with George W. Bush. The opinion polls had been in favour of the presiding president for several days prior to the debate. She was still in the lead, but the Texan was catching up. His security rhetoric was starting to hit home with the public. He presented himself as a man of action, balanced with the experience and insight needed by a country at war and in crisis. He represented continuity. You knew what you were getting, which was hardly true of Helen Bentley, inexperienced in foreign affairs as she was.
‘You have to let go of Arabian Port Management,’ Warren had said and taken her by the hands.
All her advisers, internal and external, had told her the same. They had all insisted. They had ranted and pleaded: the time wasn’t right. Later perhaps, when there was more water under the bridge after 9/11. But not now.
She refused to back down. The Dubai-based, Saudi-owned operations company was sound and efficient, and had run ports all over the world, from Okinawa to London. The two companies, one of them British, that had until now managed some of the biggest ports in the States, were interested in selling. Arabian Port Management wanted to buy them both. One would give them the operation of New York, New Jersey, Baltimore, New Orleans, Miami and Philadelphia; the other covered Charleston, Savannah, Houston and Mobile. In other words, the Arabic company would have considerable control over all the most important ports on the east coast and in the Gulf.
Helen Lardahl Bentley thought that it was a good idea.
For a start, it was the best company, by far the most profitable and the one with most expertise. The sale would also play a significant role in normalising relations with powers in the Middle East that it was in the interests of the US to be on good terms with. In addition, it would help to rebuild respect for good Arab-Americans, which was perhaps the important thing for Helen Bentley.
She felt they had suffered enough, and stubbornly stuck to her guns. She had had meetings with the top management of the Arabic company, and even though she wasn’t stupid enough to promise anything, she had clearly signalled her goodwill. She was particularly pleased that the company, despite any uncertainty regarding approval of the sale, had already invested heavily on American soil, in order to be as primed as possible for a future takeover.
Warren had spoken quietly. He hadn’t let go of her hands. He looked straight into her eyes when he said: ‘I support your intention. Wholeheartedly. But you will never achieve it if you ruin your chances now. You have to launch a counterattack, Helen. You have to hit back at Bush where he least expects it. I’ve spent years analysing the man. I know him as well as anyone can, without actually meeting him. He also wants this sale to be concluded! It’s just he’s experienced enough not to make it public yet. He knows that it will trigger an emotional response that’s not to be played with. You have to expose him. You have to catch him out. Now listen, this is what you should do…’
Finally she felt clean.
Her skin was stinging and the bathroom was full of warm steam. She stepped out of the shower cabinet and grabbed a towel. When she had wrapped it round her body, she took a smaller towel and wound it round her head. With her left hand, she rubbed a clear circle in the condensation on the mirror.
The blood on her face was gone. The bump was still obvious, but her eye had opened again. Her wrists were in fact the worst. The small strips of plastic had cut so far into her skin that there were deep open wounds in several places. She would have to ask for some disinfectant, and hopefully they would have some proper bandages.
She had followed Warren’s advice. Albeit with considerable doubt.
In reply to the presenter’s question on how she viewed the security threat in connection with the sale of key American infrastructure, she had looked straight into the camera and given an impassioned and inspiring forty-five- second call for people to fraternise with ‘our Arab friends’, and then talked about the importance of nurturing a fundamental American value and right, that of equality, no matter where in the world your ancestors hailed from, and which religion they practised.
Then she had stopped to draw breath. A glance over at the presiding president made her realise that Warren had been absolutely right. President Bush was smiling the smile of a victor. He shrugged in that peculiar way of his, with his hands leading from his body. He was sure of what was coming.
He got something completely different.
But, Helen Bentley continued calmly, it was a very different matter when it came to infrastructure. She was of the view that nothing should be sold to anyone who was not American, or at least a close ally. She said that the ultimate goal had to be that everything, from the highways and airports to ports, customs stations, border checkpoints and railways, should always and for ever be owned, operated and managed by American interests.
For the purposes of national security.
And finally, she added with a fleeting smile, that it would of course take a long time and require great political will to achieve this. Not least as President George Bush himself had said he was warmly in favour of selling to Arab interests, in an internal document that she then held up to the camera for a few seconds before putting it back on the lectern and gesturing to the presenter that she was finished.
Helen Lardahl Bentley won the debate by eleven percentage points. A week later, she became ‘Madam President’, thus fulfilling a dream she had had for more than ten years. Warren Scifford was appointed as the head of the newly established BSC Unit shortly after.
The position was not a reward.
The watch was.
And he had abused it. He had tricked her with her own declaration of eternal friendship.
She went over to the door and opened it carefully. There was a folded pile of clothes just outside as promised. As quickly as her aching body would allow, she bent down, snatched up the pile and closed the door again. Then she locked it.
The underwear was completely new. The labels were still attached. She noted this kind gesture, before putting the bra and panties on. The jeans also looked new and were a perfect fit. When she put on the pale pink cashmere V-necked sweater, she felt the fibres scratching at the cuts on her wrists.
She stood looking at herself in the mirror. The ventilation fan had dispensed with most of the steam and the bathroom was already a few degrees cooler than when she’d got out of the shower five minutes ago. From force of habit, she considered for a moment putting on some make-up. There was an open lacquered Japanese box by the sink, full of cosmetics. But she decided against it. Her lips were still swollen and the cut on her lower lip would look ridiculous if she was to put lipstick on.
Many years ago, during Bill Clinton’s first term in office, Hillary Rodham Clinton had invited Helen Bentley to lunch. It was the first time that they had met in more personal circumstances, and Helen remembered that she had been extremely nervous. It was only a few weeks since she had taken her seat in the Senate, and she had had more than enough on her plate, learning about all the customs and etiquette that a young and insignificant senator had to know in order to survive more than a few hours on Capitol Hill. Lunch with the First Lady was a dream. Hillary had been just as personable, attentive and interested as her supporters said she was. The arrogant, cool and calculating person that her enemies made her out to be was not in evidence. She did, of course, want something, just as everyone in Washington always wanted something. But on the whole, Helen Bentley got the impression that Hillary Rodham Clinton wished her well. She wanted her to feel comfortable and confident in her new environment. And if, in addition, Senator Bentley would be willing to read through a document about a health reform that would benefit middle America, she would make the First Lady very happy indeed.
Helen Bentley remembered it well.
They got up after the meal. Hillary Clinton looked discreetly at her watch, gave Helen a formal peck on the cheek and shook her hand.
‘One more thing,’ she said, still holding her hand. ‘You can’t trust anyone in this world. Except one person, your husband. As long as he is your husband, he’s the only person who will always want the best for you. The only one you can trust. Never forget that.’
Helen had never forgotten it.
On the 19th of August 1998, Bill Clinton admitted that he had betrayed not only the entire world, but also his wife. A couple of weeks later, Helen bumped into Hillary Clinton in a corridor in the West Wing, following a meeting at the White House. The First Lady had just come back from Martha’s Vineyard, where the presidential family had sought refuge from the storm. She had stopped and taken Helen by the hand, just as she had during their first
