THE AFTERNOON MEET-AND-GREET with his top campaign staff is due to be over in five minutes, but Harrison Tucker is done. He stands up and says to his half-dozen top officials, “Very good, that’ll do for now. Thanks for coming in and…my deepest apologies again for putting all of you in this very awkward position.”
The head of the delegation, a heavyset man in a brown suit who’s the senior senator from Ohio, takes the lead and says, “We won’t let you down, Mr. President. The margin might be tighter, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna let that nutcase from California get in here next January.”
The delegation smiles and murmurs as Harrison, assisted by one of his aides, ushers them out of the Oval Office, but the oldest person in the group, the former majority leader from the Ohio Statehouse, lingers behind.
“Mr. President,” Miriam Tanner says. “Please…just a word.”
He hesitates, but he owes a lot to Miriam, and with a hand he gestures his aide to leave, so it’s just the two of them, standing by the open door. Miriam is eighty-one years old, face worn and wrinkled, wearing a simple floral dress—probably from Walmart or Target, he thinks—but she’s been in the business for more than six decades, and her instinct for politics is one of the best he’s ever known.
Miriam says in a low but strong voice, “What the hell do you think you were doing, stepping out like that?”
The tone of her voice nearly knocks him back. “Miriam, I—”
“Shit, Harry, if you wanted to get laid, there are plenty of high-priced, security-cleared young ladies in this town who’ll take care of you, quietly and discreetly,” she says sharply. “What were you thinking? Damn it, son, you’ve had a grand first term, with promises of an even better second term, and you threw it all away for a bit of tail?”
“Miriam…it wasn’t…isn’t like that.”
“Then there’s Grace,” Miriam says, pursing her lips in displeasure. “She may be an ice queen, a stubborn bitch, and come from a family that thinks they crap pearls, here and back home, but by God, she has her heart in the right place. She’s helped thousands of poor kids as this country’s First Lady, and what’s her reward? Being nationally humiliated. What the hell did you see in that chubby lobbyist?”
Desperate to get her out of the Oval Office, Harrison says, “Miriam, please…I’m in love with her.”
His old political ally shakes her head. “Harry, you should know this by now. Presidents can’t be human. They can’t get drunk, or cry, and they certainly can’t fall in love.”
With one more disgusted shake of her head, she’s gone.
The on-duty Secret Service agent tugs the door shut, and the President of the United States walks back into the empty Oval Office, having succeeded in at least gaining a few minutes to himself. That is a treasure, to have those precious seconds, for his day is always planned down to the exact minute.
But…still no news from Parker.
He goes to his desk phone, picks it up to connect with the lead operator at the White House switchboard, and simply says, “Please get me Tammy Doyle.”
“Yes, sir.”
After he hangs up, Harrison impatiently paces the office—careful never to step on the Presidential Seal in the center of the rug, which is considered bad luck, and he doesn’t want any more bad luck today—and the dark part of him wonders, who does he want to hear from first? Parker Hoyt, telling him where Grace has been found? Or the anonymous telephone operator somewhere on the grounds, telling him she’s located the woman he really loves?
What kind of man is he, he thinks, what kind of husband is he, that he would worry about both his wife and his mistress at the same time?
Good question, he thinks.
And no answer.
He reaches into his left pants pocket, takes out a thick challenge coin, stamped with an outline of Air Force One over the White House, and on the reverse, the logo of the 89th Airlift Wing and its Latin motto, Experto Crede. If he were to push the center of the coin and hold it down for three seconds, this room would be flooded with Secret Service agents.
His wife wears a similar object around her neck.
It hasn’t been activated. He puts his challenge coin back in his pocket, seeing that as a good sign. If she were in trouble—
The phone rings. He goes to his ornately carved desk, picks up the phone. “Mr. President,” says the clear voice of the switchboard operator, who again sounds neutral and professional on this “Ambush in Atlanta” day of days, “I have your party on the line.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” and there’s a click as the line is secured, belonging to him and his caller, and he says, “Tammy? Are you there?”
“Oh, Harry,” comes her sweet and tired voice, and he sits down with relief in his leather office chair. At least one wait is over.
But there’s something off in the tone of her voice. “Tammy, are you all right?”
And then the love of his life starts sobbing.