The High Road (36 page)

Then, there they were. The President and the First Lady. He had a firm grip on her right elbow, and it looked as if she needed it. There was a slight sway to her gait, as if she were test-driving someone else’s feet. She wore large dark sunglasses, a bright red ski jacket, black denim pants, gloves, and boots. No hat. You don’t mess with the First Lady’s
do
. All that talk about keeping alcohol away from the First Lady seemed moot. I thought she already looked as if she’d drained a few of those little airline bottles. The President looked … presidential, casually dressed for the rustic surroundings in black cords, a leather mid-length jacket, black scarf, and suede hiking boots of some kind. No gloves, no hat. He seemed a little concerned, but armed his wife down the steps onto the red carpet. A wooden set of stairs, built by a White House carpenter, painted white, and shipped north with the advance team, was put in place to bring the honoured visitors up from the ice to the dock, where we all waited. I expected to hear the strains of
Hail to the Chief
blast out from speakers hidden in the fuselage
of
Marine One
, or even the fuselage of one of the marines, but it was eerily silent, other than the sustained clicking of cameras.

As practised, the Prime Minister stepped forward and extended his hand to the power couple.

“Mr. President, Madam First Lady, I welcome you to Canada and to the shores of our beautiful Ottawa River.”

“Well, it’s great to be up here, Prime Minister, and we thank you for your hospitality,” the President replied, still holding onto his wife.

There were introductions and handshakes and all manner of smiling, nodding, and the occasional slight bow. The President seemed more relaxed now, and actually looked better in person than on T V. I stifled the urge to tell him. His wife perked up and was perfectly pleasant throughout the three and a half minutes of programmed small talk and banalities that seemed a mainstay of modern diplomacy. The photographers needed time to get their shots so the PM and his special guests turned to face the cameras and plastered on the photo op smiles.

A minute or two later – actually, by the schedule, it was exactly ninety seconds – a White House staffer nodded to Angus to signal the start of the next choreographed segment of the visit. On cue, Angus stepped forward slowly and deliberately so the Secret Service agents’ hands wouldn’t fly to the advanced hidden weaponry accessorizing their JC Penney suits. I saw at least one of the agents looking very carefully at Angus’s beard, probably realizing for the first time that the grey whisker curtain could conceal almost anything from a grenade launcher to a sidewinder missile.

“Mr. President, Madam First Lady, would you care for a wee gander at the hovercraft before we head up to the house? I gather its modest exploits have reached your ears in Washington.”

The President was about to respond when a newly animated First Lady leapt in.

“Why, Mr. McLintock, it is an amazing story,” she drawled. “I’d love to see it.”

The President just smiled and nodded, adding his endorsement.

As planned, I stayed on the dock with Bradley, while Angus led the PM, President, and First Lady back onto the ice and around
Baddeck 1
. He had precisely nine and a half minutes to explain the unique single-engine hovercraft before beginning the procession up to the house. When discussing his prized creation, Angus could chatter on for nine and a half hours. Cutting it down to under ten minutes would be a challenge. That’s why the clipboard-bearing timekeeper from the President’s staff was there. She moved down onto the ice at the seven-minute mark as yet another prearranged signal. Angus didn’t even notice her. No matter, the President, and particularly his wife, seemed enthralled. They both asked several questions and leaned into the cockpit as Angus explained the craft’s operations. Conversely, the hovercraft lecture seemed to keep the PM on the edge of his sleep. He tried to look interested but I knew him too well. He was bored stiff and probably resented how much attention Angus was getting.

I was about twenty feet away, but could still hear the conversation quite easily.

“Could we not go for a ride in it, Mr. McLintock?” the First Lady implored. “The sensation of flying so close to the ground must be exhilarating.”

“Aye, it is quite uplifting,” Angus quipped. “I regret our governments have thrown the shackles on us, Madam, but I’m told there’s to be no spin in the hovercraft, despite what we both might like.”

That earned a glare from clipboard woman.

“I hope we might have a chance for a flight on a return visit sometime, Mr. McLintock,” said the President. “Thank you for showing us her. She’s a beauty.”

“Aye, she is that, sir.”

The First Lady was miffed and climbed back up the stairs to the dock, much to the relief of the timekeeper. Angus had gone
overtime by nearly six minutes. Not quite an international incident, but on the way there.

Five minutes later, we were all inside. The house was immaculate, as it usually was, and everyone oohhhed and aahhhed accordingly. Angus stood next to a bookcase filled with his wife’s works, rested his arm on the top shelf, and beamed. Coats were stowed, coffee served, and brunch laid out on the table by the catering staff of ten, auditioned and approved by the White House. With body temperatures returning to normal, formal introductions were again made, without gloves compromising the handshakes. The President was very gracious and congratulated the PM and Angus on their electoral success. The Prime Minister presented the President and First Lady with an Inuit soapstone carving and a gallon of pure Cumberland maple syrup. The President then bestowed on the Prime Minister a bottle of Korbel Natural, the American champagne that was the official tipple of the last several presidential inaugurations. I was a bit unnerved at hearing “American” and “champagne” in the same sentence. The United States is known for many fine foods. Chicken wings, corn dogs, beef jerky, grits, and the Twinkie. Champagne? Not so much.

I remembered the ambassador’s demand that there be no alcohol on the premises, but figured if the President had brought it as a gift, we were in the clear. As the ranking political staffer, Bradley Stanton was given the task of opening the Californian champagne. He immediately delegated the task to the second-ranking political staffer. Me. No problem. As a non-drinker, I’d opened precisely no bottles of champagne in my life, but how hard could it be? I peeled back the foil and then wrestled briefly with the little wire doohickey that was clearly installed to prevent someone who is already inebriated from opening the bottle. I passed the sobriety test, but wasn’t sure what to do next. So I started twisting the cork while holding the bottle between my knees. The President stood about ten feet away from me speaking with the Prime Minister. I noticed Agent Leyland watching
me and saw his facial expression transform from calm and passive to “what the hell are you doing, you idiot.” He apparently caught sight of the full nelson I had on the neck of the champagne bottle and saw what I did not, the nearly imperceptible twitch of the cork.

“Down, Mr. President!” he shouted, and then launched himself into a swan dive in front of the U.S. head of state. While he was in flight, the champagne cork shot out of the bottle with the blast of a 12-gauge shotgun. The whole scene then clicked into cinematic slow motion. I felt a column of champagne strike my chin as I watched the ballistic cork strike the flying Secret Service officer perfectly in the family jewels. I don’t mean kind of by his groin, or just below his navel. I mean a perfect, dead-on crotch shot. In a blink, the wordsmith in me conjured up “ballseye.”

Yes, Agent Leyland took the shot that was headed for the President. It was every Secret Service agent’s dream. He looked almost blissful as he writhed in pain on the living room floor. When we all realized what had happened and DEFCON 1 was dialled back to the standard peacetime setting of DEFCON 5, Angus brought us all out of our shocked silence, standing over Agent Leyland.

“I take it, laddie, that you didnae wear your Kevlar cup this morning. More’s the pity.”

A short time later, I’d changed from my champagne-soaked clothes and Agent Leyland’s voice had returned to its traditional baritone. The brunch buffet had been exhausted and the timekeeper signalled the start of the one-on-one private talks between the PM and the President. It was scheduled for forty-five minutes. Twelve minutes on trade, fifteen minutes on defence, fourteen minutes on border control issues, and four minutes on joint space program efforts. Bradley would sit in, along with one of the White House staffers.

I was nervous about our role during this portion of the visit. Angus and I were to escort the First Lady on a tour of the property. She was not supposed to have been given any champagne,
but in the melee that followed my inadvertent presidential assassination attempt, as the crowd gathered around the President and the fallen agent, she’d snatched the bottle from between my knees, turned her back on the group, and guzzled. Only I saw it. She’d winked at me after lowering the bottle and pressed her index finger to my lips, making me a co-conspirator.

I could tell she’d chugged more than a mouthful when I helped her put on her coat. It took her several tries – okay, thirteen tries – to find the right sleeve opening as I held her ski jacket. Angus offered his arm to her when she’d bundled up for the walk, and we headed out the door. We were barely down the walk when she stopped.

“Mr. McLintock, Angus I mean, would you show me the hovercraft again? I barely got a look at it before that hag with the clipboard shoved us up the path.”

Angus looked at me and I just shrugged. That’s what I always did when I had no idea what to do.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t do that. We were to take you around the property and I have to think that includes the dock and what lies beside it,” Angus rationalized.

We turned left and headed down the path towards the river. Barbie, Agent Fitzhugh, walked a few paces behind. She was at least a pace or two too close for the First Lady’s liking.

“Back off, Tammy, or Skipper, or whatever your name is,” she snapped.

“I believe it’s Jennifer,” I whispered, instinctively locked into my role as a trusty adviser.

“Right. Back off, Jennifer, and give me some space to breathe,” she pleaded. “I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m just going to look at the hovercraft with these nice, safe, gentle, and polite Canadians. There’s no call to smother me. So just back off.”

Agent Fitzhugh seemed momentarily stunned by the outburst, but eventually backed off a few steps and promptly buried her mouth in her sleeve, no doubt reporting in to Central Command.

I noticed the other Secret Service agents in the area taking two steps back. The First Lady noticed, too.

“Thank you,” she purred.

I stayed on the dock as Angus showed the First Lady
Baddeck 1
again. She held his arm with both hands and seemed very happy. Very happy. Then she detached herself from Angus and, with considerable grace, vaulted into the cockpit and sat demurely in the passenger seat, rubbing her hands together in what I could only conclude was anticipation.

“Come and show me what all these little knobs are for, won’t you, Angus?” she asked, patting the seat next to hers.

Uh-oh. I had a faint idea where this was headed and it didn’t feel so good. I could tell that Angus liked her spirit. He stepped into the driver’s side and sank into the seat. A ripple seemed to pass through the Secret Service. They all took two steps closer and were no longer just alert. They’d moved into super-ultraalert mode.

I saw the First Lady reach into the space where the seat meets the padded seatback and she withdrew what looked like a silver flask. Surely she hadn’t secreted it there when they’d first arrived. Angus took it from her and examined it before handing it back to her. I have no idea why he handed it back to her. I’m sure that, back on shore, the hair on the back of the neck of the U.S. ambassador to Canada just stood on end.

“That must have been left by a reporter from our local paper when we went for an unexpected ride up the river back in December.”

Then she turned to me. “What was your name again?”

“Daniel Addison, at your service.”

“Would you mind taking two steps forward and putting your hands on your hips?”

I did what I was told and in an instant, shielded by me, she’d unscrewed the top of the flask and without even taking a whiff first, downed whatever had been in there in one fell swoop (or sip as it were). In a flash, the empty flask was back under the seat.

“Ahhhhhhh. I think that was Johnny Walker Gold. Your reporter friend has good taste,” she replied. “Okay, Angus, my man, rev her up and let’s see what this baby can do.”

“Madam, I’m not permitted to give you a ride, though I’d dearly love to. It’s not in the blessed itinerary. And I’m already in trouble with your Secret Service friends for putting on my light coat when I’d already committed to wearing my blue parka.”

“Oh come on, Angus. I live each day in a prison. I can never be by myself. I hardly ever see my husband, so having kids isn’t looking so good. I’m bored and tired and I just want a little excitement once in a while.” She looked at Angus with such a plaintive and forlorn expression that I think Angus may well have robbed a bank with her if she’d asked.

Uh-oh. This was not good. Not good at all.

“Ah, Angus, please don’t do it. Do not even think about it, Angus. Angus,” I found myself blurting, “don’t do you dare, Angus. Ang–”

Yep, you have it right. Angus punched the newly installed and working-like-a-charm starter button.
Baddeck 1
lifted off the ice and headed towards the middle of the river. The engine couldn’t quite drown out the First Lady’s squeal of delight. I saw her punch the air with one hand as she held on with the other.

I decided the intelligent and prudent thing to do was to run as fast as I could after the hovercraft, waving my arms wildly and shouting “Annnnnnnguuuuuuuus!” over and over again, like an asylum escapee. I fell on the ice, twice. I hadn’t remembered falling, but it came back to me when I watched it on the news that night, and then on YouTube, over and over again.