Four

It was just as well. After her next drink, attendees filed out of the conference room and a number joined us by the pool. Every male eye was on Tarja, then on me, wondering who I was to spend time with the international beauty. Once it became crowded, Tarja stood up.

“I need to go.” She glanced down. “See you tomorrow, maybe. If not, then on the mountain.”

You could all but hear the communal sigh as she walked off, carrying the bag she’d brought with her to the pool. Almost in unison, the men placed an order for another drink.

Women were suddenly appearing among us, as if sprung from the woodwork. There were a few hard-faced D. C. political operatives and media types already out here, but these newcomers were of a different breed altogether. Racially mixed, with skin tones from amber to mocha, they floated among the men, finding places at the bar with practiced ease. The bartender never bothered taking an order; he knew what the stunning young women drank.

I glanced at my watch. If I went to my room now, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I sat back and watched the women discreetly ply their trade, then ordered another beer. By midnight the gathering showed no sign of dwindling, though the young women, I noticed—followed or joined by a man—had drifted off as casually as they’d joined us. They’d be back for a second shift, I figured. This was a big payday for them.

Diana came out about then. She weaved her way deftly through the throng, talking, laughing, putting people off, all the while making her way steadily toward me where I sat alone at a table on the edge of the area. Finally, she shook off the last of those who wanted to talk and joined me, a cone of respectful distance suddenly appearing around us.

“Glad you’re still up,” she said. “The president was beat and has gone to bed. Busy day tomorrow.”

Diana was in her mid- to late 30s by now and, I would say, was in her prime. I’d first met her on the northern plains of Afghanistan, where I’d served in the Army Rangers as we launched our offensive against the Taliban. She’d been a young, scrappy reporter looking to make her mark, and she’d done it. For three years she’d been the evening news anchor for SNS, the leading cable news outlet. Then she’d had a popular morning show on SNS. Now she moved in circles which were the envy of every media type. Her future was set, secure in most any direction she wanted to take it. Every success she’d had, however, pulled us further apart, and the future—let alone the present—looked no better.

“How’d the reception go?” I asked after a waiter took our order.

“Fine. The Tanzanian president and his wife were charming, and the president was his usual self. Onesphory positively beamed. It was wonderful to see, if a bit tedious.”

“I suspect that’s all part of the job.”

“Not really, but I have to go often enough to bore the hell out of me.”

“Are you climbing the mountain?”

She tipped her head in thought. “I’m thinking about it. My only definite plan is to move up in easy stages and handle the media. If the going gets tough, I’ll sit down and wait. I’m out of shape for this sort of thing.”

“Your shape looks just fine.”

She smiled. “You’re sweet.”

“So what happened to that news guy you were dating? I used to see pictures of the two of you all the time.”

She eyed me a moment as if uncertain she’d respond. “You mean Mitchell? Don’t believe everything you read. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Still, I read you two were very close.”

“Mitchell is a very nice man. Do you really need to know about this?” I shrugged is if to make light of it. “It was a favor, okay? But it got out of hand. His roommate got jealous.”

“Roommate?”

“Use your head, Scott. He was concerned that Mitchell was thinking about switching teams. Get it?”

“Oh. I see.”

She sighed. “It was a PR thing—for his image. Sorry to say, life’s still like that.”

We sat quietly for a moment, then I said, “Hooker seems straight to me.” I know. I couldn’t help it. The words just tumbled out.

She winced. “You mean Christopher.”

“Okay, Christopher. But I don’t see any reason why you should be sensitive about his family name. On the flight I did an Internet search. The results were very interesting. Did you know that 22,000 families in the United States have the last name ‘Hooker’? I didn’t.”

She looked at me askance. “You did research on his name?”

“It struck me as an interesting subject.”

“What are you, Scott? Fourteen years old?”

Close, I thought. Very close. “If he’s so sensitive about it, he could change it. It’s the American way. I’m sure I could come up with a number of substitutes, each of which would be an improvement.”

“Don’t you dare,” she cautioned. “Anyway, he’s very proud of his family name. The Hookers are very well known in Pennsylvania.”

I struggled not to smile. “So, what’s the story there between you two?”

She sighed, as if it was too complex for casual conversation. “I didn’t join you to discuss my personal life, and that includes family names.” Our drinks arrived. We sat in silence for a very long time as my fires of jealously slowly subsided. Then memories of moments like this with her came back to me. I’d never known anyone before with whom I could sit in such quiet comfort. Finally she spoke.

“This is nice. I’ve missed it. How do you like Africa so far?”

“What little I’ve seen is interesting. I noticed the small farms on the way here from the airport. It looked like a tough life.”

“Yes. The more I travel, the luckier I feel to be an American. Are you going with us to the village tomorrow?”

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The next day had been set aside for the president and Onesphory to visit with his mother and father, now stepfather. Kind of a return to the scene of the crime sort of thing it seemed to me.

“I hadn’t thought about it. I’ll likely stick around here. Tom and Calvin might want to do something, maybe go for a drive and explore a bit. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I don’t know about Tom, but Calvin’s coming along. I wish you would, as well.”

“Maybe, but it might be a bit awkward.” She knew I was thinking of Hooker.

“Don’t let it be, Scott.”

I mulled that in my mind. “What about Hooker?”

“Christopher. What about him?”

“I doubt he’d like me coming along.”

“I’m sure you’re right. He’s very insecure in a lot of ways. But he’s one of the reporters and will be busy covering the event. I doubt that either of you will see much of the other, and Scott, don’t let this be an issue. All right? I’d like you to come. It will be nice having you. And both the president and his son want you there.” I nodded without committing myself. “We’re leaving just after breakfast.” I nodded vaguely once again.

The waiter dropped by again, and we reordered. I was starting to get a pretty good buzz going. “So what’s the inside story here?” I asked.

“About what?”

“The president and First Lady don’t have children. We’re told they’re very happy with that, and childless couples all over the country have received lots of media attention since he was sworn in. Then, a few months ago, Onesphory suddenly appears, the son from a brief relationship 20-odd years ago. For some politicians that would have been a disaster, but in this case some clever media type,” I gave her a look, “turned it into a real plus.” She dipped her head, acknowledging the compliment. “How’s that possible?”

“First off, Opie is just a wonderful young man. What’s not to like? He thought that Chief Kleruu was his dad until last summer, when he learned the truth.”

“How did that happen? It had been a secret all his life. I’d think with his biological father in the White House all the pressure would have been the other direction.”

“We aren’t certain how it came out. I just know that he learned about it and didn’t plan to do anything, but then there was a published report, and events took on a life of their own.”

“The stepdad can’t be real happy about this turn of events.”

“Why do you say that?”

“As I understand the story, he agrees to marry a pregnant woman…”

“We don’t know that he knew she was pregnant, or that she knew for that matter.”

“…then raises someone else’s son as his own. I don’t know how common that is in this part of the world, but I know places where it’s extraordinary.”

“All accounts say it wasn’t an issue. He’s the chief, and someday Opie will be, as well.”

“He’s attending Harvard. He’s going to move back to East Africa and preside over his local clan?”

“He grew up there. They are his people, his family.”

“I thought he grew up in boarding school, home for vacations and all.”

“Still…”

“And he’s really not the chief’s son, as it turns out.”

She sighed. “Yes, he is. You’ll see tomorrow. They aren’t going to change that now.”

“I’ll bet someone would like to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who becomes chief if he doesn’t?”

“I have no idea. I can’t see that it matters.”

It matters, I thought—but didn’t say it. “And what’s this about the First Lady being ecstatic over this development? That doesn’t sound like any wife I ever heard about. Bastard children from old girlfriends aren’t exactly a welcome addition to any marriage.”

“That’s a harsh word.” She took a dainty sip. “What makes you think she’s not thrilled?”

“Well, she’s in Arizona and they’re in Africa, for one.”

“This trip was organized on very short notice. You couldn’t expect her to change plans just like that.”

“Why not? The president did.”

“Scott, this trip is only possible because he already had the other planned. It’s taking place during the same window, ten days. He’s got to get back on the campaign trail. The convention isn’t that far away, and there’s a lot to do between now and then.”

“Is Onesphory going to campaign for him?”

“I have no idea, but his mere existence, I believe, is an enormous plus. The president is thrilled to learn he’s a dad.”

“What about Mrs. President?”

The drinks arrived. “Between us,” she said quietly, “the First Lady is less than thrilled, alright? This has all come as a great shock. They’d been dating for over a year and were moving toward getting married when he made his Africa pilgrimage. No woman wants this kind of reminder that her man was fooling around with someone else.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” I thought about bringing up Hooker again, since we were now talking about people fooling around with other people, but I let that dog sleep—for the moment.

“So what’s he like?”

“Who?” She was starting to sound exasperated.

“The president.”

“Oh. You’ve met him; what do you think?”

“I saw him for a few minutes at Camp David. There really wasn’t much time for small talk. He was very polished, smooth. I couldn’t help wondering what was going on behind all that.”

She didn’t respond for a long minute, then asked, “What did you decide?”

“No decision, but it did occur to me that what I saw was all there was. Sort of like movie stars or singers. After a while there’s no difference between whatever they are publicly and what they are privately. It’s all one.”

“I think he’d surprise you. Just keep in mind that to be a success in politics you have to learn to watch every word, every gesture. It’s like putting on a suit of armor. But inside is a real person.”

We sat quietly again while I scanned the thinning crowd. Some of the young women from earlier were returning. The remaining men were pretty drunk by now and seemed more interested in another round than a roll in the hay. These ladies were pros, though, and they’d find a way.

“I read the confidential report of what happened in Antarctica,” Diana said quietly.

“It was an experience, all right.”

“And a very close call. You have to give all that up, Scott. If you keep doing this, one of these days you aren’t coming back.”

“I get your point, but if I could just get on a mountain without a lot of crazy killers or military operations or super-secret missions I think I’d start having a good time again, and the only thing I’d need to worry about was twisting an ankle.”

“Well, there’s no secret mission this time—or killers, either. Just a man spending a week with his long-lost son, getting in some quality time before resuming his run for president. You’re surrounded with security, so I think you’ve got your wish.”

I considered that for a moment, recalling the situation in similar climbs when I’d set out. “I hope you’re right.”