The Patriots' Club

42

It was a bit overwhelming, thought Senator Megan McCoy as she walked down the upper hall on the second floor of the White House. Every room had a name and a history. The Map Room had been used as a situation room for special briefings by FDR during WWII. The East Room had served as a pen for the alligator that the Marquis de Lafayette had given John Quincy Adams. An alligator. That made McCoy feel better about her own menagerie of three cats, a parakeet, and a hundred-year-old tortoise named Willy, reputed to have belonged to President William McKinley. She stared down the brightly lit corridor. Tomorrow night, and for the next four years-eight, if she did her job well-she would be sleeping under this roof.

“At last, we come to the Lincoln Bedroom,” said Gordon Ramser, the President of the United States. “I’m sure you know by now that Lincoln never slept there. During the war, Abe used it as his private office. He kept maps on the wall instead of these portraits.”

McCoy stepped inside the bedroom. A massive bed, nine feet by six, took up one side of the room. The furniture looked like Lincoln himself could have used it: chintz sofas, chiffon armchairs, heavy mahogany dressers. A recent President had turned an overnight stay in the Lincoln Bedroom into the ultimate “thank-you” to his top political donors, corporate bigwigs, and those special few who counted the President as a personal friend. Ramser had raised the bar higher. It was said the cost for a night in the Lincoln Bedroom was five hundred thousand dollars, payable in discreet sums to the PAC of his choice. It was also said that no stay was complete without having sex there. It beat the “Mile High Club” by a long shot.

Not that she would have a chance to find out. At fifty-five, Megan McCoy was twice married, twice divorced, and regretfully without children. While her election had infinitely boosted her dating prospects, the chance of actually sleeping with a man had gone down the toilet. McCoy was from the old school. She could only sleep with a man she loved. Nobody was in the batter’s box at the moment-or on deck for that matter-and she feared that her schedule as commander-in-chief would not permit for the candlelight dinners and moonlight promenades necessary.

Ramser pointed across the room. “The rocking chair by the window is identical to the one Mr. Lincoln was sitting in at Ford’s Theatre the night he was assassinated. A lot of people feel his presence here. A few of the staff refuse to go in. So does my dog, Tootsie. She never barks except when she passes the door. You cannot get that animal to cross the threshold.”

“Are you saying you believe in ghosts?” McCoy asked with a smile.

“Oh yes,” said Ramser, more earnestly than she would have liked. “You can’t hold this office without feeling quite a few pairs of eyes on you. I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘ghost’ exactly. Maybe ‘spirit’ is better. The ‘spirit of the past.’ The office of the President is a living thing. You don’t invest it, so much as it invests you.”

Ramser walked past the bed and through a narrow doorway. “In here is the Lincoln Sitting Room. It’s a nice place to get away from things for a minute or two. I come here when I need to be alone. You don’t get many opportunities for solitude when you’re in this office.”

“I get plenty every night when I go to sleep. The benefits of being single.”

Ramser smiled. “No one said it’s a cakewalk getting here. We all take our lumps.”

McCoy’s marital status had been a prime target for her opponent’s mudslinging. As had her looks. With a tendency to carry an extra twenty pounds, McCoy did not fit any definition, past or present, of a beauty. She wore her hair short and liked its natural gray color. She favored loose-fitting black pantsuits because they didn’t make her look like the Hindenburg, and she couldn’t stand contact lenses because they made her eyes itch like crazy. Her campaign manager was an African American woman and her press secretary was a gay male from Greenwich Village. In the eyes of the attack dogs, that made her a fat, four-eyed bull dyke who wanted to pack the cabinet with queers, niggers, and people of un-Christian orientation. The salve of victory was only beginning to soothe her feelings.

“Like to take a seat?” Ramser asked.

“Certainly.” McCoy knew this was not really a request. She’d noted Ramser’s anxiety since they’d begun the tour an hour earlier. “My feet are killing me,” she said. “I feel like I haven’t rested since February.”

Ramser took a chair opposite her. For a few moments, neither spoke. Rain drummed against the roof. An occasional gust rattled the windows. A joist in the wall moaned. Behind the fresh paint and the Stinger missiles, it was easy to forget that the White House was over two hundred years old. At length, he said, “I understand Ed Logsdon had a chat with you a few days ago.”

“The chief justice and I had an engaging conversation.”

“I know that we don’t have much common ground, Senator, but as holder of this office these past eight years, I’d like to ask you-urge you, in fact-to reconsider his request.”

“Secret clubs and backroom discussions are not my style, Mr. President.”

“Gordon, please. It’s time I get used to that again.”

“Gordon,” she said dutifully. “I ran on the slogan ‘The Voice of the People.’ The vox populi. I don’t think my voters would be too enamored with me if they learned I was sneaking around smoke-filled rooms and making decisions without their approval.”

“I felt the same way. The office carries with it a tremendous responsibility. It’s because of that responsibility that I served on the Committee. You see, the President’s responsibility goes beyond the trust placed in us by the voters, to the very idea of America itself.”

“And you think everyday citizens are incapable of sharing those ideas?”

“Yes and no. People’s needs are by nature selfish. Remember what Mark Twain said about never trusting a man who didn’t vote his pocketbook? The average voter is motivated by his well-being and the well-being of his family. Are you better or worse off than four years ago?”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Why nothing. I’m the same way myself. But the President can’t make decisions that will affect this country for a hundred years on what might please or piss off the voter for the next six months.”

“Coming from a man who needs a poll to tell him whether to wear a blue or a gray suit, that means something.”

Ramser ignored the jibe. “Your responsibility is to the country first, the people second.”

“I thought they were the same thing.”

“Not always. There are times when the President alone has to decide what’s the best course of action. Without congressional bickering. Without the polls that I admit I relied too heavily on. See if you don’t! When he has to act quickly and unambiguously. And secretly. That power is also implicit in the trust given us.”

“Are you saying that the people expect us to lie to them?”

“Essentially, yes. They expect their commander in chief to make decisions in the country’s interest. Hard decisions that they might not agree with in the short term.”

“And that’s what this committee is for?”

“Yes. And it has been since it was founded in 1793.”

“Chief Justice Logsdon told me about your role in the Jay Treaty.”

“Keep it quiet or we’ll have to rewrite the history books,” said Ramser, sotto voce.

McCoy did not share his smile. “There’s more?”

“Much.”

“Such as?”

“It wouldn’t be right of me to say until you join us. I will say, however, that I don’t disagree with a single action the Committee has taken.”

“I always thought that you looked like a man who slept well at night.”

“Jefferson, Lincoln, JFK… It would be an honor to count you as a member. There are some issues that require your attention.”

“I’m sure they’ll be covered in my PDB.”

“Probably not.”

McCoy leaned forward. “I don’t share your pessimism about the American people. I’ve always found that if you give it to them straight, take off the sugarcoating, they’re more than capable of making the right decision. Your problem, Gordon, is that you never trusted them to begin with. Maybe none of us have. Somehow we’ve convinced ourselves that the people-our husbands, and brothers, and best friends-need to be hoodwinked into thinking things are better than they are or worse than they are. Bigger and Scarier and More Threatening. I have a different opinion. I think the people have had enough of the bullshit and just want to see things the way they really are.”

“That kind of talk worked in the campaign, Meg. Unfortunately, this is the real world. Believe me, people don’t want to see things how they truly are. They are much too frightening.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Ramser bowed his head and sighed. When he looked up, his complexion had paled. He looked like an old man. “I take it that’s your final answer.”

“No, Gordon, it’s not. Here’s my final answer. The day and age when a group of fat cats and power brokers can operate behind the scenes to make things happen is over. I’m not going to join the Committee because the Committee will be no more. After I swear the oath tomorrow, I’m going to make it my first priority to root out every one of you secretive bastards.”

“How will you do that?”

“I have some friends at the Post who will be very interested in what you’ve told me. It will make Watergate pale in comparison.”

“The press?”

Senator McCoy nodded. “I think this is something that’s right up Charles Connolly’s alley.”

Ramser nodded. “Oh, you’re right about that, Meg. I’m sure Charles Connolly would find your story very interesting, indeed.” For a long second, he stared into her eyes. “I am sorry, Meg.”

Senator McCoy felt a profound shiver rustle her spine. The emotion in his voice disturbed her. The President of the United States sounded as if he were offering his condolences.