Power Play
So fair a brow to be so troubled, Henry thought as he looked across the table at Sunday. She had just returned from Washington and to his anxious eye seemed thoroughly exhausted. She’d changed into a caftan for dinner and her complexion seemed deadly pale against the shimmering blue-green silk. Her hair, the colour of winter wheat, was loose around her neck and her eyes, usually so sparkling, were clouded and sleepy.
For the last weeks she’d fought her heart out to line up enough votes in Congress to pass a law guaranteeing both breakfast and lunch to needy schoolchildren. She’d succeeded but at the price of bruising exhaustion.
Henry well understood the feeling. During his eight years as president of the United States he’d often been thoroughly weary-not only in body but in spirit.
“You’re not exactly famished, are you, love?” he asked tenderly. “Poor Yves is so proud of the Dover sole. You’d swear he’d caught it himself.”
Sunday smiled and for a moment the fatigue was lifted from her expression. “Knowing Yves, he probably did exactly that.” Then she said ruefully, “Oh, Henry, you know how it is. I’ve twisted so many arms that I don’t think I have a friend left on Capitol Hill.”
“You have one on Pennsylvania Avenue,” Henry told her. “Des called me this afternoon.”
Desmond Ogilvey, the current president of the United States, was Henry’s successor in office.
Sunday looked at him, astonished. “What did he say? People in his own party were the ones who fought me the hardest.”
“Not all his people,” Henry corrected. “Des wanted that bill as much as you did. He loves it that you’re the one who got it through. He said that he was reminded of what Ben-Gurion said about Golda Meir: ‘She’s the only man in my cabinet.’”
“That was very nice of Des.”
“Yes, it was, but he also mentioned that you looked mighty tired the last time he saw you and I was happy to be able to tell him that we’re off for a vacation. Just the two of us-no Secret Service. How does that sound?”
Sims, the butler for the Britland family for the past thirty-odd years, was pouring wine into Sunday’s glass. Henry could see his conspiratorial nod of approval.
“Oh, Henry, I’d love that.” Sunday sighed. “But how can you manage it? We can’t go two feet without you being surrounded.”
“After fourteen months of marriage, you still don’t know everything about me, sweetheart.” Henry was beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly. The last fourteen months were still a miracle to him. On his final night in the White House he’d given a reception for the incoming members of Congress, one of whom was Sunday. Thirty-one years old, a public defender, she’d won the seat of the incumbent congressman in Jersey City in a stunning upset.
Henry had flirted with her and had been both amused and chagrined when she reproached him. Then when she turned down his invitation to dine with him because she was taking her parents to dinner, he’d known that the beautiful young woman with the candid blue eyes was the one he’d been searching for. They were married six weeks later and he happily saw himself removed from People magazine’s choice as the number-one eligible bachelor in the United States, having swept all categories: looks, intelligence, charm, humour, position, and wealth.
Now when Congress was in session, Henry spent most weekdays at Drumdoe, their country estate in New Jersey, writing his memoirs.
But not for the next several weeks, he thought. “Sims and I have it all planned,” he announced triumphantly. “We will go in disguise and incognito. The passports are ready.”
“Passports! Where are we going, for heaven’s sake?”
“For heaven’s sake, indeed. You are going to the Middle East. We will board a cruise ship in Bombay-“
“You mean Mumbai,” Sunday interrupted. “The Indian government changed Bombay back to its original name. As former president I’m sure you must have heard that.”
“Do be quiet, darling,” Henry said with dignity. “Remember, a little knowledge is dangerous. Now if I may continue: We sail from Mumbai through the Indian Ocean, to the sea of Arabia, on to the Red Sea, and finally through the Mediterranean. Along the way we will stop at Jordan, Egypt, and Ahman, disembark in Piraeus, and fly home from there. How does that sound?”
“It sounds glorious, but just a few questions: Why go on a cruise ship when you own a yacht?” Sunday paused. “Oh. I see. The recognition factor?”
“Exactly. Which brings me to show you why it won’t be a problem for us personally.” Henry stood up. “Since you obviously are not going to eat another morsel, come along. You might enjoy having a look at your new persona.”
Three days later Harry and Sandra Potter checked into the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. To the casual observer they seemed an ordinary couple, the kind who never received a second glance.
She had short dark hair and round tinted glasses. Her slacks suit, the sort favoured by women whose mothers had grown up wearing sweater sets, was stodgy beige in colour and rectangular in shape; it succeeded in adding twenty pounds to her appearance as well as crying out to be matched with the sensible oxfords she was also wearing.
Her husband, gray haired with a wispy Vandyke, obviously favoured an equally conservative look. His poplin pants were topped with a sombre brown jacket and heavily starched shirt. Even his brown-and-beige-striped bow tie managed to look prim. The panel of the old television show ‘What’s My Line?’ would have pegged him instantly as a teacher.
A courteous attendant led them to their room in the old section of the hotel overlooking the bay. As Henry had explained to Sunday, “I always had a suite when I stayed at the Taj, but the rooms adjacent to the suites are very nice. My father and mother put the valet and personal maid in them, and we don’t want to stand out.”
They went up in the elevator to the sixth floor, then followed the attendant down a half flight to a corridor. Sunday heard Henry murmur “Uh-oh” under his breath as they turned the corner and saw four armed soldiers standing at attention outside one of the doors. A man in civilian clothes was striding up and down the corridor. His watchful glance settled on them, studied them intently, then dismissed them with a flicker of his eyelids.
“Must be someone very important staying here,” Henry said to the attendant. The slight Boston accent he had affected did not conceal the deference in his voice.
“A visiting government official,” the attendant whispered, then looked flustered as though he had said too much. He led them to the door next to the guarded suite, opened it, and stepped aside to let them enter.
The luggage arrived as he was leaving. The instant they were alone, Henry covered the room in long strides and double-locked the door. “We’ve had our first acid test,” he whispered. “That has to be Hasna Ibn Saata in there.”
Sunday pulled off the black wig that was making her scalp vaguely itchy. Her blond hair tumbled on her shoulders. “Who is he and why the acid test?” She realised she was whispering.
Henry looked around and put a warning finger to his lips. He went over to the television, turned it on, and put his lips to her ear. “I don’t think this room is bugged, but we might as well take precautions. Saata is the confidant and advisor of the sultan of Ahman, which is our first stop on the trip. The hidden city of the silver stone is a must-see.
“The sultan and I became close friends when we were at Harvard and he took me there almost twenty-five years ago. It has a rich history and its warren of hidden caves and secret passages played a major role in the ancient history of Ahman. That’s the part of the country where I learned to ride a camel and got pretty good at speaking Arabic.”