4

BIRDS. FROM WHERE SHE LAY, one leg strung out along Paul's bare thigh, the other at an angle that dangled one foot over the edge of the king-sized bed, Amy Bernard saw birds. Most of them flew, glided, or dove helter-skelter over the white hand-painted Chinese wallpaper that her predecessor had installed in the bedroom. Some merely primped and exhibited themselves. One that looked suspiciously like a lowly barnyard rooster pecked at the ground near the hand-carved marble mantel. There were sound effects, too, birdsongs from the live chorus of winged creatures that occupied the magnolia that Andrew Jackson himself had planted just outside their windows.

After more than three years of sleeping in this place, the painted birds and the background songs had become reassuring, validating as she awoke each morning, that she had, indeed, spent yet another night under the roof of the most powerful house in the land. She raised her head and squinted at the ornate gold clock on the mantel, more out of habit than purpose. She never could see the numbers clearly. But the clock looked so good on the mantel. Must be six or thereabouts, she thought. They rarely slept past six-thirty.

She raised herself on one elbow and looked at her husband. She watched his face in repose, the features relaxed, the skin taut against his skull.

More than three decades slipped away. He looked that much younger when he slept, a reminder of the eager young student she had first met at the University of Minnesota, the gangling, blond, blue-eyed, intensely motivated competitor who she had seen for the first time when he beat the bejesus out of all comers on the debating team from the University of Iowa. Of all memories, this first-time image persisted.

His eyes fluttered. He was dreaming. She frequently wondered what his dreams were like. When she asked, he could not remember. With her finger barely touching, she traced his lips, pursed slightly, as if he were smiling at his good fortune.

Often he told her, "I am the luckiest bastard in the world."

Her response was to tap her forehead. "Brains, too."

Also those, she told herself, drawing an imaginary line down to his crotch, which set off erotic signals. Her arm crept around his bare middle, fingers fluttering, brushing delicately like birds' wings along the thatch of hair that surrounded the presidential phallus. Just thinking that way made her giggle. Considering their life in the goldfish bowl, it was delicious to be wickedly uninhibited in private.

Paul stirred, grunted, his conscious mind still tucked away in some mysterious fog. But other parts were reacting. Certain of her own as well. The giggle flattened inside of her. It was this morning moment she cherished the most, as it always came before the giant tide of "responsibility" that would carry them off to the fantasy world of the presidential stage.

What good was power as an aphrodisiac if you never had time to harvest its rewards? she thought, sensing the feathery tickle of sensuality. This moment was the only special private unscheduled frame of time in the waking day. Or was it scheduled? Had some aide penciled in "Six to six forty-five. The President and the First Lady engage in recreational copulation." Perhaps there was a code name for it. Like Jellyroll.

Her nightgown was rolled to her waist and she slowly undulated against him, her hand growing bolder, her upper leg cradling his thigh.

"Stop faking," she whispered. "You're up."

She caressed him with growing eagerness, her sensual motions accelerating. He turned toward her and in the half-light she could see his smile and the moist glistening of the white space in his opened eyes. He snuggled against her, his hands busy, his head moving to her bosom. Her arms embraced his head, held it to her breasts as his tongue rolled over a nipple, sending thrills of expectation through her body.

So precious, she thought. There was no other way to describe this stolen moment. They rolled slightly in the big bed as she positioned herself under him in the missionary way. Middle-of-the-road in every way, she happily thought as she concentrated on the serious business of giving and taking pleasure.

"Fuck me, Mr. President," she whispered, biting his earlobe, lightly, playfully.

With her hands she directed the course of his movements, each obeying private signals that three decades of marriage had taught. Like most marriages, there wasn't a jackpot in it every time, but the act itself and its frequency gave the lie to those who said that political marriages were rocky in the sack.

Not mine. Not now. She felt it begin, somewhere deep, as if a centipede were crawling over exposed nerves. Her mind stopped looking for its source as she lifted her legs and raised her hips to meet his, concentrating on the foamy curl of the breaking wave. Then it began. For him, too.

But somewhere in the tangle of impressions a faraway sound intruded, rhythmical, urgent, the nightmare tapping of the inevitable spoiler. She removed her hands from his buttocks and put them against the sides of his head, pinning his ears, hiding the sound. Not yet, she cried, bringing his lips down to hers, waiting for the waves of primary pleasure to subside. A victory of sorts, she decided, recognizing the persistent knuckling on the bedroom door. She had beat the bastards to the punch.

"They really flew this time," she said in his ear, eyes opening to the flocks on the wallpaper.

"I heard the flapping," he said, lifting his head to focus on her face. "But you had the better view."

"Just an old-fashioned couple."

The knocking continued.

"Mr. President," a voice said.

"Go away," she whispered in his ear. "You're robbing me of afterplay."

"Meet you same time, same place tomorrow."

"A date."

"I better go," he said, disengaging from the tangle of extremities. He gave her a smacking kiss and bounded out of bed, hustling into his paisley robe. She pulled the covers up to her neck and watched him pad across the room in his bare feet and unlock the door.

She heard urgent whispers, recognized them as those of the redoubtable Bob Nickels, Paul's Chief of Staff. Then the voices moved in the direction of the office that adjoined the bedroom.

She flung away the covers, slipped out of her nightgown, and moved naked across the room. She peered into the mirror over the mantel and fluffed up her short-cropped blonde hair. Not bad for two and a half score, she assured herself, patting the underside of her chin, which was still, miraculously, firm and tight.

She heard the door close. After a while, it opened again. Paul was alone. In the mirror, she saw him frown and shake his head.

"Crazies," he said, striding across the room to the windows. He drew the draperies and looked out onto the lawn. Sunlight streamed into the room, but it apparently did not brighten his mood. "Look at those godforsaken things."

She knew he meant the ugly cement globs that blocked the gates. Of all the things that annoyed him, the cement barricades were the most irritating, the ultimate symbols of the siege mentality. He continued to look out of the window, shaking his head.

"They got two more. A mother and son. Picked them off in Cairo. Badly wounded an Assistant Secretary of State. At least they got four of the bastards. Damned cowards. Too good for them. A woman and a child, for chrissakes."

She knew the count, of course. That made twenty-four in all, an even two dozen Americans. Now the media could say "dozens." No more groping for euphemisms of exaggeration. It wasn't just the numbers. It was the paralysis, the inability to act.

"Who is it this time?"

"Everyone and no one. Islamic Jihad, a cover for every nut case in the Middle East. They got pros on the payroll now. You never know who's who and what's what." He shook his head. "Egypt is supposed to be a buddy of ours. Where the hell is their intelligence?"

"And ours?" she asked, which wasn't entirely fair, since he had told her that the CIA had it pretty well sorted out.

She had read the memos. Maybe it wasn't entirely legal, but they had resolved that problem early on. No secrets, baby. No fun sharing the triumphs if she couldn't share the frustrations and defeats. Maybe she didn't know quite everything he knew, but she did get a charge out of reading Jack Harkins' clever little memos where the real challenge came in spotting the signposts of sly manipulation.

The CIA Director's prose was impeccably subtle. But it did inform, and there were issues, terrorism and hostage-taking, among an array of thorny problems, that she was determined to be informed about. An ignorant wife, especially in her position, could be downright dangerous.

"Makes me look so damned helpless. You saw that cartoon in the Post. Me tied up like Gulliver while all those Lilliputians wearing khafis and sporting AK47's were climbing all over me."

"Very clever idea," Amy said. Sometimes a wisecrack might cajole him into a good humor. This time he ignored her, and she knew he was heading swiftly into a black funk.

"It's either bomb the bastards..." He blew air through his teeth. "Not like that Libyan tea party Reagan ordered. I mean really bomb them. Never mind where they go. Or send in the coverts. That's Harkins' broken record. Him and his damned computers."

She understood the reference. The CIA Director boasted of the best covert operation in the world, all computerized. It frightened her to think about it. And worried Paul. Once he stepped across that line, he had little control over it. She tried to deflect his thoughts from going down that path.

"A five-year-old kid. That's a new wrinkle."

"A woman, too. That's also new. To them, women aren't supposed to be worth the trouble." She sensed an element of sarcasm in her tone. She wondered if it had occurred to him.

"Don't get the female consciousness all fired up. Taking hostages supersedes gender."

"Just an indication that they're broadening the attack," she said defensively.

By the time she had retreated, his thoughts seemed to have drifted elsewhere.

Mustn't, she berated herself. Be a good First Lady, helpmate, soulmate, bedmate. It was her only job now. After three years, she was still prone to forget. She watched him as he began to dress. Unlike past Presidents, he eschewed valets, trusting to her judgment on how he should present himself to the world.

"I'll tell you what I'd like to do about it," he muttered as he paced the room, thrusting his shirt in his pants.

"I don't want to hear it," Amy said.

"It's going to come. Encourage them by doing nothing, they'll rub our noses in it."

"I suppose that's the prevailing theory."

"One of many," Paul said. He pulled a tie from the rack and showed it to her.

"Not that one," she said. He pulled another and held it up.

"The Wedgwood blue with the olive stripes."

He looked for it, found it, and began to tie it.

"Better," she said.

He put on his jacket, then turned and kissed her on the forehead, always a signal for their little good-bye ritual.

"Off to the salt mines," he said.

"Wouldn't have your job for all the tea in China."

He winked, patted her naked butt, and left the room.

When Paul had gone, she put on her robe and pressed the bedside button. In a few moments, Farmer, the family butler, would arrive with coffee and rolls. She sat down at the desk and put on her half-glasses and looked over the neatly typed sheet that outlined her chores for the day. One of them read "Preparation for the state dinner for the King of Spain."

Well, that was something, she thought with amusement. Something pleasant to look forward to. It was nearly a month away, but the planning had to be long-term and scrupulous.

The gloomy hostage business moved further from her consciousness. Entertaining royalty would be fun, all that pomp. We must do something special for the King. She had already begun to draw up a list of names when the coffee and rolls arrived.