Ryan thought about that, handing the list back to van Damm. “You know, just because I’m President doesn’t mean I stopped being a person.”
“Jack, get used to it, okay? You’re not allowed to be ‘just a person’ anymore. Okay, you’ve had a few days to get used to the idea. When you walk downstairs, you are the United States of America, not just a person. That goes for you, that goes for your wife, and to some degree that goes for your kids.” For his revelation, the chief of staff got a poisonous look that may have lasted a second or two. Arnie ignored it. It was just personal, not business. “Ready, Mr. President?”
Jack nodded, wondering if Arnie was right or not, and wondering why the observation had angered him so much. And then wondering again how true it was. You couldn’t tell with Arnie. He was and would continue to be a teacher, and as with most skilled teachers, he would occasionally tell lies as harsh exemplars of a deeper truth.
170
Don Russell appeared in the corridor, leading Katie by the hand. She had a- red ribbon in her hair as she broke free and ran to her mother. “Look what Uncle Don did!” At least one member of the Detail was already a member of the family.
“You may want to get them all into the bathroom now, Mrs. Ryan. There are no restrooms on the State Floor.”
“None?”
Russell shook his head. “No, ma’am, they sort of forgot when they built the place.”
Caroline Ryan grabbed the two youngest and led them off, doing her motherly duty. She returned in a couple of minutes.
“Want me to carry her downstairs for you, ma’am?” Russell asked with a grandfatherly smile. “The stairs are a little tricky in heels. I’ll hand her off at the bottom.”
“Sure.” People started heading for the stairwell, and Andrea Price keyed her microphone.
“SWORDSMAN and party are moving from the residence to the State Floor.”
“Roger,” another agent responded from downstairs.
They could hear the noise even before making the last turn on the marble steps. Russell set Katie Ryan on the floor next to her mother. The agents faded away, becoming strangely invisible as the Ryans, the First Family, walked into the East Room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a staff member announced, “the President of the United States, Dr. Ryan, and family.” Heads turned. There was a brief wave of applause which quickly faded, but the looks continued. They appeared friendly enough, Jack thought, knowing that not all were. He and Cathy moved a little to the left, and formed the receiving line.
They came mainly one by one, though some of the visiting chiefs of state had brought wives. A protocol officer at Ryan’s left whispered the name of each into his ear, making Jack wonder how she knew all of these people by sight. The procession to him wasn’t quite as haphazard as it appeared. The ambassadors representing countries whose heads had chosen not to make the trip held back,
171
but even those, standing about in little knots of associates and sipping at their Perrier-with-a-twist, didn’t hide their professional curiosity, checking out the new President and the way he greeted the men and women who came up to him.
“The Prime Minister of Belgium, M. Arnaud,” the protocol officer whispered. The official photographer started clicking away to record every official greeting, and two TV cameras were doing the same, albeit more quietly.
“Your telegram was very gracious, Mr. Prime Minister, and it came at a sensitive moment,” Ryan said, wondering if the truth sounded good enough, wondering if Arnaud had even read it–well, of course he had, though he probably hadn’t drafted it.
“Your talk to the children was very moving. I’m sure everyone here thinks the same,” the P.M. replied, gripping Ryan’s hand, testing it for firmness, looking hard and deep into his eyes, and rather pleased with himself for the very skilled mendacity of his greeting. For all that, he had read the telegram and pronounced it fitting, and was gratified at hearing Ryan’s reaction to it. Belgium was an ally, and Arnaud had been well briefed by the chief of his country’s military-intelligence service, who’d worked with Ryan at several NATO conferences, and always liked the American’s read on the Soviets–and now, the Russians. An unknown quantity as a political leader, the gist of the briefing had been, but a bright and capable analyst. Arnaud did his own reading now, first in line mainly by accident, by grip and look and many years of experience in such things. Then he moved on.
“Dr. Ryan, I have heard so much about you.” He kissed her hand in a very graceful Continental way. He hadn’t been told how attractive the new First Lady was, and how dainty her hands were. Well, she was a surgeon, wasn’t she? New to the game and uncomfortable with it, but playing along as she had to.
“Thank you, Prime Minister Arnaud,” Cathy replied, informed by her own protocol officer (this one was just behind her) who this gentleman was. The hand business, she thought, was very theatrical. . . but nice.
172
“Your children are angels.”
“How nice of you to say that.” And he moved on, to be replaced by the President of Mexico.
News cameras floated around the room, along with fifteen reporters, because this was a working function of sorts. The piano in the room’s northeast corner played some light classical–not quite what on the radio was called “easy listening,” but close.
“And how long have you known the President?” The question came from the Prime Minister of Kenya, pleased to find a black admiral in the room.
“We go back quite a ways, sir,” Robby Jackson replied.
“Robby! Excuse me, Admiral Jackson,” the Prince of Wales corrected himself.
“Captain.” Jackson shook his hand warmly. “It’s been a while, sir.”
“You two know–ah! Yes!” the Kenyan realized. Then he saw his counterpart from Tanzania and moved off to conduct business, leaving the two alone.
“How is he doing–really, I mean,” the Prince asked, vaguely saddening Jackson. But this man had a job. Sent over as a friend in what Robby knew to have been a political decision, he would, on his return to Her Britannic Majesty’s embassy, dictate a contact report. It was business. On the other hand, the question deserved an answer. The three of them had “served” together briefly one hot, stormy summer night.
“We had a short meeting with the acting chiefs a couple of days ago. There’ll be a working session tomorrow. Jack’11 be okay,” the J-3 decided he would say. He put some conviction behind it. He had to. Jack was now NCA–National Command Authority–and Jackson’s loyalty to him was a matter of law and honor, not mere humanity.
“And your wife?” He looked over to where Sissy Jackson was talking with Sally Ryan.
“Still number two piano for the National Symphony.”
“Who’s the lead?”
“Miklos Dimitri. Bigger hands,” Jackson explained. He decided it would be impolitic to ask any family questions of his own.
173
“You did well in the Pacific.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately we didn’t have to kill all that many people.” Jackson looked his almost-friend in the eye. “That really stopped being fun, y’know?”
“Can he handle the job, Robby? You know him better than I do.”
“Captain, he has to handle the job,” Jackson answered, looking over at his Commander-in-Chief-friend, and knowing how much Jack detested formal occasions. Watching his new President endure the circulating line, it was impossible to avoid thinking back. “Long way from teaching history at the Trade School, Your Highness,” the admiral observed in a whisper.
For Cathy Ryan, it was more than anything else an exercise in protecting her hand. Oddly she knew the formal occasion drill better than her husband. As a senior physician at Johns Hopkins’s Wilmer Ophthalmological Institute, she’d had to deal with numerous formal fund-raisers over the years, essentially a high-class version of begging– most of which occasions Jack had missed, often to her displeasure. So, here she was, again, meeting people she didn’t know, would never have the chance to like, and not one of whom would support her research programs.
“The Prime Minister of India,” her protocol officer said quietly.
“Hello.” The First Lady smiled her greeting, shook the hand, which was blessedly light.
“You must be very proud of your husband.”
“I’ve always been proud of Jack.” They were of the same height. The Prime Minister’s skin was swarthy, and she squinted her eyes behind her glasses, Cathy saw. She probably needed a prescription change, and she probably got headaches from her out-of-date one. Strange. They had some pretty good doctors in India. Not all of them came to America.
“And such lovely children,” she added.
“How nice of you to say that.” Cathy smiled again, in an automatic sort of way, to an observation that was as perfunctory as a comment on the clouds in the sky. A closer look at the woman’s eyes told Cathy something she didn’t like. She thinks she’s better than me. But why? Be-