Presidential Donor (2 page)

"What is it?" the President asked, hurrying to get his pants on.

"Morning, Sir," the aide answered. "I have the morning fax."

Lloyd liked to review the morning news via fax from the White House, while he was away. Only an abbreviated version, it gave him a reference to use if the press were to ask him about something unfamiliar to him. At least he could give a vague answer
--something the press regarded as normal for the White House.

"Thank you," Lloyd said. He opened the door and took the paper, his pants now on.

"Mr. President, will you be eating breakfast soon?"

"Yes, after the paper. Where is everyone?"

"The Vice President and Secretary of State are in the dining cabin having coffee with some press members."

Lloyd shook his head. "Hounding already are they? It's only seven o'clock."

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid so."

"All right, I'll be out soon. Just let me bone up on current events a bit."

Lloyd went back to the mirror and checked his hair. He noticed a few more grey streaks lately among the thick brown locks.
After all, he was forty-three
.

Other than that, he decided, he looked as youthful as ever. His green eyes owned only a single wrinkle at each corner, and his skin was tan and tight.

And his best feature, his gleaming white teeth, were a TV camera's dream. Lloyd sat down in the leather chair emblazoned with the Presidential Seal and looked at the fax from Washington.

There it was, right on page one:

UNITED STATES AND RUSSIA TO MEET IN ZURICH TO CLOSE OIL DEAL. SUMMIT TALKS BEGIN TODAY
.

Lloyd couldn't help but smile. This was his vision for the future: his legacy as President. He finally did something to change the mediocrity label put on him since his election.
A good honest man, say his critics, but nothing for historians to remember.
Until now.

Unfortunately, not everyone in his cabinet agreed, including his own Vice President.
Too bad, this was his day.

The press came out in full force. A dozen reporters, with no shortage of questions, flanked President Thomas Lloyd when he stepped into the dining cabin. It seemed as if the questions came from a tape loop.
Did they disagree about key points of the summit as previously reported? How will it affect their relationship? How will it affect their policies?
Along with all the other banter about what the United States hopes to gain from this trip.
Why are taxpayer dollars being spent on Russia?
And on and on.

* * *

Ten feet away, Vice President Warren Ritter tried to finish his first cup of coffee while he fended off a young reporter who'd started with him the moment he'd sat down. Ritter recognized her as a CNN reporter he frequently saw on the air. There, she broadcast the latest headlines so stiffly; she looked as if her head would come off if she made the least little uncorreographed move. Here, though more animated, she was no less annoying.

"Mr. Vice President," she began, "is it true you wanted no part of this summit, and you were totally against it from day one?"

The Vice President tried hard to maintain his cool political face. At this moment, though, he wished he could open the cargo bay and push the entire press corps out without the benefit of parachutes.

"No, that is not true. The President and I do not always agree on every issue, and I find it ludicrous to think otherwise. The bottom line is, he is the President, and I support him one hundred percent," he lied.

"Well, why," she continued, "has it been reported--"

"I just gave you an answer, that's all I have to say about it."

Across the aisle, Lloyd sat with his coffee cup in hand and lectured a New York Times reporter about the benefit of the oil deal. "It's just the right thing to do economically," he said to the young woman, who hung on his every word.

Ritter gazed across from his seat.
Probably her first assignment.

Ritter conceded the idea had its merits, but they were few. Mostly he saw it as just another way for those blood-sucking Russians to steal money out of the United States Treasury. To say Ritter loathed the Russians would be a rank understatement. He'd seen too many deals come and go, with Russia never holding up their end of the bargain. In the last several months, he had immersed himself in other projects so he'd have nothing to do with planning the summit. This saved face for himself as well as the President. If the press asked about his lack of involvement, he simply responded, "I'm attending to other things for the President. He is handling all the details." It got him off the hook. After all, he couldn't disagree with a plan he was not familiar with--
at least as far as the public knew
. Of course, he knew more than he let on. A sticky issue for sure, so he just did what he always did: pulled his political foreskin over his head and avoided it.

While in Zurich, though, he promised his Commander in Chief one hundred percent support--he only came for the
show
.

Ritter raised his coffee to his lips again, realized it had gone cold, and slammed it down. The reporter looked at him as he wiped his mouth and threw down his napkin on the tray.

Dr. David Leah prepared to sit down to a much-deserved bowl of goulash, when his pager broke the silence of the staff dining hall.
"Please call Neuro STAT,"
said the automated voice.
"Call Neuro STAT,"
it said again. Leah put his spoon down at the unwelcome interruption and went to the wall phone. He punched in the extension for the Neuro unit, his soup very much on his mind.

After one ring, a voice on the other end answered. "Neuro."

"This is Dr. Leah. Someone page me?"

"Yes, I did, Dr. Leah," said the nurse. "Mr. McDermott just woke up."

"What!"

"He's awake and talking."

"All right, I'll be right there."

Leah hung up the phone. He felt torn between gulping down his goulash, and going immediately to see his patient. He chose the excitement of the latter. His soup could wait.

Leah, one of a handful of Hospitalists', was the result of recent hospital mergers such as Zurich Trauma Center.

The hospitalist became the primary physician for patients without their own doctor. Since tourism, especially skiing held the distinction of being the primary industry in Zurich, no shortage of patients existed for Leah to cover.

His calm manner and down to earth approach, made him instantly likable.

With his oxford shirts, khaki pants, and the ever-present white lab coat, complete with drug and diagnosis book that stuck out from the side pocket; he looked like a young intern. The only thing that hinted of his age was his bald scalp. Leah, an excellent diagnostician, and well qualified to handle any problems of Jack McDermott, hurried to see his patient--
who should be dead
.

Jack McDermott sat up in bed when Dr. Leah walked in his room. The nurse turned and regarded Leah with a smile as he stood at the foot of Jack's bed.

Leah flipped through McDermott's chart then looked up. "Mr. McDermott, I'm Dr. Leah. How do you feel?"

Jack blinked, staring. "Dazed."

"You've been in a coma for a little over a week."

"So I hear."

The nurse looked up from the chart. "I was telling him what happened."

"So what now?" Jack asked.

Leah studied McDermott for a long moment. "First and foremost, you need to get some rest. We'll get another MRI of your head and depending on the results, we may move you to another unit."

"What's an MRI?"

"It's basically a fancy X-ray, just a little more thorough."

Jack nodded. "Any chance I can get something to eat? I'm starved."

"Sure, we can fix that."

Leah could relate to it.
He still smelled his soup he'd left on the cafeteria table. He turned to the nurse. "Let's start him off with some clear liquids and see how he tolerates those. If he does all right, we'll get him something solid for lunch." He turned back to Jack. "All right, Mr. McDermott, I'm going to write some orders for you. Later on I'll run some tests, and see you then."

"OK thanks, doc... Dr. Leah, is it?"

"That's right, L-E-A-H."

"Good I remembered," he said, as Leah went out the door.

Aboard Air Force One, the first steward, a Technical Sergeant, appeared in the cabin and announced their final approach to Zurich International Airport. He advised everyone to return to his or her assigned seat and put their seat belt on.

President Lloyd excused himself from the reporter and made his way back to his seat. He nudged the steward as he went past. "Could you get me a couple antacids? I'm a little nauseated from the flight."

"Pre summit jitters, no doubt. I'll get them right away, sir."

Lloyd nodded. "No doubt." He had held four summits in his two years as President. Although used to them, they still gave him butterflies. The sheer power he possessed sometimes frightened even him.
Enough to make anyone's stomach upset.

The First Lady and daughter sat across from the President discussing the latest ski attire when the plane's engines slowed and the intercom announced it was time to land.

"Finally," Sara Lloyd said. She leaned across her mother and looked at the Swiss countryside getting larger in the window.

"It's breathtaking," Gwen Lloyd said.

Sara squeezed her mother's arm. "Breathtaking and scary."

The President smiled despite his nausea.

A minute later the landing gear hit the runway with a dull thump, and the reverse thrusters reverberated through the cabin as the plane slowed.

Air Force One reached idle speed and lumbered to the taxiway. Lloyd looked out his window. A row of black Mercedes limousines lined the tarmac. The red carpet had already been rolled out, a podium with a dozen microphones was in place, and a wide staircase was being towed toward the exact spot where the aircraft would taxi to a standstill. After Air Force One was secured, the stairs rolled into place and cabin lights flickered on. As the door of the plane opened, the Secret Service exited first. Lloyd followed then the Vice President and the remaining entourage.

At the bottom of the stairs, a Swiss envoy extended his hand. "Welcome, President Lloyd. Comfortable trip I trust."

"Very," Lloyd said, although the knots in his stomach had not abated.

Jesus, what's wrong with me?

The U.S. chief of protocol stepped forward to introduce the President, and after a brief welcome ceremony, security escorted Lloyd to his limousine. He plopped down next to Charlie Lathbury, the Secretary of State. Beads of perspiration dripped off Lloyd.

"You all right, Tom?" Lathbury asked.

Lloyd unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie.

"Just a case of nerves," Lloyd assured him.

Lloyd had selected Breckgarten as the meeting place for the summit. A seventeenth-century castle set below the highest peak in the Swiss Alps, its beauty was unsurpassed. Popular with heads of state, it had been the backdrop of many world summits in the past.

Lloyd laid his head back on the seat. "How far is it, Charlie?"

"About a half hour."

Lloyd closed his eyes. "Good, I'll take a nap."

"You sure you're all right?"

Lloyd nodded. "Yea, just nerves."

Denton Cogswell and Frank Bahr had arrived in Zurich a day earlier to set up security for the President. The two were a study in contrast. Although both men wore identical outfits, dark topcoats, charcoal gray suits, dark ties, white shirt, and black oxfords: the similarities ended there.

Bahr, a solid mesomorph, a shade under five-eight, cast a stunted shadow across the much taller Cogswell, an Icabod Crane look-alike with sinister features.

Cogswell could not believe the CIA now did what amounted to security detail. "That's what the fucking Secret Service is for," he told Bahr every day.

Here he was, though, along with the Secret Service and the Swiss police, coordinating the efforts to guard Thomas Lloyd--
a President he didn't even vote for.

Cogswell's official title: Security Enforcement Officer, a new division of the CIA, was created after the Cold War ended. Previously stationed in Moscow, and familiar with high level contacts, his experience proved invaluable. He protested when his boss picked him for the job, he sorely hated the Russians, but his orders stood. They needed him in Zurich, period.

Cogswell kicked at a patch of snow as one of the Swiss police walked up.

"How will we handle this?" the officer asked in his thick accent.

"You'll be briefed in a minute." Cogswell walked away.

"Take it easy," Bahr said to Cogswell. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "They're on our side."

Cogswell briefed all the security detail on their duties, as well as what to expect from the Russians who insisted on no interference with security for their president, Viktor Chermonovik. The Russian routine proved simple.

They surrounded their president with thugs, ten strong and all in the three hundred pound range. If anyone tried to get close to Chermonovik, with malice, the thugs shot them.

Russian democracy
, Bahr told them.

The American security plan, much more sophisticated, yet no less deadly, required a group effort. Along with the usual Secret Service agents assigned to the President, the CIA and Swiss Police had snipers on the roof of Breckgarten and plainclothes officers throughout the crowd.

The Russian President stood in a semi-circle to await the arrival of Lloyd and his group. The goons alongside him looked as if any one of them could crush a small car with his bare hands. Chermonovik stood a shade over five-feet tall and nearly as wide. With a pit bull's face and thick silver hair, he resembled a compacted version of The Man from Glad. He oozed charisma, though. In his three short years as Russia's President, he had finagled more deals and secured more financing for his country than all his predecessors combined. Standing in front of Breckgarten, he looked every bit the exuberant politician.