Hughes made a face as if she’d just eaten something bitter.
“I prefer you don’t call me that, dear.”
It was common knowledge that POTUS stood for the president of the United States. The first lady got FLOTUS, a name that made one envision gliding gently above the ground. Nancy Hughes had no problem being the second lady, but the vice president and his wife were saddled with the VPOTUS and SLOTUS — terms that her oilman brother said suggested an erectile dysfunction drug and some sort of skin disease.
“Yes, ma’am…” Deatherage looked quizzically at the calendar. “Oops… like, I mean the biggest oops ever. You were right, Mrs. Hughes. The dinner with FLOT… the first lady is Monday. After the Kiva meeting today, your schedule is open to work on the wedding.”
“Excellent,” Hughes said, resisting the urge to point out that Gail Peterson never had “oops” moments when it came to schedules concerning the first lady. “We have a great deal to do and a short time to get it done.”
“May I ask a question, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Certainly, dear.”
“I’m, like, all afraid I’m not working as hard for you as I should be…”
Hughes lowered her reading glasses. “How do you mean?”
It looked as though the poor girl might actually be welling up with tears.
“I… I admire you so much, Mrs. Hughes. You, like, volunteer your time to all sorts of great causes. I just want to be a real help with this wedding.”
“Of course you’re going to help me, dear,” Hughes scoffed, attempting to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“But you won’t even tell me where the wedding is supposed to be.” Deatherage sniffed back a sob, hand to her chest as she worked to regain her composure.
“You’re to help with the guest list, dear.” Hughes shook her head. “The vice president believes the fewer people know the location until the last minute, the better for everyone.”
“I understand.” Deatherage sniffed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is all, like, just such an honor for me.” She turned to the back page of the appointment book. “So far you have sixty member of Congress and fifteen senators who have RSVP’d.”
“We do expect a fair number of dignitaries,” Hughes said. “Security and transportation are going to be a nightmare. At last count we had heads of state from Australia, the U.K., Germany, and Brazil. Have we heard from any others?”
“Tom Selleck’s publicist called last night to say he plans to attend,” Deatherage said, her mouth hanging open. “This is crazy-before she died, my mom used to watch old Magnum, P.I. reruns all the time. I can’t believe Tom Selleck would come to your daughter’s wedding.”
“He’s a family friend,” Hughes said. She leaned forward, touching the girl on the knee. “I had no idea your mother had passed away, dear.”
“I was fifteen,” Deatherage sighed. “She and my dad were killed in a car wreck on a trip to the Grand Canyon. They left me with friends…”
“That’s just awful,” Hughes said, about to cry herself. A sudden thought made her smile. She got to her feet, motioning Deatherage to follow her. Words spilled out as she walked. “I’ll tell you what you need. You need a project to really sink your teeth into. There will be a gob of politicians at the wedding. The heads of state have security, so their details have been made aware of the location. The remainder of the guests will be in the dark until the last minute-to keep the terrorists at bay. We’ll be making their transportation arrangements. It’s a big job, but I’m going to assign you transportation coordination. Think you can handle it?”
Deatherage trotted along dutifully behind, pen and appointment book in hand. “I… yes, I’m sure I can.”
Hughes stopped abruptly. “You’re my wedding assistant, Amanda. The vice president will just have to realize I need the help. I’d have to tell you sooner or later. It may as well be now.” She leaned in close. “But remember, this truly is a matter of national security. You have to promise to keep this between us.” Nancy Hughes flushed. It felt good to do good.
Amanda Deatherage looked up at her with beaming eyes and grinned. “Of course, ma’am.” Deatherage nodded. “Cross my heart and hope to die…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Western China
The wizened old Uyghur who picked them up at the Kashgar airport wheeled his lime-green VW Santana away from the chipped curb and onto Yingbin Avenue. The paved road would take them six miles to the south and into the city. He wore a ratty gray suit coat and a stained shirt, making his bright yellow four-angle traditional silk hat seem out of place. Wisps of thin gray hair peeked from the edges of the hat, hanging down in the old man’s wrinkled face. He reminded Quinn of a moldy raisin.
“Have you and your wife come for the Sunday Market, tovarich?” The man knew Quinn wasn’t Uyghur since he couldn’t speak the language and he obviously wasn’t Chinese. Proclaiming that no American could learn Mandarin so fluently, he decided Quinn must be a Russian and referred to him as comrade at the end of every phrase. Ronnie played along, speaking sultry Russian to Quinn in hushed tones. He had no idea what she was saying.
“We very much hope to see it,” Quinn said, still in Mandarin. Memories of his previous trip to the Silk Road city flooded back to him as they drove. “They say one may find everything at the Sunday Market but the milk of a chicken…”
“Everything indeed, tovarich.” The old Uyghur laughed, showing his grizzled face in the dusty rearview mirror. The fact that he had only two surviving teeth made his Chinese slurpy and difficult to understand.
He laid on the horn, honking at a driver atop a two-wheel cart behind a placid donkey clomping patiently down the middle of the road.
As they neared Kashgar proper, Quinn was startled to find how much of the old city had been demolished in the years since his visit. It was as if the boxy concrete buildings commissioned by Beijing were a virus, consuming anything and everything with history or character. He looked out the window at the benign face of the cart driver as the taxi rattled past. At least some things about the place hadn’t changed.
“I know of a place that sells vodka, tovarich,” the old man said, working for a tip. “Perhaps you wish to stop?”
“I believe we’ll just go to the hotel,” Quinn said.
“A most excellent and noble choice, tovarich.” The old man scooted forward a little in the seat, squaring his shoulders. “It is good to meet another upright man in the world…” His eyes flicked up, looking into the mirror again. “But if you should change your mind, I will leave my number with the hotel staff.”
A city bus belched black smoke in front of the Chini Bagh hotel. The taxi driver shot around to take them into the circular portico, narrowly avoiding an oncoming scooter truck. Now that was the old Kashgar, where every drive was a near-death experience, Quinn thought. A chorus of blaring horns, shouting men, and braying donkeys struck Quinn like a slap as he opened the taxi door and helped Ronnie step out onto the curb. She looked ravishing in her light khaki travel pants and airy cotton shirt-long sleeved so as not to offend Muslim sensibilities. Her big Hollywood sunglasses and modest silk scarf knotted at her chin made her look like something out of a 1960s travel poster.
Quinn gave the wrinkled driver thirty yuan-a little over four dollars-and assured him his services wouldn’t be needed later for any vodka runs. Motioning for Ronnie to walk ahead, Quinn grabbed his waterproof duffel and walked toward the gaudy new hotel. During the days of Rudyard Kipling and the Great Game, the grounds had been the home of George and Lady Macartney, British consul to Kashgar. Though their orchards and gardens were gone, the old residence, home to no small amount of intrigue against the Russians, still stood on the hotel grounds, converted to a Uyghur restaurant.
The waifish Han Chinese girl at the front desk handed Quinn a handwritten message while she ran his credit card. It was scrawled on a sheet of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook and folded in half.