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“Agreed, sir,” Carlton says.
“I want increased surveillance on them both, especially that doctor, Captain Webster.”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
Barrett sips at the coffee, the finest he’s ever tasted. “The White House Mess is one of the best, don’t you agree?”
Carlton says, “Agreed, sir.”
“But there was a time when it wasn’t so,” Barrett says with reflection. “Back in FDR’s day, his wife Eleanor wanted the kitchen to serve simple food, to show that they were all sharing the pain of the Great Depression. And the food was horrible! There are memoirs from that time of prime ministers, kings, and generals being served crap like cold jellied bouillon, salmon salad, and bread-and-butter sandwiches for lunch. At the White House!”
He puts his coffee cup down. “I’ll miss their great food when I leave after my second term is complete. That’s a state secret, Carlton,just so you know, because even though I’ve been in the job less than six months, I intend to run for a second term. And win. I know the American people love me, support me. All of the poll numbers reflect that. I won’t disappoint them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because there’s so much to do … and I’ve been chosen at this time and place to finally take care of America’s enemies,” Barrett says wistfully. “Do you see what I mean, Carlton? Call it kismet, fate, or God, but when I was running second in the primaries and Governor McCall died of that brain tumor, clearing my way to get the nomination and eventual victory, I knew that something larger than me—than all of us—wanted me to become president.”
Carlton says, “You’ve done a tremendous amount of work in such a short time, sir. You should take satisfaction in that.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But I don’t want to start feeling any true sense of accomplishment, not yet.” He takes a look around his spartan office. “Some successes, but not nearly enough. Which is why I do most of my work here, or at the Hay-Adams Hotel, or Blair House, and not the Oval Office. When I leave office, there will be some who think what I did was so monstrous that if it had been done in the Oval Office, it would be forever tainted. And those who oppose me …”
He pauses, like he’s trying to come up with the correct words, not wanting to tell even the trusted Carlton, the voice inside of him from years ago that’s promised him greatness. He says, “They will probably nail the door shut here to this office, to ensure it’s never used again,” Barrett says. “I expect that. But the next president, whoever they might be, they can go into the Oval Office clean, knowing it’s unsullied, that certain orders were never issued from there. The Oval Office can return to being a shrine, and my successor—though they will never admit it—will secretly thank me for handing over an America devoid of its most ruthless enemies.”
Carlton starts to speak and the phone rings. Barrett picks it up and says, “Yes?”
“Mr. President? It’s Quinn Lawrence.”
Barrett smiles at Carlton, who smiles right back. He says, “Quinn, always a pleasure to hear from you. What’s troubling my chief of staff this morning that you need to call me?”
“Er, well, it’s not me, per se, Mr. President,” he stammers. “It’s Senate Majority Leader Cleveland Hogan. He wants to talk to you.”
“At this time, the feeling’s not mutual,” Barrett says. “Set up a time for tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think that will work,” Quinn says. “He’s quite insistent. He says it’s an urgent matter, and he won’t take no for an answer.”
Barrett looks to his special assistant, shrugs, and says, “Oh, all right. Put him on.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
A faintclickand then, “Mr. President? It’s Senator Hogan.”
Barrett leans back in his chair, puts his feet up on his desk. “Cleve, so good to hear from you. What’s going on?”
There’s an odd tone to the Senate majority leader’s voice. “What’s going on, Mr. President, is some good news. The Intelligence Committee has voted on Hannah Abrams’s nomination, and it’s passed eleven to four. I’m fast-tracking it to a floor vote today and—”
Barrett slips his legs off his desk, sits up straight. “Cleve! What the hell is this? You told me you’d hold off on the vote!”
“I did, because you indicated it was a matter involving the DNI. With all due respect, Mr. President, I got tired of waiting. The Senate has a job to do and we did it.”
“You … Senator, you know how important this was for me!”
“Was it?” the senator shot back. “You made the original request of me to delay the vote. The vote was delayed. And what I did for you was professional courtesy. Not a blank check that lasts forever. With all due respect, Mr. President, you can’t order the Senate around.”
With his teeth nearly clenched, Barrett says, “I wasn’t ordering.”
“That’s what it felt like,” the senator says. “Now, to put a nice shine on everything, I expect the full Senate vote sometime early this afternoon, and then I plan to escort Director Abrams to the White House, where you can have a nice meet-and-greet with her in the Oval Office.”
Barrett says, “Cleve, you shit, that sounds like you’re ordering me around.”
