The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  He may have had a reputation as a “pussy thief” and Don Juan, but, so far, his obvious assets and conversational talents hadn’t brought him as close to Doggie as he would have liked. Of course she wasn’t impervious to his charms and enjoyed his company, but there was still a ways to go before he could expect to get her into bed.

  When she’d started running into him again at Harvard, she decided that at some point they’d get serious, and that’s how she still felt. In the meantime, a pretty girl like her had no problem finding guys to have sex with. She was saving Wesley for later.

  She rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. The twenty minutes she’d been sleeping seemed like days. She looked towards the front of the bus and was pleased to see how well Wesley was handling the journalists’ different versions of the same five questions they’d been asking for weeks.

  She enjoyed watching him in action, just seeing his lips move.

  Yes, he was saying to them, he could confirm that Bruce Jansen was more than satisfied with his opponents’ and the incumbent president’s falling popularity and that his nomination as Democratic presidential candidate now seemed a sure thing, and that, by the way, he could also confirm that Mimi Todd Jansen was pregnant.

  Doggie sat up so abruptly, she almost banged her head on the ceiling of the bus. All the reporters started babbling at once. What was it Wesley had just said? Was Mimi Jansen pregnant?! This was the news flash of the year! One could almost hear all the pens scratching frantically away on notepads. When was the blessed event? Was it 100 percent certain? How long had it been known? What did Senator Jansen have to say about the prospect of becoming a father at the age of fifty-five? Wasn’t it a rather frightening proposition? Had the child’s sex been determined?

  All questions about lobbyism and subsidies for agriculture and why certain states in the Southwest hadn’t embraced Jansen’s campaign were immediately forgotten. Mimi Todd Jansen was pregnant! This meant that if Jansen won—and this latest news bombshell would doubtlessly increase his chances even more—there would once again be the patter of tiny feet in the White House, for the first time since JFK. The entire assembled news media was enraptured.

  John Bugatti pushed his way to the back of the bus with a strange smile spread over his face. Sleepily, Doggie smiled back.

  “Doggie, goddammit! Why haven’t you told me?”

  She shook her head and he understood. This was news to her as well, it really was.

  * * *

  —

  The next day it was on the front page of all the newspapers. The Washington Post printed an in-depth analysis of what the big event would mean for the new administration’s social and family-related policies, and USA Today even printed a manipulated photo of Mimi Jansen with a baby already in her arms. Now everyone was assuming Bruce Jansen would win; his ratings were rising in even the most belligerent states, including the incumbent president’s own home state of Texas.

  In short, Mimi Todd Jansen’s pregnancy was the biggest PR scoop one could ask for, both for Bruce Jansen’s campaign and the media. She was the personification of the perfect first lady, and she’d taken Caroll Jansen’s place not only with humility, but also with an authority one usually saw only from seasoned politicians.

  People could sense something special about Mimi Todd from the moment she and Jansen announced their love for each other publicly. She looked everyone in the eye and gave straight answers to all questions—including those relating to her past as a peace activist during the first Gulf War—and the journalists loved her for it. Mimi Todd was a true American, a pioneer who wasn’t afraid of anything. Countless columns were written about her. Thanks to the media, the entire country knew she’d completed her graduate studies in economics at NYU at the top of her class and had wept in public on a visit to a hospice in Salem, Massachusetts. And who didn’t remember her spectacular national TV debut where, as the new wife of a very wealthy senator, she’d been asked about her many pronounced social and political views? She’d personally chosen the interview to be held on the front steps of a shelter for the homeless in Anacostia, DC’s number one hell on earth, a decision that seemed doomed to failure. Mimi Todd had looked totally out of place in her expensive clothes, and a bunch of young men had lost no time heckling her for trying to capitalize on their poverty. This had upset her, it was clear to see, but instead of calling off or postponing the interview—and in spite of warnings from the camera crews—she’d descended the stairs and mingled with the crowd, talking with them until they’d settled down. Then she’d climbed the steps again and gave a speech about how people should live together and respect one another, and the way she did it was breathtaking. The silence was so complete afterwards that even the journalists were quiet—as the cameras kept rolling. No doubt about it: This was one high-caliber lady.

  And now she was pregnant besides. Beautiful, neither too young nor too old, and with nothing about her present or past that might discredit her or her husband.

  No wonder the media was going wild.

  * * *

  —

  Doggie’s father called the following morning, sorry and embarrassed about their last phone conversation, and willing to do anything to repair their relationship.

  Doggie was skeptical as to his true motives. Bruce Jansen had just won overwhelmingly in the Pennsylvania Democratic primaries, and now it was Virginia’s turn. This was where Doggie had lived most of her life and also where her father’s classy hotel chain had gradually become well established, so it was far from unthinkable that he was cooking something up for the occasion.

  Hesitantly she accepted his peace offerings and agreed to meet him at the Splendor Resort and Conference Center, the largest of his establishments on the Virginia coast and the absolute most beautifully renovated hotel in Virginia Beach. They were to meet the following day, which suited Doggie perfectly, since it was her day off and she could stand being spoiled a bit by her daddy. Months of countless nights in random hotels and numerous attempts to sleep on the campaign bus had taken a toll on her. Now it would be radically different: When you were Bud Curtis’s daughter, you slept in a five-star hotel in a luxury suite with salmon-colored furniture of Scandinavian design. She could already feel the delicious sensation of being immersed in a nice, steaming bubble bath.

  So what if her father had some hidden agenda? He always had one, anyway, and besides, in the end, she did love her old man.

  * * *

  —

  He wasn’t at the hotel when she arrived. Instead, Toby O’Neill was waiting out in front like some kind of weird watchdog. Doggie had never really been able to understand why her father had this oddball working for him. His behavior was repellent, and his ill-fitting, worn-out, tasteless clothes made him look like a bum, especially in these luxurious surroundings.

  He scuttled up the marble stairs with her suitcase and shoved the doorman aside so he could hold the door for her himself—an act more pathetic than touching.

  “Nice to have you home again, Miss Curtis,” he said.

  “Rogers, dammit! My name’s been Rogers ever since my parents got divorced. Remember that, Toby!”

  “Beg pardon, Miss Rogers. It’s nice you’re home again.”

  She noticed how he struggled and sweated, getting her suitcase over to the elevator. He was a simple soul who’d been at the mercy of life’s ups and especially its downs—ending as a prisoner of his own shortcomings. She shook her head. Yes, it was nice that there were people in the world who looked after people like him; that was one good thing she’d always been able to say about her father. But, his streak of kindness aside, she didn’t much appreciate her father’s welcoming committee. She’d expected to be greeted by her father himself, or no one.

  She turned away from O’Neill to take a look around. A lot had happened since she’d last been there. The lobby had undergone an impressive renovation. Cozy nooks of fine har
dwood furniture, marble floors and columns, plenty of brass and flower arrangements, and subdued lighting, even in daytime. Discreet signs clearly pointed the way to the conference and meeting rooms, the restaurants, restrooms, and other facilities, as well as the fitness center. There were smiling, smartly uniformed personnel everywhere, ready to serve at a glance.

  Pretty amazing, she thought, and she noticed the feeling of pride growing inside her until she spied a twelve-foot-high fiberglass copy of the Statue of Liberty, flanked by a gigantic gilded vase full of severed branches of blooming cherry blossoms, the size of the tree itself. These huge, gaudy ornaments were so out of place that it seemed to be a deliberate sabotaging of the architect’s intentions. She shook her head again. How typical of her father. He’d grown up in a puritanical home where the only decoration had been a set of old buffalo horns and a picture of J. Edgar Hoover. He’d been overcompensating ever since.

  She read the sign leaning against the vase: PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 2009–2013—MAY THE BEST MAN WIN!

  How tasteless could one get?

  * * *

  —

  After a couple of hours’ sleep, she stepped onto the balcony and looked out over the Atlantic Ocean before heading back downstairs—fresh, well rested, and in good shape for whatever her father might have in store.

  It was easy to tell Bud Curtis was a man who demanded attention, the way he strode towards her across the lobby.

  “My lovely young lady,” he trumpeted, still ten yards away. He pulled Doggie close, and she let him. She loved these fleeting moments: the security, the warmth, and an authentic sense of love. In spite of everything, he’d always been good at that.

  They sat down and talked about the renovation of the hotel, about how beautiful the restaurant looked without the faded lilac carpets, and about how much it all had cost. Her father was clearly proud, and for good reason: fifteen hotels and they all turned a good profit. Now he wanted to expand his chain of Splendor hotels to include the West Coast, he said, and nodded to himself as he thought for a moment. Yes, the investors were going to sit up and take notice.

  Here it comes, thought Doggie. So he was looking for investors, was he?

  “So that’s it!” she said. “Is that what I’m here for?”

  Her father ignored the question and nodded greetings to random guests.

  His plan was becoming clear to her. “You want to have Bruce Jansen stay here when he kicks off the state primary the day after tomorrow, am I right?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “Then nothing.”

  “What?! Come on, say it!”

  “I’d like you to help me get him to come to celebrate his election victory in November and stay here. Wouldn’t that be great, Doggie?” He tilted his head coyly to the side, but it didn’t work on his daughter. Not anymore.

  “You’re out of your mind!” she gasped. “And why are you talking like he’s already won? He has to be nominated at the convention first, doesn’t he? And then he has to beat a pretty popular president’s little brother, remember? And you—the most far-right, reactionary Republican in the country—how can you suggest something like this? You’d rather break an arm than see Jansen become president, I know you would.”

  Her father smiled. “Is it possible you haven’t noticed that your hero’s popularity is spreading across the country like wildfire? Him and his pretty wife and that work of the devil, brewing in her belly? No, my dear,” he cooed, “even if he’s a Democrat, he’s my man from now on!”

  She pushed back her chair, about to get up. “Keep your opportunism to yourself, do you mind?”

  “Hold on a second, Dorothy, and listen to me.”

  Here came the hard sell. He was even calling her Dorothy now.

  He leaned over the table and took her arm. “Jansen’s okay, Doggie. Yes, it’s true I don’t like his attitude, his politics, his looks, or his sickening method of reasoning, and see nothing but deception in his eyes. I don’t believe he’s a man you can trust. He’s a dormant volcano, but his wife’s enchanting and he’ll win because of her and because of fantastic campaign workers like you, my girl.” He patted her hand. “So he’s okay with me. If you say he’s your man, then he’s my man, too. The hell with all the rest.”

  This about-face was one for the books. “You must be crazy!” she exclaimed. “Do you really need publicity that bad? You’ve already piled up more money than you could ever use in a lifetime.”

  He laughed. “There’s also supposed to be something for you and your mother, isn’t there?”

  “Oh, come on, give me a break. You’re cooking up some kind of plan right now, and I don’t like it. And you shouldn’t get Mom involved in this, either. She’d be angry.” She pulled her hand away.

  “Take a look. Don’t I have a beautiful hotel here?” He flung out his arm and let it pan slowly across the room with its sumptuous crystal candelabras and exclusive clientele. He was still avoiding the issue, and she hated it.

  “Right here, in Senator Jansen’s own little commonwealth-by-the-sea. Can you think of a better or more relevant place to celebrate the fruition of all your great efforts? I’m simply saying I’m offering Jansen and his staff lodging for a week. Everything free of charge. It’s up to him. And the Secret Service, or whoever the hell protects him, can have free rein of the hotel. Can’t you see how it would be, Dorothy? The president-elect standing in the lobby on his own home turf, with the Statue of Liberty in the background, speaking to the whole world. What setting could be more fitting?”

  “Dad, you’re insane.” She looked at his funny smile and shook her head, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back. This was business and politics in a nutshell, and Doggie’s father cracked these kinds of nuts with his bare hands.

  Then he changed the subject—another of his specialties. “How’s your love life, dear? Anything happening?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. It was none of his business.

  “How’s it going with that guy Wesley you always used to talk about? Something going to happen soon with you two?”

  This time it was her turn to pat his hand. Aside from an overdeveloped business sense and questionable political views, her old man was okay.

  * * *

  —

  After their dinner together she swam a couple of lengths of the swimming pool and then sat on her balcony to let the breeze dry her hair. The stars were blinking in gentle, pulsing waves, and she’d drifted far away when the telephone rang. She reached for it lazily, sure that it was her father wanting her approval of his proposal. No, thanks, she’d say, no drinks at the bar for her. She’d promised to pass the invitation on to Thomas Sunderland—that should be enough. Right now she just wanted to be left in peace and go to bed.

  But, even though it was a voice she knew well, it wasn’t her father’s. Speak of the devil, it was Wesley Barefoot’s, and it definitely wasn’t routine procedure for him to contact her outside working hours.

  “Hello, Doggie. Am I interrupting something?”

  To her irritation, she noticed she was holding her breath.

  “Have you checked the poll figures today?” he continued.

  That wasn’t a very creative way to start the conversation. Of course she’d checked them. “No, I’m not going to Richmond this evening, if that’s what you’re fishing after,” she said. “I’m off work. I need some sleep. It can keep till tomorrow, can’t it? For once I’d like to—”

  A “whoa, now” cut her off. “I was in St. Luke’s Church in Smithfield today,” he said. “Isn’t that where sweet little Dorothy was baptized?”

  She frowned. Where in the world was he going with this?

  “Pretty impressive, seeing the oldest existing church in the United States. Gothic style, I believe.”

  She shook her head. “Wesley,
you were in St. Luke’s because Bruce and Mimi Jansen were married there. I heard they held a special evening mass to make the local TV stations happy, so don’t try and tell me you’re into Gothic architecture or care about where I was baptized. What do you take me for?”

  “But it made me think of you.”

  “Okay . . .” She put emphasis on the second syllable and fastened her eyes on one of the brightest stars. There was the sound of police sirens, growing slowly in the distance. In a weak moment like this, something was romantic about that, too.

  “I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Yes . . . ?” She waited a moment. “And . . . ?”

  She didn’t succeed in drawing him more out in the open, but it was enough for Doggie. They’d carry on for now, business as usual, working hard for the next half year on the primaries, the nomination, and the national election, and then it would be time to let him get a little more intimate. At least now she knew he was interested.

  * * *

  —

  She slept late the next day, letting the chambermaid knock in vain a couple of times before she was ready to face the world. Although it was a raw, cold day, she was planning to spend the rest of the morning sitting out on her mother’s veranda in Chesapeake with her boots up on the railing. She was planning on the two of them wrapping themselves up in old blankets and having a good laugh or two at her father’s expense, but Wesley called again before she got out of the hotel. He explained that Bruce Jansen and his entourage would be in Richmond before noon, and Doggie should be ready and waiting when they all met in the governor’s office in the state capitol building at one o’clock. Apparently, some kind of threat had been made against Jansen, and Sunderland wanted to gather the troops.