thought
that had been nagging at her. "Why can't we throw open the doors like old
Andy Jackson and greet anyone who wants to come, give them a hunk of cheese and
be done with it?" She was certain she had said this many times before, the
kind of statement that becomes a tradition.
Miss Hartford offered a tight smile, tilting her head as if
she wore a pince-nez and was sniffing at something in the ceiling.
"Yes," she said, "President Jackson and the
cheese."
Another bit of one-upmanship, Amy thought, with more
amusement than contempt. Of course Miss Hartford was an expert on White House
lore. Old Hickory had been given a giant wheel of cheese, which he offered to
all who wished to have a chunk. Crowds arrived at the White House en masse and
tore the cheese apart. It took days to scrape it off the rugs, floors, and
woodwork. At times, Amy believed, if you sniffed around, you could actually
still pick up the residue. Comes of living with ghosts, she had decided, and
catching them doing their number was a form of private entertainment.
She and Miss Hartford were working in a little office just
down the hall from her bedroom. She heard noises outside in the corridor and
recognized the footfalls. She terminated the conference with Miss Hartford and
went into her husband's dressing room. He was emerging from the shower.
"Win?"
"Beat his ass."
She looked at him archly. He did not reflect the win.
"So why so grim?"
"Damn meeting with those relatives," he muttered.
The hostage problem was becoming a constant irritation, but he was managing it
as he dealt with most problems. He had the ability to tuck things away in
compartments, close their doors. Only this door refused to stay shut.
"Just be a good soldier," she said.
"That's the problem. A soldier fights." He
slipped into a T-shirt and pulled it over his chest with an angry gesture. Then
he slid into his pants and pulled his belt tight around his waist.
"They're looking for it," he said. "Maybe
Harkins is right after all. Hell, he brags about his covert assets. Why not go
in and secretly wack 'em. Nice clean surgery." He stepped into his shoes.
"All this crap about violence begetting violence. Morality bullshit."
"Hate to think of what you might dub immorality,"
she said with a lilt, hoping to calm him.
"Point is, we let them get away with it, no one's
safe. Especially us." He turned to study her face. "You think we're
really safe and snug in this place with all those Secret Service guys climbing
in our soup?" He waved his arms. "And those cement barricades and
walk-through detectors. A determined bastard would find a way."
Alluding to that possibility genuinely alarmed her. She
turned from his gaze, deliberately hiding her fear from him. Under the
circumstances, she had tried to follow a routine as normal as possible. But the
idea of danger was never far from her thoughts.
When Paul was a senator and they lived on Capitol Hill, he
had bought her a little silver-plated .22-caliber pistol, which she had kept in
a drawer next to her bed. She was alone a great deal and, although she detested
the idea of it, she had not removed the gun from the house. Just in case, he had
said. God forbid, she had thought. But she had kept it in its place. Worse, she
had brought the pistol with her to the White House, where it had remained in
the drawer next to her side of the bed, hardly a weapon to match the Secret
Service battery of Uzi machine guns that surrounded them.
"Times like this you almost wish you could be a
dictator," Paul said as he pulled up the knot of his tie. She knew he was
trying to prepare himself mentally.
"So what would you do differently?" she asked.
"I'd blast the hell out of everyone that aids and
abets these bastards. Government, clans, financial supporters, families.
Everyone."
She remained silent, letting him vent himself.
"Nixon wasn't so dumb," he mumbled.
"Nixon?"
"Remember the Watergate tapes. He used to wish he were
like the Mafia. They know how to
that had been nagging at her. "Why can't we throw open the doors like old
Andy Jackson and greet anyone who wants to come, give them a hunk of cheese and
be done with it?" She was certain she had said this many times before, the
kind of statement that becomes a tradition.
Miss Hartford offered a tight smile, tilting her head as if
she wore a pince-nez and was sniffing at something in the ceiling.
"Yes," she said, "President Jackson and the
cheese."
Another bit of one-upmanship, Amy thought, with more
amusement than contempt. Of course Miss Hartford was an expert on White House
lore. Old Hickory had been given a giant wheel of cheese, which he offered to
all who wished to have a chunk. Crowds arrived at the White House en masse and
tore the cheese apart. It took days to scrape it off the rugs, floors, and
woodwork. At times, Amy believed, if you sniffed around, you could actually
still pick up the residue. Comes of living with ghosts, she had decided, and
catching them doing their number was a form of private entertainment.
She and Miss Hartford were working in a little office just
down the hall from her bedroom. She heard noises outside in the corridor and
recognized the footfalls. She terminated the conference with Miss Hartford and
went into her husband's dressing room. He was emerging from the shower.
"Win?"
"Beat his ass."
She looked at him archly. He did not reflect the win.
"So why so grim?"
"Damn meeting with those relatives," he muttered.
The hostage problem was becoming a constant irritation, but he was managing it
as he dealt with most problems. He had the ability to tuck things away in
compartments, close their doors. Only this door refused to stay shut.
"Just be a good soldier," she said.
"That's the problem. A soldier fights." He
slipped into a T-shirt and pulled it over his chest with an angry gesture. Then
he slid into his pants and pulled his belt tight around his waist.
"They're looking for it," he said. "Maybe
Harkins is right after all. Hell, he brags about his covert assets. Why not go
in and secretly wack 'em. Nice clean surgery." He stepped into his shoes.
"All this crap about violence begetting violence. Morality bullshit."
"Hate to think of what you might dub immorality,"
she said with a lilt, hoping to calm him.
"Point is, we let them get away with it, no one's
safe. Especially us." He turned to study her face. "You think we're
really safe and snug in this place with all those Secret Service guys climbing
in our soup?" He waved his arms. "And those cement barricades and
walk-through detectors. A determined bastard would find a way."
Alluding to that possibility genuinely alarmed her. She
turned from his gaze, deliberately hiding her fear from him. Under the
circumstances, she had tried to follow a routine as normal as possible. But the
idea of danger was never far from her thoughts.
When Paul was a senator and they lived on Capitol Hill, he
had bought her a little silver-plated .22-caliber pistol, which she had kept in
a drawer next to her bed. She was alone a great deal and, although she detested
the idea of it, she had not removed the gun from the house. Just in case, he had
said. God forbid, she had thought. But she had kept it in its place. Worse, she
had brought the pistol with her to the White House, where it had remained in
the drawer next to her side of the bed, hardly a weapon to match the Secret
Service battery of Uzi machine guns that surrounded them.
"Times like this you almost wish you could be a
dictator," Paul said as he pulled up the knot of his tie. She knew he was
trying to prepare himself mentally.
"So what would you do differently?" she asked.
"I'd blast the hell out of everyone that aids and
abets these bastards. Government, clans, financial supporters, families.
Everyone."
She remained silent, letting him vent himself.
"Nixon wasn't so dumb," he mumbled.
"Nixon?"
"Remember the Watergate tapes. He used to wish he were
like the Mafia. They know how to
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