Power Curve (2 page)

Washington, D.C.

R
obert Bender stood up when the reporter was ushered into his basement office under the West Wing of the White House. The press aide made the introductions. “General Bender, may I introduce Elizabeth Gordon of CNC News?”

“You’re a hard man to find,” Gordon said, extending her hand. Her cameraman halted in the doorway, wondering how he could set up the interview in the small, windowless office while the press aide escaped, eager to join the real action upstairs.

Bender allowed a tight smile as they shook hands. “I’m not very newsworthy, Miss Gordon.” He wasn’t good with reporters or TV interviews. But like all the president’s staff, he had been told to make himself available for media interviews on what Patrick Shaw was calling Media Blitz Day.

The media had been in a feeding frenzy since Turner had been sworn in as president on board
Air Force One
. But Shaw, her new chief of staff, had held them at bay for ten days, throwing them tidbits and claiming the funeral and period of mourning for the dead president was paramount. Shaw had used the time to sort out the confusion in the White House, moving his people into place and restructuring the staff. Now it was time to throw the press a bone with meat.

“Please call me Liz,” the reporter said. “What do you think, Ben?” she said to her cameraman, turning to business.

“Too small,” the cameraman answered. “Maybe we could do it outside, in the park.”

“Fine by me,” Bender answered as he grabbed his flight cap and motioned at the door. A frown crossed Gordon’s face, and Bender suspected she was worried what the late afternoon August heat and humidity would do to her makeup. “I know a cool spot,” he told her. He led the two upstairs and through the corridors crowded with the journalists, TV reporters, and camera crews who had finally been released from their confinement in the press room.

A Secret Service agent held a door open for them that led out of the West Wing and onto the veranda of the colonnade that connected the West Wing to the mansion. “Thank you,” Bender said. A thought clicked into sharp focus: He hadn’t seen the two Secret Service agents Chuck Sanford and Wayne Adams since returning from St. Louis ten days ago. He added it to his action list.

A hot blast of humid air rocked Liz Gordon back as she stepped outside. “It’s not far,” Bender said, jamming his flight cap on his head, automatically denting the top seam in the back. It was a violation of Air Force dress regulations but a holdover from the days when he flew solo pilot for the Air Force aerial demonstration team, the Thunderbirds.

They walked down the veranda, and suddenly the air became cooler as they neared the White House. “A venturi effect,” he explained.

“Perfect,” the cameraman said. He went to work and rapidly set the interview up, positioning Gordon for the best exposure.

“This is actually quite pleasant,” Gordon said. “How did you find it?”

“I try to get outside whenever I can,” Bender answered. Nancy, his wife, claimed the way he roamed the President’s Park was a subconscious attempt to break free of his cage inside the White House. He agreed with her.

The cameraman gave Gordon her cue, and she looked
into the Betacam. A gentle breeze ruffled her blond hair, creating an attractive effect. “Lieutenant General Robert. Bender has been President Turner’s military aide since she was vice president. As we have heard many times, he was the individual who told her the president was dead.” She turned to Bender and tilted the microphone in his direction.

“As Mr. Shaw has repeatedly explained,” Bender said, “I was only the messenger, nothing else.”

“But you wrote the message,” Gordon said, not willing to drop the subject.

“I can’t add anything to what Mr. Shaw has already said,” Bender replied. “I just happened to be there.”

Gordon realized she would not get anything new out of the general on that subject, regardless of the rumors flying out of the White House about what had really happened back stage at the conference.

“General, you were on board
Air Force Two
on that fateful flight back from St. Louis. I don’t recall seeing you when President Turner took the oath of office.”

Bender paused and stared at her, not liking the way Gordon implied she was there when, in fact, she was referring to the much played videotape of Turner being sworn in by Justice Lorraine Worthing.
Do that again, Miss Gordon
, he thought,
and we’re in trouble
. “To be technically correct,” he replied, his voice flat and boring, “the aircraft becomes
Air Force One
when the president is on board. It was very crowded, and I was on the flight deck with the crew.” He didn’t tell her that the flight deck was the only sane refuge on that flight.

“What was your reaction to the first woman president being sworn in by Chief Justice Lorraine Worthing?”

“The symbolism is obvious,” Bender said, trying not to sound like a pompous ass. “But it was fortuitous circumstance. Justice Worthing had flown to the Bar Association conference with President Turner, and it made sense for her to administer the oath on the flight back to Andrews Air Force Base.”

“On the videotape,” Gordon said, “I saw very few men at the swearing in.”

Nice recovery
, Bender thought. “Men were there,” he replied. “It was just the camera angle.” He didn’t mention
that Patrick Shaw had deliberately surrounded Turner with women.

“You seem to enjoy a special relationship with President Turner,” Gordon continued. She caught the look on Bender’s face and paused.

You keep pushing it to the limits
, Bender thought.
This had better not lead into some sleazy question about her being a widow
. Turner’s husband had died of a heart attack while playing tennis during an early primary election campaign, and Shaw had played it to the max, milking images of a grieving widow with a thirteen-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter soldiering gamely on. It had been a major factor in capturing the women’s vote for the Roberts-Turner ticket.

Gordon was momentarily rattled, caught off guard by the general’s silence and cold look of disapproval. Normally, she would have taken it as an opening or a weakness to be exploited. But an inner alarm warned her not to push this man. “Ah, ah,” she flustered, “I meant, considering her well-known distrust of the military, some would even say contempt.”

Bender relented. “I was a liaison officer. But more than anything else, I acted as an interpreter explaining military jargon and how the Department of Defense works.”

“So what are you doing now?” Gordon asked.

“Not much. The president is a fast learner and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is her military advisor now. I’m hoping for a quick reassignment, which will happen as soon as the dust settles and they realize I’m an unneeded body taking up space.”

“I imagine anything after the White House would be very boring. What type of assignment do you want?”

A warm smile spread across Bender’s face and his eyes came alive. He wanted to end his career by commanding ACC, Air Combat Command, the fighting arm of the Air Force. “Anything to do with operations, flying.”

Gordon realized the interview wasn’t worth much, and Bender was living up to his reputation as being a tightlipped, noncommunicative bastard. She brought the interview to a close as quickly as possible, and the Betacam was turned off. “Thanks, General,” she said, not meaning it.

“Miss Gordon, Ben, my pleasure,” he replied. He glanced at his watch: 1710, twenty minutes before the presidential press conference that would cap the day’s blitz. Because he wasn’t needed inside, he headed for the southwest gate and the parking spaces on West Executive Avenue, where his car was parked. It was the one perk that he appreciated.

Gordon watched him as he walked away. “The general is not a happy man,” she said.

“He wants out of here,” the cameraman added. “Not that I can blame him.”
And he remembered my name
, he thought.

Maura O’Keith sat patiently in the sitting room on the second floor of the White House. She liked the room for its southwestern exposure and was content to wait for her daughter. She shifted her body, feeling for a comfortable depression on the couch. “There,” she murmured, finally finding a friendly soft spot that accommodated her aching back.

Pouring herself another cup of tea, she ignored the little puffs of pastry a White House chef had baked specifically to entice her. “That wicked devil,” she murmured, giving into temptation and helping herself to one of the delicate creations. Maura O’Keith was a plump sixty-eight-year-old woman who had few illusions about herself, her daughter, and, more importantly, her grandchildren.

No
, she decided, reaching a conclusion about her fourteen-year-old grandson,
much better to keep Brian in boarding school. This place will spoil him rotten. Sarah, on the other hand, will do fine here. And I can make sure she isn’t spoiled by the arrogant fools who think they’re important just because they work in a place that is
. She smiled at the thought of her ten-year-old granddaughter. The little girl had a practical streak that rivaled her grandmother’s, and although she wasn’t as smart as Brian, she could read people like a book.

The door leading into the bedroom opened, and Madeline O’Keith Turner, the forty-fourth president of the United States, came through. Maura O’Keith gave her
daughter an appraising look. “You look nice, Maddy,” she said.

“Then you think this is OK for my first press conference?” Turner asked.

Maura cast a critical eye over her daughter. Turner’s makeup was perfect, highlighting her high cheekbones and brown eyes. Her severe, light gray summer business suit draped in a straight line, giving little hint of her figure. The long hemline ended six inches above the floor, and a modest slit up the right side ended below her knee. The light silk scarf around her neck contrasted nicely with her suit and did not conceal the single strand of small pearls looped outside her white blouse. “Oh, yes,” Maura conceded. “Sit down, your hair isn’t quite right.” She rummaged in her ever-present handbag and pulled out a comb.

“Mother, it’s the stylist’s job,” Turner said as she sat down in a corner armchair, giving in to the inevitable.

“I got you all the way through college and law school as a hairdresser—”

“A stylist,” Turner corrected.

“A hairdresser,” Maura replied. She gave Turner’s dark brown hair a few deft strokes, smoothing and simplifying the arrangement, accentuating the red highlights. “The pearl earrings are lovely but always hide your ears. They stick out too far.”

Turner laughed. It was musical, low pitched, and captivating. “Thank you, Mother. I didn’t know that.”

Maura gave her daughter’s shoulder a little snap with the comb. “Don’t get sassy now.”

Again the laugh. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Maura became serious. “Oh, I don’t know—I’m worried. I’ve seen what reporters can do to presidents. What they did to poor Mr. Reagan—”

“I’m not President Reagan,” Turner interrupted. “We’ve been working on this for two days.” A knock at the door caught their attention. “Come,” she said.

The door opened, and Patrick Shaw stuck his big head in. “Y’all ready, Mizz President?” he asked. As usual, his southern drawl and lopsided face reminded Maura of a court jester. But the chief of staff was not a comedian.
The rest of Shaw emerged through the door. He was a shaggy bear of a man, hunch shouldered, wearing a rumpled brown suit and in need of a haircut.

“All set,” Turner answered.

“Is there anything you want to go over one last time?” Shaw asked. “Any dots or t’s you want to give one last twist?” Turner shook her head, and a big grin spread across Shaw’s face, lighting his hazel eyes. “Good,” he said. “Personally, I’m as nervous as a young filly being eyed by a big stud who’s about to—”

“Please, Patrick.” Turner laughed. “No barnyard humor today. This is the White House, and you’ve never been close to a farm.”

“True,” Shaw conceded. “But it fools the opposition.” His southern accent was less marked. “You look great and will do fine. We’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Make an entrance,” he said.

“I know the script,” she reassured him. Shaw nodded and ambled out the door.

Silence. “I don’t trust him,” Maura finally said.

“It would be chaos without him,” Turner replied. By mutual consent, they dropped the subject of Patrick Flannery Shaw.

The old refrain was back, haunting the old woman.
Oh, Maddy
, she thought,
why can’t you see Shaw for what he is?

Maura O’Keith hated Shaw.

Patrick Shaw studied the reporters seated in the East Room for Turner’s first press conference. The elegant ballroom was packed with reporters, sound technicians, still photographers, but only three TV cameras. The cameras and sound technicians were controlled by Shaw, and the networks received their audio and video feeds through a White House control room in the basement.

He joked with the two assistants hovering at his back. “It’s like the folks say in showbiz: Give ’em what they want and they’ll come out every time.” The assistants dutifully laughed while one scribbled Shaw’s latest homily in a notebook. Shaw liked the analogy to show business
for this was an opening night and he had left nothing to chance. He scanned the room again, determined to bring off a perfect show. His heavy eyebrows knitted in mock consternation when he saw Elizabeth Gordon sitting in the first row by the center aisle. It was not her assigned seat and a violation of White House protocol. “What’s Liz doing in CBS?” he asked.

One of the assistants moved forward, not happy to be the center of Shaw’s undivided attention. “She sat there at the last minute.”

Shaw focused on the errant reporter. “That’s Whiteside’s seat. Where did he go?”

“He moved to the back on his own,” the assistant said, amazement in every word as he pointed out Peter Whiteside. “He didn’t make a big deal out of it and took Gordon’s seat.”