Oliver was staring at him. “Jesus! You had this all planned? What if Leslie won’t—what if she’s not interested? If she refuses to go?”
Senator Davis rose. “She’s interested. She’ll go. I’ll see you Monday, Oliver. Good luck.”
Oliver sat there for a long time. And he thought: No. I can’t do this to her again. I won’t.
That evening as they were getting dressed for dinner, Jan said, “Oliver, Father asked me to go to Florida with him for the weekend. He’s getting some kind of award, and I think he wants to show off the president’s wife. Would you mind very much if I went? I know there’s a State Department dinner here Friday, so if you want me to stay…”
“No, no. You go ahead. I’ll miss you.” And I am going to miss her, he thought. As soon as I solve this problem with Leslie, I’m going to start spending more time with Jan.
Leslie was on the telephone when her secretary came hurrying in. “Miss Stewart—”
“Can’t you see I’m—”
“President Russell is on line three.”
Leslie looked at her a moment, then smiled. “Right.” She said into the phone, “I’ll call you back.”
She pressed the button on line three. “Hello.”
“Leslie?”
“Hello, Oliver. Or should I call you Mr. President?”
“You can call me anything you like.” He added lightly, “And have.” There was a silence. “Leslie, I want to see you.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I’m very sure.”
“You’re the president. I can’t say no to you, can I?”
“Not if you’re a patriotic American. There’s a State Department dinner at the White House Friday night. Please come.”
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“All right. I’ll be there.”
She looked stunning in a long, clinging black knit Mandarin-necked St. John gown fastened in front with buttons over-coated in twenty-two-karat gold. There was a revealing fourteen-inch slit on the left side of the dress.
The instant Oliver looked at her, memories came flooding back. “Leslie…”
“Mr. President.”
He took her hand, and it was moist. It’s a sign, Oliver thought. But of what? Nervousness? Anger? Old memories?
“I’m so glad you came, Leslie.”
“Yes. I am, too.”
“We’ll talk later.”
Her smile warmed him. “Yes.”
Two tables away from where Oliver was seated was a group of Arab diplomats. One of them, a swarthy man with sharply etched features and dark eyes, seemed to be staring intently at Oliver.
Oliver leaned over to Peter Tager and nodded toward the Arab. “Who’s that?”
Tager took a quick look. “Ali al-Fulani. He’s the secretary at one of the United Arab Emirates. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Oliver looked again. The man’s eyes were still focused on him.
Oliver spent the evening working the room, making his guests feel comfortable. Sylva was at one table, Leslie at another. It was not until the evening was almost over that Oliver managed to get Leslie alone for a moment.
“We need to talk. I have a lot to tell you. Can we meet somewhere?”
There was the faintest hesitation in her voice. “Oliver, perhaps it would be better if we didn’t—”
“I have a house in Manassas, Virginia, about an hour out of Washington. Will you meet me there?”
She looked into his eyes. This time there was no hesitation. “If you want me to.”
Oliver described the location of the house. “Tomorrow night at eight?”
Leslie’s voice was husky. “I’ll be there.”
At a National Security Council meeting the following morning, Director of Central Intelligence James Frisch dropped a bombshell.
“Mr. President, we received word this morning that Libya is buying a variety of atomic weapons from Iran and China. There’s a strong rumor that they’re going to be used to attack Israel. It will take a day or two to get a confirmation.”
Lou Werner, the secretary of state, said, “I don’t think we should wait. Let’s protest now, in the strongest possible terms.”
Oliver said to Werner, “See what additional information you can get.”
The meeting lasted all morning. From time to time, Oliver found himself thinking about the rendezvous with Leslie. “Charm her, my boy… You’ve got to win her over.”