H. Stuart Knight hated things that didn’t run on schedule, and today nothing had been on time. Everybody was going to be at least thirty minutes late for the lunch.
Seventy-six guests stood as the President entered the room. These were the men and women who now controlled the Democratic party. The Northern establishment who had decided to back the lady were now present, with the exception of those who had supported Senator Ralph Brooks.
Some of those at the luncheon were already members of her cabinet, and everyone present had played some part in returning her to the White House.
The President had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to eat her lunch; everyone wanted to talk to her at once. The menu had been specially made up of her favorite dishes, starting with lobster bisque and going on to roast beef. Finally, the chef’s pièce de résistance was produced, an iced chocolate cake, in the form of the White House. Edward watched his wife ignore the neat wedge of the Oval Office placed in front of her. “That’s why she never needs to slim,” commented Marian Edelman, who was the surprise appointment as Attorney General. Marian had been telling Edward about the importance of children’s rights. Edward tried to listen; perhaps another day.
By the time the last wing of the White House had been demolished and the last hand pumped, the President and her party were forty-five minutes late for the Inaugural Parade. When they did arrive at the reviewing stand in front of the White House, the most relieved to see them, among the crowd of two hundred thousand, was the Presidential Guard of Honor, who had been standing at attention for just over an hour. Once the President had taken her seat the parade began. The State contingent in the military unit marched past, and the United States Marine Band played everything from Sousa to “God Bless America.” Floats from each state, some, like that of Illinois, commemorating events from Florentyna’s Polish background, added color and a lighter touch to what for her was not only a serious occasion but a solemn one.
She still felt this was the only nation on earth that could entrust its highest office to the daughter of an immigrant.
When the three-hour-long parade was finally over and the last float had disappeared down the avenue, Janet Brown, Florentyna Kane’s Chief of Staff, leaned over and asked the President what she would like to do between now and the first Inaugural Ball.
“Sign all those cabinet appointments, the letters to the Heads of State, and clear my desk for tomorrow,” was the immediate reply. “That should take care of the first four years.”
The President returned directly into the White House. As she walked through the South Portico, the Marine band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The President had taken off her coat even before she reached the Oval Office. She sat herself firmly behind the imposing oak and leather desk. She paused for a moment, looking around the room. Everything was as she wanted it; behind her there was the picture of Richard and William playing touch football. In front of her, a paperweight with the quotation from George Bernard Shaw which Annabel quoted so often: “Some men see things as they are and say, why; I dream things that never were and say, why not.” On Florentyna’s left was the Presidential flag, on her right the flag of the United States. Dominating the middle of the desk was a replica of the Baron Hotel, Warsaw, made out of papier mâché by William when he was fourteen. Coal was burning in the fireplace. A portrait of Abraham Lincoln stared down at the newly sworn-in President while outside the bay windows, the green lawns swept in an unbroken stretch to the Washington Monument. The President smiled. She was back at home.
Florentyna Kane reached for a pile of official papers and glanced over the names of those who would serve in her cabinet; there were over thirty appointments to be made. The President signed each one with a flourish. The final one was Janet Brown as Chief of Staff. The President ordered that they be sent down to the Congress immediately. Her press secretary picked up the pieces of paper that would dictate the next four years in the history of America and said, “Thank you, Madam President,” and then added, “What would you like to tackle next?”
“Always start with the biggest problem is what Lincoln advised, so let’s go over the draft legislation for the Gun Control bill.”
The President’s press secretary shuddered, for she knew only too well that the battle in the House over the next two years was likely to be every bit as vicious and hard-fought as the Civil War Lincoln had faced. So many people still regarded the possession of arms as their inalienable birthright. She only prayed that it all would not end the same way, as a House Divided.
Thursday evening
3 March (two years later)
5:45 P.M.
Nick Stames wanted to go home. He had been at work since seven that morning and it was already 5:45 P.M. He couldn’t remember if he had eaten lunch; his wife, Norma, had been grumbling again that he never got home in time for dinner, or, if he did, it was so late that her dinner was no longer worth eating. Come to think of it, when did he last find time to finish a meal? Norma stayed in bed when he left for the office at 6:30 A.M. Now that the children were away at school, her only real task was to cook dinner for him. He couldn’t win; if he had been a failure, she would have complained about that, too, and he was, goddamn it, by anybody’s standards, a success; the youngest special agent in charge of a Field Office in the FBI and you don’t get a job like that at the age of forty-one by being at home on time for dinner every night. In any case, Nick loved the job. It was his mistress; at least his wife could be thankful for that.
Nick Stames had been head of the Washington Field Office for nine years. The third largest Field Office in America, although it covered the smallest territory — only sixty-one square miles of Washington, D.C. — it had twenty-two squads; twelve criminal, ten security. Hell, he was policing the capital of the world. Of course, he must be expected to be late sometimes. Still, tonight he intended to make a special effort. When he had the time to do so, he adored his wife. He was going to be home on time this evening. He picked up his internal phone and called his Criminal Coordinator, Grant Nanna.
“Grant.”
“Boss.”
“I’m going home.”
“I didn’t know you had one.”
“Not you, too.”
Nick Stames put the phone down, and pushed his hand through his long dark hair. He would have made a better movie criminal than FBI agent, since everything about him was dark — dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair, even a dark suit and dark shoes, but the last two were true of any special agent. On his lapel he wore a pin depicting the flags of the United States and of Greece.
Once, a few years ago, he had been offered promotion and a chance to cross the street to the Bureau Headquarters and join the Director as one of his thirteen assistants. Being an assistant chained to a desk wasn’t his style, so he stayed put. The move would have taken him from a slum to a palace; the Washington Field Office is housed on floors four, five, and eight of the Old Post Office Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the rooms are a little like railroad coaches. They would have been condemned as slums if they had been sited in the ghetto.
As the sun began to disappear behind the tall buildings, Nick’s gloomy office grew darker. He walked over to the light switch. “Don’t Be Fuelish,” commented a fluorescent label glued to the switch. Just as the constant movement of men and women in dark sober suits in and out of the Old Post Office Building revealed the location of the FBI Washington Field Office, so this government graffito served notice that the czars of the Federal Energy Administration inhabited two floors of the cavernous building on Pennsylvania Avenue.