washington.”

“Why don’t we leave Washington?”

At first, she couldn’t imagine that he was serious, but then she looked into his eyes. “Have you lost all sense of reason? How do you propose I do that?”

He nibbled on his lower lip. “Kate, people will understand. David’s assassination changed everything.”

His words struck a raw chord in her. “Are you asking me to...
resign
?”

“Do it for us, Kate. For our marriage. If anything ever happened to you—”

She sprang up quickly and perched her hands on her hips. “I haven’t even had time to plant my feet on the ground, and you want to yank the rug out from underneath me? I don’t understand any of this. Who are you, Peter?” She sat on the sofa and gulped a mouthful of water. “I will not, under any circumstances, resign.”

“I don’t want to see you end up in a body bag, Kate.”

Kate’s preoccupation with death was not a topic she needed to be reminded of. “I cannot fathom your motivation, Peter. What in the world—”

“Kate...I’m flying back to Topeka in the morning.” He looked up at her, his eyes watery. “With or without you.”

***

Kate lay beside Peter, listening to him snore, unable to believe he could sleep so peacefully. Didn’t he
care
about saving their marriage? About her presidency? That she could even lie next to him, in the same bed, seemed unimaginable. She felt utterly betrayed.

After wrestling with her pillow for an agonizing hour, replaying their conversation in her mind, Kate could no longer remain within the oppressive walls of the Presidential Suite. She had no idea where she’d go—the president couldn’t just stroll out the front door of the White House and meander merrily down the street—but she had to get away from Peter. She threw on her navy-blue Champion sweats and Reebok tennis sneakers and dragged a brush through her unruly hair. When she stepped into the hallway, Michael, the graveyard-shift Secret Service agent stationed outside her door, jumped to attention.

He glanced at his watch; his tactful eyes gave her out-of-character ensemble a quick once-over. “Anything wrong, Madam President?”

Got a couple of hours, Mike?
“No, Michael, just stretching my legs. Insomnia, I guess.”

“You’re not leaving the building, are you, ma’am?”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

She thumped down the stairway to the first-level entrance hall and walked into the Blue Room, an oval room used for formal receptions. Kate stood in front of Thomas Jefferson’s life-study portrait and looked up at him as if he were alive. She focused on the minute details of his face.

“How about a little advice, Tom?” His lips seemed to move, but Kate realized her eyes were tearing. She tried to imagine what
historians might write about her, wondered if a noted artist like Rembrandt Peale would ever feel compelled to paint
her
, if a successor might one day admire
her
portrait. Kate was overcome by a more realistic prophecy—morose visions of a malignant presidency. Perhaps her administration would be like a dark cloud hanging over the country, an era of discontent and turmoil. She tore her eyes away from the portrait and tried to disarm the time bomb ticking in her conscience.