gubernatorial candidates would have to deal with them.
But his plain-talking grassroots campaign had resonated with the voters of Iowa, and they had surprised him (and everyone else in the state political machine) by electing him governor.
Four years later, he had entered the race for the presidency, running a distant second to Martin Bridgewater: an archly conservative senator and the fair-haired boy of the Republican Party. Bridgewater was a charismatic speaker and a political heavyweight. The cameras loved him, and so did the crowds. He had started with a thirty- point lead over Frank in the CNN,
Frank had been poised to lose the election by the widest margin in history, when fate dropped another surprise in his lap. Martin Bridgewater’s pregnant nineteen-year-old mistress had decided to take her story to the media. Bridgewater had lost twenty polling points in the first forty-eight hours. Even so, he might well have weathered the storm. After the predictable outcry, his supporters had settled down pretty quickly.
They seemed prepared to forgive him for his transgressions. Other powerful men had succumbed to the temptations of the flesh, after all.
Some of them had even been presidents.
But Bridgewater’s girlfriend had sold six cassette tapes to one of the more sensational cable news programs. The young woman had recorded many of her private phone conversations with Bridgewater. The news anchors had apparently delighted in playing sound bytes of the more lurid parts, bleeping out questionable choices of language in a manner that made the tapes seem even more sordid than they actually were. At the climax of the expose had come the most damning revelation of all: Senator Bridgewater — a rabid pro-lifer — had tried to convince his mistress to have an abortion. He had offered the girl a quiet cash settlement to get rid of the baby and disappear into the woodwork.
Bridgewater’s campaign had disintegrated in a matter of days. The resulting backlash of public opinion had hurled Frank Chandler, the hayseed candidate, into the highest office in the land.
President Chandler’s eyes were still locked on the rain falling soundlessly outside the bulletproof windows. His odd little smile faded slowly. He’d been sitting in the big chair for thirty-nine months and sixteen days, and he still couldn’t believe he was here. In the few quiet moments that the job afforded him, the surreal quality of the entire situation filtered back to the surface of his mind, leaving him with a disjointed feeling. Disconnected. Like the strangely silent rain.
He sighed and, for a brief second, entertained the notion of opening one of the French doors that led to the columned walkway. That way, at least he’d be able to
“Mr. President?” The voice belonged to the White House chief of staff, Veronica Doyle.
The president snapped his mind back to attention and swung his chair around. “Yes?”
“They’re ready for you, sir.”
“Good,” the president said. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times. “Where is the ambassador?”
“In a holding pattern in the West Wing lobby.”
The president nodded. “Show our people in. We’ll give them a minute to get settled before we call for the ambassador.”
Doyle nodded to the Secret Service agent standing by the door to the office of the president’s secretary. The agent opened the door, and the team for the China meeting began to filter into the Oval Office.
The president beckoned them into the room and waved them toward the rectangle of couches and chairs at the end of the room opposite his desk.
“Have a seat in the bullpen. Make yourselves comfortable, I’ll be with you in a couple of seconds.”
He turned back to his chief of staff. “What else have we got tonight?”
The chief of staff flipped open the lid of her palm-top computer and scanned the small LCD screen. “At nine- thirty, you’ve got a phone conference with the assistant secretary of state for Eastern European affairs. The Russians are asking for increased wheat subsidies. Assistant Secretary Chernja thinks it’s a bad idea, but she wants your permission before she shuts the door on this one. You also promised the vice president you would sit down with him and look at his numbers on the handgun bill.”
The president nodded. “Move the vice president up to nine-thirty and bump Assistant Secretary Chernja to tomorrow morning. The Russian thing isn’t going to self-destruct any time soon, and I’d much rather hit it when my brain is fresh.”
Doyle nodded and made rapid notes on the input screen of her palm-top. “Good idea, Mr. President. I’m starting to fade myself, sir.”
Her appearance belied her words. Her short black hair was flawlessly styled, her turquoise silk business suit was immaculate, and if there was any fatigue behind her flint-gray eyes it certainly wasn’t visible to mere mortals.
The president stood up. “All right. Send for the ambassador. Let’s get this over with.”
The bullpen consisted of two couches and four chairs, laid out in a rough rectangle around a low-topped French Empire bureau that served as a coffee table. The table was an authentic piece from the President Monroe collection, burnished ebony with curving saber-style legs that were chased with gold leaf. The source of a minor point of contention, the date of the table’s manufacture could be set at either 1827 or 1830, and a fairly good case could be made for either date. The chairs and couches — which appeared to be matching French Empire pieces — were actually excellent reproductions, crafted by the famed Kittinger Furniture, suppliers of White House furnishings for nearly a hundred and fifty years.
The president had given the bullpen its name during his first week in office. In baseball, the bullpen was a designated area of the ballpark where the pitchers warmed up before they trudged out to the pitcher’s mound, where the real work began. The nickname had not proven to be very accurate, because he generally accomplished more serious work in the bullpen than he did at his desk — which (according to the metaphor) should have been the pitcher’s mound. But, apropos or not, the nickname had stuck.
The president walked over to the bullpen and spent a few minutes greeting the members of his meeting team and shaking hands. Not counting himself and his chief of staff, Veronica Doyle, the team consisted of Secretary of State Elizabeth Whelkin; National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven; Assistant Secretary of State for Southeast Asian Affairs William Collins; and a designated note taker, Marine Corps Lieutenant Michael Summers, on loan from the National Security Council.
There would be no need for an interpreter, as the Chinese ambassador spoke excellent English.
The hallway door opened and the ambassador was ushered in by a deputy assistant to somebody-or-other in the National Security Council.
The young woman, who probably didn’t know that she had been selected on the basis of her obscurity, was visibly nervous over what was obviously her first visit to the Oval Office. Despite her nervousness, she made her announcement flawlessly. “Mr. President, may I present Ambassador Shaozu Tian, minister plenipotentiary of the People’s Republic of China.”
The president smiled and stepped forward to shake the ambassador’s hand. “Good evening, Ambassador Shaozu. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
The ambassador returned his smile. “I am honored to be of service, Mr. President. And I bring you greetings on behalf of the citizens and government of the People’s Republic of China.”
The next few moments were dedicated to handshakes and pleasantries as the ambassador was introduced to the rest of the team.
When the members of the team took their seats, they fell silent. In accordance with the dictates of protocol, the president would speak as the sole representative of the United States — just as the ambassador would speak as the sole representative of his own government. The other members of the team were there to watch, gather information, and formulate ideas for the discussion that would immediately follow the meeting. During the meeting itself, they might pass the president notes or documents, but they would not contribute directly to the conversation.
There was an additional point to having so many non-speaking members in the room. Few people are
