13

White House June 25

A memo from McGreer was on Addis’s desk.

Hamilton Kelly informs me that President Mumfries—President damnit—wants to invite prominent historians to the White House to discuss transitions and periods of national tragedy. Please compile a list of those who should be invited.

The resident son of eggheads. He would call his mother, a European history professor at Columbia, and gather names. This was the sort of action Hanover would have taken in a similar circumstance. Reach out, bear the symbolic burdens. For Mumfries this cut against his public image as a drawling, backroom patrician who above all else cares about the deal, whatever the deal is. This is presidential. Kelly may be learning, Addis thought.

Addis picked up today’s pack of newspaper clippings. He had avoided looking at the newspapers at home. Now he forced himself to read. “Mumfries Request for Better Security Ignored.” “White House Security Chief Neglected Veep-Elect Concern.” Addis felt sorry for Dunne. He flipped through the other clips. Mumfries had granted an interview to the Associated Press, during which he discussed his feelings about assuming office due to tragedy. He talked about healing. He said that a staffer had suggested the lines of poetry he had placed in his first presidential address. “Not my strong suit,” he explained. When the reporter asked if he intended to seek the party’s nomination, Mumfries took her by the hand and said, “Young lady, let’s just get through the next few days. I’m still thinking about him—and Margaret and Jack.”

Addis threw the stack into the trash. He looked at the boxes still scattered throughout the office. Well, that’s convenient, he thought.

There was a rapping at the door. Addis turned to see Mike Finn. The White House political director was banging his cane against the doorjamb.

“Mind taking a walk with me to Brew’s office?” Finn asked. “Are you busy?”

“Not much. Hard to tell.”

“Know the feeling. Come on.”

Addis knew better than to take Finn’s arm and guide him. Finn had memorized every foot of the West Wing. Wearing his usual wrap-around sunglasses, he steadily tapped his cane and did not brush against Addis.

“These office shuffles are murder on me,” Finn said. “Just when I know where everyone is, they up and change it all. Almost went into your old office. Heard M. T. in there. Think she was talking to a reporter. Don’t know about what.”

“Wouldn’t know, Mike,” Addis said.

“Not the time for hotheads.”

“M. T.’s fine.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Finn walked into McGreer’s suite, nodded at McGreer’s secretary, and entered McGreer’s office; Addis followed. McGreer was at his desk. Dan Carey, the consultant, was on the couch.

“Glad you could join us, Nick,” McGreer said. “Don’t want those historians to keep you too busy.”

“Not a problem,” Addis answered.

He said hello to Carey. The two did not like each other. Addis did not trust Carey. The consultant was always urging that more money be spent on polling, that more money be spent on television ads, that more money be spent on focus groups, all expenditures from which he received a sizeable cut. Carey daily tested the appeal of words and phrases and had vetted all speeches prepared for Hanover. He had worked for candidates across the political spectrum. He had advised corporations and foreign leaders, including a few whose devotion to democratic principles was weak. McGreer had brought Carey aboard in the last weeks of the first presidential campaign. Insurance, McGreer told the skeptics, including Addis. And Carey had stayed. He lived in Virginia’s horse country and commuted by limousine, sometimes by helicopter. In the first book on the administration—four had been published so far—Carey had been quoted remarking, “Nick is a waterboy who thinks he’s the President’s conscience.”

“How you doing, Nick?” Carey asked. He was wearing his customary black, Italian suit. He had a rack of them at home. Addis remembered the picture from a newsmagazine. Each one cost three thousand dollars. Is that a new wig? Addis wondered, as he looked at the matted brown hair lying above Carey’s large, sloping forehead. Like paint on a breadbox, he thought.

“Been better,” Addis replied. He turned to McGreer. “Did you know about that memo?”

“No,” McGreer said. “Too bad for Clarence. Mumfries never mentioned it to me.”

“Didn’t think so—”

McGreer held up his hand to signal, Enough, this is not on the agenda.

“We’re discussing the future not the fucking past,” McGreer said. “What to do with the Hanover Re-elect.”

“A campaign without a candidate,” Finn remarked.

“I suppose the question is, who inherits?” Carey said. The conversation paused.

“We’ve been thinking, talking informally,” Finn said, addressing Addis. “Do we swing it behind Mumfries? He refuses to say anything publicly about his intentions. And he and Kelly haven’t said anything to any of us, right?”

Carey and McGreer nodded, and they all looked at Addis.

“I don’t know anything,” Addis muttered. “Isn’t this a bit too—”

“And—who knows?—there might be someone else out there with a plan,” Finn went on. “Nick, hear anything from your friend, Senator Palmer?”

Addis shook his head. He had spoken briefly to the senator at the funeral. Anything I can do to help, I will, Palmer had said.

“Dickerson?” McGreer asked. The previous year the black congressman had threatened to challenge Hanover in the primaries, but he had not entered the race.

“I don’t think so,” Addis said. “It will look a bit opportunistic. And his son is in trouble for a cable business deal in Oakland. The U.S. attorney is looking into it. Dickerson thinks we started that rolling. We didn’t, and I told his people that. But he still believes—which probably will keep him out.”

“And do we want him out?” Carey asked.

No one replied.

“I suppose that depends on who we want in,” Carey said, answering his own question.

The discussion was beginning to anger Addis. He wondered if perhaps he was too sensitive. The number of days to the election was finite and growing shorter. Didn’t they have a responsibility—maybe even a responsibility to him—to plot instead of mourn? That might be so, but did it have to seem so enjoyable?

Damn, I am out of it.

“Isn’t the first move up to the V-Vi … the President?” he asked.

“Sounded like Lem there, Nick,” Carey said quickly.

“Fuck yes,” McGreer said to Addis. “He’d be the easiest, maybe the best. Continuity and all that. Probably what Bob”—he hesitated—“would have even wanted. Mumfries helped him get here and was on the team.”

Addis let it pass.

“Not sure Margaret would agree with that,” Carey said.

“But we’re not committed,” Finn interjected.

“Not yet,” Carey added.

Addis had it figured. McGreer was pushing Mumfries. Carey was worried he would be cut out of Mumfries’s campaign—and its spending. He had never gotten along with Kelly. Finn was doing what he always did: calculating, extrapolating, gaming it all out. And each was worried that a loop existed that he was not in.

“Mumfries will have to say something in the next few days,” McGreer said. “Everyone in Chicago is in a fucking panic. Every state chair, too. Every fucking delegate. And even the fucking airlines are calling.”

“Let them come and vote for Hanover,” Addis said.

The others looked at him.

“The delegates. On the first ballot. Most are committed, right? Then, I suppose, we’ll have an open convention.”

“I have someone researching the rules,” Finn said.

“And after the first ballot, who will they vote for?” Carey asked.

“I guess that’s the question,” Addis said.

Finn stood up and began pacing. He never bumped into the furniture.

“Could state chairs get together first?” Finn asked. “Make a decision?”

“And enforce it?” Carey asked. “Good luck. You know we’re talking chaos, if we do not settle this damn soon.”

“May not be ours to settle,” Addis said.

Finn ran his fingers across the mounted samurai sword McGreer kept in a corner of the office. The intercom on the desk sounded, and McGreer picked up the phone. He frowned, hung up, and switched on the television.

Margaret Hanover was on CNN. She was in a hallway in the old Executive Office Building, outside the makeshift White House pressroom. A crowd of reporters surrounded her. Behind her stood M. T. O’Connor, twirling her hair, and Lem Jordan.

“Fuck,” McGreer said softly, as he raised the volume.

“I am touched by the outpouring of support that has come from across the nation and from around the world,” Margaret was saying. “It has meant so much to me and to Jack—and everyone who works here.”

“Mrs. Hanover, do you believe that security was too lax at the White House?” asked a reporter from the Wall Street Journal.

“No, no. These people have such a heavy burden here. They never got credit for those attempts they stopped. Even once when Jack and I were … I don’t think I should go into that. But I know they did their best. Every security system has lapses. I hope we can learn from this.”

She was somber. She looked at the reporters, not the cameras.

“If Mumfries decides to run, will you support him?” The questioner was off-screen. Addis recognized the voice—a producer for ABC News and a friend of O’Connor.

“Shit,” Carey said.

“As you know, President”—she said the word slowly—“Mumfries has not announced his intentions yet. So it would be unfair of me to speculate. I will say this: I am grateful for the support he gave my husband, and I hope that in the months ahead, if not the years after that, he will join me in fighting for the policies that Bob initiated.”

“‘Join me’?” Finn said.

“Have you thought about running?” Again, it was the ABC producer.

Margaret let out a slight laugh. “Now there’s an idea,” she said. “But seriously, today I am just thinking about Jack—what will be best for him. Our family has always been devoted to public service. They may have killed Bob, but not what he stood for … .”

She was starting to cry. A reporter offered her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her cheeks.

“I probably should be going now,” she said. “I just wanted to see some friendly faces. Thank you.”

She walked out of the room.

McGreer turned off the television.

“Did you fucking know about this?” McGreer asked Addis.

“No, not at all.”

“Does she have … plans, Nick?” Finn asked.

“Nothing I’ve been told.”

“Well, there’s continuity, and then there’s continuity,” Carey said.

And if she runs you’re still in the thick of it.

Addis guessed that was what Carey was thinking. Carey and Margaret rarely agreed on policy matters but they had worked well together. They both had been loyal to the same overriding principle: what would be best for Bob Hanover.

“That certainly was off-message,” Finn remarked. “How’d she look?”

“As purposeful as ever,” Carey replied. He was smirking.

“Well, I think we should find out what we fucking can,” McGreer said in a way that indicated the meeting was done.

About what? Addis thought.

On the way out, Finn placed his hand on Addis’s shoulder.

“Thanks for joining us, Nick,” he said. “Let us know if you learn anything … pertinent.”

M. T. O’Connor was not in her office. Her assistant told Addis she might be with Margaret in the East Wing. Addis headed that way. At the corridor that connected the two wings, he passed Kelly and Wenner. The CIA director stopped to say hello. Addis recalled their first meeting, in the early days of the administration, when Wenner had invited Addis to the CIA for lunch. In his personal dining room, he asked Addis to explain the Honduras business. Off the record. For curiosity’s sake.

Addis laid it out for Wenner. When Mumfries had chaired the Senate intelligence committee during the previous administration, he and his senior staff tacitly approved—with a nod and a wink, nothing on paper—a CIA operation that funneled funds to a band of drugged-up, thuggish generals in Honduras. The generals were using this money to supply arms to a rightist rebel insurgency next door. Per their understanding with Langley, they were keeping a percentage of the money for shipping and handling. Official policy was that Washington had no favorites in the civil war in the neighboring country; a majority of Congress was opposed to intervention. But the President and Mumfries—hardliners from opposing parties—agreed that public policy should not prevent them from proceeding with behind-the-scenes action. But after the CIA program had been initiated, a leak occurred, and the details reached the front pages. The source of the leak was never publicly identified. The best guesses traced the tip-off to Senator Palmer, who previously had blocked the administration’s attempts to openly assist the right-wing rebels. And since Palmer took no significant action without the input of his chief of staff, Nick Addis was blamed by the national security crowd and Mumfries’s staff—and that included Hamilton Kelly—for the scandal-causing leak. Hearings had to be held. Newspaper editorialists huffed about spies running amok. Mumfries claimed a miscommunication had transpired between his staff and certain CIA officers, and he survived the scandal with little political damage.

After Addis had finished recounting the episode over lunch, Wenner had not asked him who had leaked. Addis had appreciated that.

“How are you, Nick?” Wenner now inquired.

Shit, I should really get an answer to that question.

“Like everyone else, sir.”

“Hard days, hard days,” Wenner said.

“Yes, they are sir.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kelly interrupted. “And, Nick, you and I need to talk soon … . About future considerations.”

“Sure.”

Kelly and Wenner started to move off.

“And that appearance a few minutes ago.” Kelly had stopped and was facing Addis. “Interesting. Don’t you think?”

Kelly was trying to be melodramatic. Wenner, lost in thought, wasn’t paying attention. Addis shrugged.

“We’ll talk,” Kelly said and guided Wenner toward the Oval Office.

“Can’t wait,” Addis said, to no one in particular. He looked at the Rose Garden and walked on.

Neither O’Connor nor Margaret were in the widow’s office. He ambled down the hall, and he saw Jack in the library. Addis entered the box-filled room, wondering if Lem Jordan was near.

“Hi, Jack.”

Jack, with his back to the door, was startled. He wheeled himself around.

“Hey, Nick,” he muttered. His eyes brightened to see Addis.

The car accident, nine years ago, had left him paralyzed from the waist down. It also had turned him from a gregarious child into a withdrawn, sullen boy. He occasionally entered what the doctors called conscious blackouts. He would be awake but coma-like, impenetrable, nearly autistic. The specialists had not been able to find the cause of these retreats. Psychologists and psychiatrists came up with various theories. It was the shock, the anger, the guilt for not being the perfect son. No treatments had taken hold.

Jack wiped his stringy blond hair from his face. Was he getting thinner? He was wearing an Orioles T-shirt. Addis squatted next to him.

“Whatcha doing?” Addis asked.

“Helping Mom pack.”

“And what are you packing?”

“Old stuff.”

Addis sat on a sealed box. He looked at the open cartons. They were filled with books, knickknacks, old newspapers.

“How you doing?” Addis asked.

“I keep the list,” Jack said. He held up a clipboard. “Then Mom puts it in the box.”

Addis pulled a scrapbook out of the box at Jack’s feet.

“These are my mom’s boxes,” Jack said, pointing to the ones closest to him. “Those”—he pointed across the room—“are my dad’s.”

Addis flipped through the scrapbook. Margaret’s report cards from grade school. Always straight As. A picture of her next to a handmade poster that read, “Vote Mason.” Had she run for class office in middle school? A large group photo taken at what appeared to be a wedding reception. Margaret stood out—sixteen years old or so, but the same wince-like smile. And the tall young man standing to the side of the group? Was that Mumfries? On the next page was stapled a copy of Voices, the literary magazine at her boarding school. The masthead listed her as an associate editor.

“You know,” Addis said, nodding toward the emblem on Jack’s T-shirt, “maybe we should go to another ball game.”

“Sure. But the seats won’t be the same.” At opening day, months earlier, Addis had sat with the President and Jack at the edge of the playing field.

“I bet we can get some good ones.”

“I bet you can,” Jack said.

“I’ll just say they’re for you.”

Jack wiggled his mouth; it was nearly a smile.

Addis turned a bristled page. A Harvard Crimson was tucked into the book. The subscription label was addressed to a library at Yale. Addis carefully unfolded the issue. Nothing on the front page seemed significant. He gingerly opened the paper.

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

“A newspaper from where your father went to college.”

“This is one of my mom’s boxes.”

“Yes, but she must have kept it for him.”

There it was. Toward the back, a four-paragraph story with the headline, “Hanover to Star as Romeo.” The article—there was no picture—previewed a production that was to open later in the week. Addis knew the tale. Margaret had met Bob after a performance of the play. She must have saved this Crimson as a special souvenir.

“Let me see,” Jack said.

Addis held the page in front of him, and Jack looked at the short article.

But, Addis noticed, it was dated prior to the night Margaret met Bob, for the play had not yet opened. Could she have … ? he began to wonder. Had she gone to the play because she already knew Hanover would be in it? Had she engineered a chance meeting? Perhaps after that first encounter she had rummaged through the library at school and retrieved this back issue of the Crimson. But not the issue that contained a review of the play? There must have been more elaborate coverage of the production. Why go back and collect just this brief mention? Had another issue of the Crimson fallen out of the scrapbook long ago? Or had Margaret, while at Yale, been reading the newspaper of another school, searching for references to a man she did not yet know? That would have been methodical. Damn methodical.

Addis pulled the paper from Jack. He felt he had discovered a secret. He slipped the paper back between the pages and returned the scrapbook to the carton.

“Really shouldn’t be going through her stuff,” Addis said.

“My mom didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“I know. But sometimes it’s better to respect people’s privacy.”

Jack was rocking himself in his wheelchair.

“You miss him?” he asked Addis.

“Yes, I do, and so do millions.”

“But not like …”

“Not like you and your mom.”

Addis stood, as if he were about to leave.

“What do you got to do now?” Jack was asking him to stay.

“Lots of things, lots,” Addis said. “But they can wait a little.”

Yeah, come up with a list of historians.

And there were preliminary calls to be made regarding the Louisiana Land Deal.

I’d rather deal with the historians.

Jordan came into the room.

“Wh-wh-what you up to, N-nick?” he asked.

“Just talking to Jack,” Addis said. “Told him we should go to a ball game soon.”

“S-s-sure,” Jordan replied.

“Now that you’re here, I think I’ll get back to it all. Is that okay, Jack?”

“Guess so.”

“See you later, then. Bye.”

Jack wheeled himself toward the window. He didn’t say good-bye.