and
sub-basement. But as far as the president was concerned, it was not enough
space. All around him, White House staff worked like drones, seemingly
everywhere at once.
Voices whined and chattered,
becoming an incessant buzz that hammered at his temples unmercifully, even
within his private study.
All he wanted, even for fifteen
minutes, was a short reprieve to regroup his thoughts and emotions.
And he found it in the Press
Briefing Room, a small, closed-in area no larger than a decent-sized living
room. Forty-eight theater-style chairs stood empty before him.
President Burroughs stood in front
of the staging area looking over an empty audience, then rubbed the palms of
his hands over his eyes until he saw bright patterns. He knew this room would
soon be packed with media shouting out questions for which he had no answers.
“I knew you’d be here,” said the
vice president. His voice always projected smoothly, calmly, except when he was
involved in a hotly-contested political debate or lobbying for a cause. “It‘s
an odd place to find peace and quiet, isn‘t it?” The vice president stood
behind the podium, then hooked his fingers over the edges and took a firm grip
as if he was about to lead Mass for a congregation of one. “Are you all right,
Jim? It‘s not like you to run away from matters.”
The president pitched a sigh. “I’m
not running from the situation, Jonas. I’m running from the moment.”
“You know it’s only going to get
worse from here, don‘t you?”
The president lowered one of the
seats in the gallery and sat down. “When I woke up this morning,” he began, “I
knew it was going to be a bad day. Call it presidential insight, intuition,
call it whatever you want. But something told me that today was going to be a
challenge that I’m not sure I’m up to—that we’re up to.”
The vice president stared at the
seamless face of Jim Burroughs. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “We have
to.”
The president offered a weak
smile. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me.” He draped an arm over
the back of a neighboring seat. “I guess that’s what happens when you have
Senator Burroughs from New York and Senator Bohlmer from California running on
the same ticket in a race for the White House. People expect a lot from us.”
“And we’ve provided.”
“Until now,” he added.
“There’s nothing you could have
done, Jim, to prevent what happened. You took all the necessary precautions.
You put your detail in place as required.”
“My detail was murdered, Jonas, by
a team of insurgents who walked right into my backyard, which makes this
country appear vulnerable—to the American people and to our allies. Not a good
thing.”
“Jim, they were highly skilled
militants trained well above the level of your people. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. But the
court of public opinion and the people of this nation will only see a breach in
American superiority. Our government suddenly appears incapable of providing
the security that the nation expects.”
“Which is all the more reason why
we have to make things right,” Bohlmer returned.
The president closed his eyes, his
headache abating little. “We’re doing all we can, Jonas,” he answered weakly,
“given what we have to go on.”
“I agree. But there’s still an
issue we need to address.”
The president opened his eyes.
“Such as?”
“Shari Cohen.”
The president raised his hands
intuitively. “Please, Jonas, we’ve already discussed this matter upstairs, and
your concern was duly noted. But her presence in this matter is vital.”
“Her presence, Jim, is dangerous.
How many people do you think are working on this right now?”
The president shrugged. “A lot.”
“Exactly. A lot. And how long do
you think it’ll take for somebody from the Post , the Times , or the Globe to make an offer to someone who is willing to divulge the
fact that a woman of Jewish
sub-basement. But as far as the president was concerned, it was not enough
space. All around him, White House staff worked like drones, seemingly
everywhere at once.
Voices whined and chattered,
becoming an incessant buzz that hammered at his temples unmercifully, even
within his private study.
All he wanted, even for fifteen
minutes, was a short reprieve to regroup his thoughts and emotions.
And he found it in the Press
Briefing Room, a small, closed-in area no larger than a decent-sized living
room. Forty-eight theater-style chairs stood empty before him.
President Burroughs stood in front
of the staging area looking over an empty audience, then rubbed the palms of
his hands over his eyes until he saw bright patterns. He knew this room would
soon be packed with media shouting out questions for which he had no answers.
“I knew you’d be here,” said the
vice president. His voice always projected smoothly, calmly, except when he was
involved in a hotly-contested political debate or lobbying for a cause. “It‘s
an odd place to find peace and quiet, isn‘t it?” The vice president stood
behind the podium, then hooked his fingers over the edges and took a firm grip
as if he was about to lead Mass for a congregation of one. “Are you all right,
Jim? It‘s not like you to run away from matters.”
The president pitched a sigh. “I’m
not running from the situation, Jonas. I’m running from the moment.”
“You know it’s only going to get
worse from here, don‘t you?”
The president lowered one of the
seats in the gallery and sat down. “When I woke up this morning,” he began, “I
knew it was going to be a bad day. Call it presidential insight, intuition,
call it whatever you want. But something told me that today was going to be a
challenge that I’m not sure I’m up to—that we’re up to.”
The vice president stared at the
seamless face of Jim Burroughs. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “We have
to.”
The president offered a weak
smile. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me.” He draped an arm over
the back of a neighboring seat. “I guess that’s what happens when you have
Senator Burroughs from New York and Senator Bohlmer from California running on
the same ticket in a race for the White House. People expect a lot from us.”
“And we’ve provided.”
“Until now,” he added.
“There’s nothing you could have
done, Jim, to prevent what happened. You took all the necessary precautions.
You put your detail in place as required.”
“My detail was murdered, Jonas, by
a team of insurgents who walked right into my backyard, which makes this
country appear vulnerable—to the American people and to our allies. Not a good
thing.”
“Jim, they were highly skilled
militants trained well above the level of your people. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. But the
court of public opinion and the people of this nation will only see a breach in
American superiority. Our government suddenly appears incapable of providing
the security that the nation expects.”
“Which is all the more reason why
we have to make things right,” Bohlmer returned.
The president closed his eyes, his
headache abating little. “We’re doing all we can, Jonas,” he answered weakly,
“given what we have to go on.”
“I agree. But there’s still an
issue we need to address.”
The president opened his eyes.
“Such as?”
“Shari Cohen.”
The president raised his hands
intuitively. “Please, Jonas, we’ve already discussed this matter upstairs, and
your concern was duly noted. But her presence in this matter is vital.”
“Her presence, Jim, is dangerous.
How many people do you think are working on this right now?”
The president shrugged. “A lot.”
“Exactly. A lot. And how long do
you think it’ll take for somebody from the Post , the Times , or the Globe to make an offer to someone who is willing to divulge the
fact that a woman of Jewish
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