Shakeup

33

President Holly Barker had just finished her daily intelligence briefing in the Situation Room and had returned to the Oval Office, when her secretary rang.

“Yes?”

“Madam President, Mr. John Henry Shaker, the director of the FBI, is here to see you.”

“Does he have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then ask him to wait while I receive the St. Mary’s girls’ choir,” she said. “And send them in immediately.”

A Secret Service agent opened a door from the hallway, allowing entrance to twenty teenage girls in matching white robes, followed by a porter pushing an upright piano on wheels, their director nun, and another nun.

“Good morning, Madam President,” the nun said.

“Good morning to you, sister, and to all of your girls.”

“May we begin?”

“Please do.”

The girls began singing “The Bells of St. Mary’s,” from the old Bing Crosby movie of that name, accompanied on piano by the other nun.

Holly walked over to the thick, soundproof door separating her from her secretary and opened it slightly, to let the sound flow outside to her waiting room and the waiting director, then she returned to her desk and settled in her chair for the concert, which lasted twenty minutes. At the end, Holly stood, applauded, and called out, “Encore, encore!”

The girls rendered a haunting version of “Ave Maria.” Afterward Holly went and shook each of their hands, and those of the nuns, then the room was cleared. Holly went to her desk and busied herself signing a stack of correspondence. Finally, she rang for her secretary. “You may send in the director,” she said.

John Henry Shaker, ramrod straight and Brooks Brothers suited, entered the room.

Holly did not stand or shake his hand, but waved him to a chair facing her desk.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Shaker said, seeming barely able to speak the words.

“Director. What can I do for you?” She signed another letter or two, then looked up. “Well?”

“Do I now have your full attention?” Shaker asked, icily.

“More or less,” Holly replied. “Must I ask you again?”

“First, I must object most strongly to the replacement of my FBI security detail by Secret Service agents.”

“Oh? Why?”

“As I am sure you are aware, my security detail, and those of my predecessors, have always been special agents.”

“Certainly, I’m aware.”

“Then I must demand that my special agent detail be returned to their work.”

“Demand?” Holly asked. “You come into this office making demands?”

“Ah, request, then.”

“Request denied,” she replied, fixing him with her gaze. “It had come to my attention that your bureau detail were spending most of their time delivering and picking up your dry cleaning, or sewing on your buttons, or making you sandwiches.”

“Are you suggesting that accomplishing those tasks myself would be a better use of my time?”

“Perhaps,” Holly replied, “considering how you spend your time at work. You seem to have a more pronounced penchant for investigating the appointees of former President Katharine Lee than you did when Republicans held the office.”

“The FBI does not undertake investigations that are unfounded.”

“Perhaps the Bureau does not, but you certainly do. How long do you have left in your ten-year term, Mr. Shaker?”

“Nine months,” he muttered.

“Perhaps that time would be better spent securing your future in the private sector.”

“I had expected to be reappointed,” he said, haughtily.

“I assure you, sir, your expectations are unlikely to be met. Is there anything else on your mind? Unburden yourself.”

“I object most strongly to you assigning cases to my deputies rather than making your requests through me.”

“It’s only because I trust them more than I do you,” she replied.

This time, he affected to be shocked. “Have I done anything to deserve your distrust?”

“You’ve certainly done little to deserve my trust. In any case, it is a matter of historical record that you have little in the way of investigative experience on your record.”

“My experience is more on the administrative side,” he said.

“I’m sure your record is a triumph of administration,” Holly said, “but when I want something investigated, I tend to look to an investigator, not a shuffler of papers.”

“Yes, I saw one of your investigators at work last evening at dinner, in New York, with a man not her husband.”

“Deputy Director Gustav had business with Mr. Barrington and Commissioner Bacchetti, and she found a social setting more conducive to her work than an interrogation room. Incidentally, she is unmarried. I understand, however — from a source not related to the deputy director — that you spent the evening in a very public place with a woman not your wife.”

Shaker actually shook. “The lady you refer to,” he said, “is a friend of my wife.”

“And you somehow think that sounds better?”

“Are you implying...”

“Implying? I am stating a fact, something you are ill-acquainted with.”

Shaker stood, still trembling. “Have you anything else to say to me?”

“Well, it’s your meeting, but as long as you ask, I do. You are to return to your office, and henceforth, remain there, conducting no business more boisterous than giving tours of the building to troops of Boy Scouts, and issuing no orders to any employee of the Bureau, beyond your secretary. If, at any time, you choose to retire and draw your pension, you may consider your resignation already accepted. Good day.”

John Henry Shaker remained, for just a moment, frozen, then gathered himself and marched out of the Oval.

Holly buzzed the head of her Secret Service detail.

“Yes, Madam President?”

“FBI Director John Henry Shaker is on his way out of the building. Please meet him at the door and collect his White House pass and his parking permit. Tell him it’s on my orders.”

“Yes, ma’am!”