But Stephanie had succeeded in coaxing along Swain’s Chief of Staff, Matt Prusak, on the grounds that they were old friends. She had met Swain and Prusak when they were all preppy law students, and a quarter-century later she had worked with Prusak to persuade Swain to run for the presidency.
For this evening, she had also called in a favor from the flamboyant Roy Carrol, Chairman of the Federal Reserve and one of Washington’s most sought-after dinner guests. His premium had risen higher since his divorce. Carrol happened to be hosting the new reformist head of Russia’s Central Bank, whom Stephanie insisted he bring along. Slater had asked her to seek out an old trade union friend, Jeff Walsh, who had taken some persuading given that Holland would be there. Stephanie anticipated lively, punchy conversation.
Inside the spacious entrance hall, she stopped by a gold-framed wall mirror to smooth down her dark-blue business suit and check her shoulder-length black hair. From the softly furnished drawing room, she heard a fast, hostile exchange led by Holland’s raised baritone voice that had captured the nation and catapulted him towards the White House. She brushed her hair back from her forehead and stepped inside.
‘I’m giving it to you straight, Mr Prime Minister,’ Holland was saying. ‘Honor your NATO defense spending, stop this question about your nuclear capability, and we’ll get along just fine.’
‘The democratic process must take its course.’ Slater smiled, exaggerating his north of England accent. He wore a light red shirt with no tie. His brown sports jacket looked ten years old and his suede shoes were scuffed. Holland wore an immaculate pinstripe suit with a blue shirt, tie pin, and gold cufflinks. They stood on either end of the tall mantelpiece. Holland was a big, chunky man with little grace, his eyes skipping around the room like a cat. Slater was tall and as lean as a cane with a military-style buzz-cut that gave an appearance of part athlete and part bulldog. He concentrated his gaze on Holland.
‘There’s no democratic process when it comes to national security,’ countered Holland. ‘Winston Churchill described Britain as an elected dictatorship and you, Mr Prime Minister, are its current dictator.’
Stephanie made her presence known. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. Prime Minister, Mr President-elect. Sorry for being late. Inauguration preparations are gridlocking traffic.’
‘I’ve been enjoying a lively conversation with your new Prime Minister,’ said Holland.
‘Then I must not interrupt. You know what they say: The root of the British-American special relationship is that neither of us could speak French.’ Both men laughed, and her attempt at a joke was enough to take her further across the room where a barrel-chested man, examining snow-covered grounds through a large window, turned to greet her. ‘Jeff Walsh, ma’am. President of the International Longshoremen’s Union.’
‘I recognize you, of course, Mr Walsh. It’s a privilege to meet you in person.’
‘Thank you for asking me, ma’am. Your Prime Minister and I go back a long way.’
‘No need to ma’am me, Jeff. This is a very informal evening.’
‘The 1980s, ma’am.’ Walsh grinned amiably. ‘OK. Sorry. What the hell do I call you?’
‘Steph. Or if that’s too much, go for Mrs Lucas.’
‘Right, Steph, I went across to England to support Kevin with your miners’ strike in the early 80s. He came over here when we tried to take on Reagan. So, he and I are two old-time union fighters.’
A shadow fell on the door, created by the arrival of Matt Prusak. Unlike Swain, the slight and bookish White House Chief of Staff had succeeded in forging a working relationship with Holland.
‘Come, Jeff, let’s go mix it up a bit.’ Stephanie waved at Prusak as she ushered Walsh towards the center of the room.
‘Don’t expect American body bags to be coming out of that continent when you mess it up again,’ Holland was saying.
‘It’s more than seventy years since an American soldier died on a European battlefield,’ said Slater. ‘Since then our lads and lasses have been getting killed in your pointless Middle East wars.’
Stephanie caught Prusak’s eye and suppressed a smile. If the conversation weren’t so dangerous, it could be funny. ‘Ambassador Lucas and I go back to our campus days at Georgetown University,’ said Prusak urbanely as Stephanie introduced him to Slater. ‘I am here as a friend and not as—’
‘Even so,’ interrupted Holland. ‘How is the White House in your final days?’
‘The packers are in, sir, and the property awaits you.’
Stephanie’s attention shifted again to the door where the flamboyant Federal Reserve chairman, Roy Carrol, was ushering in Karl Opokin, a Russian entrepreneur turned Chairman of the Central Bank. Stephanie knew Opokin from her days in Russia, where she had fled on advice of her father. ‘Go read those books and get yourself to university so no one controls your life but you,’ he had told her after she begged him teach her how to rig mileage, fix oil leaks, and forge documents in the used-car trade. She had.
Stephanie learned Russian and studied East European history at the London School of Economics, then headed for Moscow. With communism fractured, it was a place of half organized crime and half crumbling authority with barely a line between the two, not that different from her father’s edgy south London motor trade. Opokin had been on the fringes of her crowd of bright young friends who taught her how to buy favors and forge alliances. Opokin focused on oil and gas deals in Russia’s Far East. Stephanie headed for technology companies in Moscow and St Petersburg and had made her first million before she was twenty-five. Her business partner, who was briefly her lover, made many times that. He had argued that he needed ten to her one just to stay alive, and Stephanie let it go. It had worked for both of them. Sergey Grizlov was now Chairman of the Russian parliament. Stephanie’s previous post had been as ambassador to Moscow. And Opokin, her dinner guest, was being hailed as the modern post-Putin face of Russia. Carrol had been showing him around the Fed’s magnificent ice-white 1930s building on Constitution Avenue.
Carrol pecked Stephanie on both cheeks. ‘Good to see you, Steph.’ Carrol’s tailored suit, cufflinks, and polka-dotted bow tie far outclassed Opokin’s regular dark pinstripe suit, which could have passed him off as any mid-ranking, mid-forties Wall Street banker. Holland eyed him with surprise as if expecting the traditional bling and glitter of a Russian oligarch.
‘Thank you for having me, Madam Ambassador,’ Opokin spoke softly while taking her hand.
‘Very, very good to meet you again, Karl.’ She introduced him.
‘Prime Minister, Mr President-elect, congratulations on your election victories. I am indeed privileged to be here,’ said Opokin.
‘You need to tell your President Lagutov from me to stop messing around with Europe,’ said Holland. ‘We don’t want to have to make an enemy out of you. The last I heard—’
‘Hush, hush, Senator,’ Carrol broke in, touching Holland’s arm to correct himself. ‘Not Senator. Mr President-elect. I do apologize; I should stick to calling you one of my oldest and closest friends. Karl is a new breed, a money man, like me. We live, dream, and plan money, and it drives our friends to despair.’
‘You keep your side of the border in Europe, and you’ll do well by us,’ said Holland to Opokin.
Stephanie allowed more small talk. Opokin softened Holland. Walsh congratulated Slater on getting the top job. She took Carrol to one side to ask about his ex-wife.
‘Divorce has gone through, and we’re still talking,’ said Carrol.
‘Well done.’
‘And Harry?’
‘Better. Thanks for asking. We keep in touch.’ Harry was Stephanie’s soldier of an ex-husband. Briefly part of the Georgetown gang, he had cut out to the Iraq war, been wounded and decorated. He had just lost his seat in Congress where he had sat on several defense committees. Carrol and his then wife Lucy had been pillars of support when Stephanie’s marriage disintegrated.