The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Bugatti didn’t see the helicopter until its propeller swept away the snow on the beach beneath it. A series of floodlights were trained on the blue-and-white machine, giving it a silvery glimmer. It had the makings of a big event. In a few seconds the man who was likely the country’s next president would step out and receive this sea of humanity. At least a thousand local inhabitants had braved the weather and were standing in their overcoats, flailing their arms. Something like this had never happened before in these parts.

  Bruce Jansen stood in the helicopter’s hatchway with both arms in the air. He was the personification of a confident winner, and the people loved it. He practically danced down the little stairway, followed by a smiling Mimi Jansen with flushed cheeks and wearing a large faux fur coat that couldn’t conceal her highly advanced condition. She was enchanting.

  The reporters shoved their way forward, and Bugatti’s cameraman, Marvin Gallegos, was pushed aside two times. They all seemed determined to be the first to catch a comment by Jansen. Bugatti knew all about it.

  He gave his camera crew the sign to run around behind the mob and up the stairs into the hotel. The second camera team would have to handle the shots from outdoors. Bugatti knew Jansen wouldn’t linger out here in the darkness and cold. Why should he, when the lobby was floodlit like it was noontime? He’d photograph better inside.

  The welcoming committee was ready and waiting in the middle of the lounge. Besides the gray-and-black-clad security people, it consisted primarily of the incumbent governor of Virginia, the hotel’s owner, Bud Curtis, and behind them a cluster of delegates and their spouses. They all wore large badges bearing Jansen’s likeness.

  When the prominent guest had made his way into the lobby and brushed the snow out of his hair, he was welcomed by the hotel owner as heartily as if Jansen had been his long-lost brother. Curtis immediately ushered him towards the orchid arrangement and the copper-green Statue of Liberty, before which stood a podium draped with enormous gladioli.

  Jansen gave his wife a kiss and his campaign manager, Sunderland, a pat on the back, then jumped onto the podium with the agility of a high school kid. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried, and looked out over his audience as though he recognized each of them individually. “I have just this moment received the first state returns and can say with certainty that my worthy opponent, the governor of Florida, doesn’t have a chance of catching up. The fantastic American people have defied the weather gods. The turnout is estimated to be sixty percent in the west and almost the same in the east.” He raised his arms heavenward once more, and the crowd roared with enthusiasm. “The people’s verdict concerning the country’s future is crystal clear. At least sixty-five percent of those who voted have bestowed a sacred responsibility on me and my loyal team. I think it’s safe to say . . . victory is ours!”

  At this point the audience went wild. They threw whatever was at hand into the air and then, as if by magic, a blizzard of confetti descended from the ceiling like a ticker-tape parade on Broadway. Aside from being multicolored, it didn’t look much different from the snowstorm outside.

  “Sixty-five percent!” Bugatti muttered to himself. Here was a statistic that spoke for itself. This would give the Republican Party and the present government something to think about, by God! It was an unprecedented landslide victory, and he lifted his arms and howled as loud as he could, like everyone else in the room.

  Jansen was his man, too.

  * * *

  —

  Senator Bruce Jansen used the next couple of minutes to thank his opponent for a good and fair campaign and spread warm greetings around to his staff. Then he drew his wife up to him on the podium, waved to everybody, thanked God and the American people, said more kind words about his fallen opponent, and grinned for the glowing TV cameras.

  Then he made room for his spokesman, Wesley Barefoot, and stepped down into the flock of security people. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just heard the next president of the United States of America,” Wesley proclaimed, and gave a sign to John Bugatti. Now was the time, if he wanted an interview with Jansen. Bugatti, in turn, gave a sign to his cameraman.

  “We’ll say good-bye to Senator Jansen for the moment,” continued Barefoot. “Needless to say, his wife needs some rest, and the remaining election results have yet to come in. But we’ll be seeing more of our presidential-couple-to-be later tonight—that’s a promise. In the meantime, enjoy these lovely surroundings . . .”—he nodded his thanks to the hotel’s owner, Bud Curtis—“. . . and eat and drink and dance! The party’s just begun!”

  Bugatti and Marvin forced their way behind the mass of victory dancers and reached Jansen and his entourage just as Bud Curtis was ushering them through a side door, presumably a shortcut to the pressroom.

  Jansen saw Bugatti right away and reached to shake his hand. “Hey, John. Welcome!”

  “Congratulations, Mr. President,” answered Bugatti. “This is magnificent!”

  “You can call me president in a couple of months, John. Till then, we have to follow protocol.”

  Bugatti nodded to Jansen’s wife. She looked very tired close up. There was a nurse in uniform at her side, followed by a frigid-looking female doctor whose job it was to accompany Mrs. Jansen to the hospital if she went into labor, or assist the birth if there wasn’t time. Beside her walked Thomas Sunderland, who for once allowed himself a lavish smile, and behind them two huge bodyguards, one in gray and one in black, followed by all the VIP guests. Spearheading the prominent group was Bud Curtis in his tuxedo. All the extra security precautions seemed largely unnecessary, since Jansen’s personal security team and a couple of Secret Service agents had been booked into the hotel for days and by now must have known every nook and cranny of the enormous building.

  “Hey!” whispered a voice behind Bugatti. He turned around and saw Doggie edging her way towards him in her evening dress. She was looking radiant. “Nice evening, don’t you think?” She took his arm and squeezed it.

  They turned a corner and found themselves standing by a passageway that connected the narrow corridor they’d just left with the next section of the hotel. At least a hundred flags were hanging from the ceiling, and everyone raised their eyes. What an imposing setting for the president-elect. It was like an awe-inspiring archway. Bugatti glanced back at his cameraman and ascertained that the camera’s red light was already on. This was a unique scoop, and he could already hear the champagne corks popping in NBC’s boardroom.

  Curtis brought the group to a halt for a moment. “Ladies and gentlemen! As a small gesture to Bruce Jansen’s fantastic campaign and to his beautiful wife, we have arranged a modest unveiling!” Then he nodded to a slouched-over, skinny man in a red jacket who had been waiting with one of the gray-clad Secret Service men in front of a curtain of hanging banners.

  Bugatti felt Doggie flinch. She seemed a bit edgy. A pair of well-dressed security men was approaching the little man in the red jacket from different directions. One was short and blond-haired and wearing a gray suit; the other was a husky hunk in a black Armani suit and heavy gold bracelets. The man in gray stepped forward and searched the little man with lightning-quick movements. If only it were me they were frisking like that, thought Bugatti, forgetting all about Doggie’s sudden state of agitation.

  When the security agent was finished groping the man, Bud Curtis bid the guests step closer, gave a sign, and the little man pulled a cord so the banners fell away to reveal a painting that measured at least fifteen by fifteen feet. It depicted Senator Jansen and his beautiful wife standing before the White House. A beaming couple in front of a crass backdrop of sunshine, blossoming trees, and flittering birds, like out of a Disney movie. It was the worst “art” of this kind Bugatti had ever seen, outdoing a thousand lousy Norman Rockwell look-alikes.

  Still, everyone clapped and crowded closer, so the little man had to retreat to the side and back into t
he masses to avoid being crushed against the wall. Bugatti followed him with his eyes. He was so distinctly different and seemed out of place in these surroundings.

  At that moment Mimi Todd Jansen stepped forward to get a better look at the painting. In spite of her well-trained sense of propriety, it was clear from her expression that she’d seen art that was better. She gave a forced smile and exchanged a few words with Curtis, who nodded and smiled and then immediately worked his way through the crowd, disappearing through a side door. Senator Jansen was leading his pale wife by the arm towards the conference room where the interview was to take place, when a cry was heard.

  Bugatti’s eyes flew to the spot where it had come from and saw a mixture of hands and bodies, some trying to flee, some trying to get closer. Thomas Sunderland was one of those who Bugatti could see most clearly in the midst of the confusion. He looked horrified, standing stiffly as if someone had hit him, his tie out of place and one of his suit pockets inside out. The biggest of the black-suited security guards shoved past him. Then the little man who’d unveiled the painting took two steps towards Jansen and his wife and there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. It was then that Bugatti noticed the revolver in the man’s hand. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, and people began screaming and throwing themselves to the floor. More shots were heard, and the assailant’s brain matter splattered over the painting. Then Bugatti felt a stabbing pain in his side. The man next to him was clutching his midriff. They’d apparently both been hit by ricocheting bullets. The blinking TV camera lay on the floor next to him where his photographer had dropped it in the midst of the chaos. Bugatti watched fearfully as a bloodstain spread over his shirt below his arm. Doggie had let go of him and was screaming along with the others. Clutching his wound to stop the bleeding, he finally realized what had just happened.

  Security had pulled Senator Jansen to the floor, but nothing could conceal his horrified expression. Before him on the carpet lay his wife, gasping for breath with eyes open and wild, as a pool of blood formed around her. Her body was completely still.

  Then Bugatti felt the sharp pain again and sank to his knees.

  * * *

  —

  The hotel lobby was totally deserted except for security people, Bugatti, and his dazed cameraman. Bugatti was going on the air for the fourth time since Mimi Todd Jansen had been shot two hours previously. Both she and Senator Jansen had been brought quickly out of the fray, and in the meantime dozens of investigators from the FBI and Richmond’s homicide squad had been questioning everyone who’d been present in the corridor at the time of the attack. A specially trained team was thoroughly analyzing the hotel’s video surveillance tapes and the tape Bugatti gave them from the NBC transmission truck. At the same time, an army of technicians repeatedly scoured the narrow corridor for clues and photographed the brains on the wall plus every other detail in the festively decorated corridors and rooms.

  As it turned out, several people had been wounded by the ricocheting shots fired by security, but luckily, none of them seriously. Bugatti had already received stitches for the flesh wound in his lower back, and they’d given him more painkillers than he cared to think about.

  He listened to his producer over his earpiece. Although the voice was calm, the news was serious. For a moment he froze. Then, after several deep breaths, he nodded gravely to his cameraman, and the red light went on.

  “A few seconds ago the doctors at CJW Medical Center informed us that Mimi Todd Jansen has passed away.” He paused as he tried to look straight into the camera. “A great and prominent person has been robbed of her life in the most outrageous manner, and America is in shock. Two hours have passed since the attack, and at this moment, doctors at CJW Medical Center in Richmond are still fighting hard to save her child’s life. Due to the severity of the storm in the Virginia Beach area, the helicopter had to land south of Lanexa, and the rest of the trip was made by car via the I-64 to Chippenham Campus.” Now he was looking directly into the TV camera. “Let us hold a minute of silence to honor a great person who we never got the chance to know.”

  The minute felt like an eternity. People rushing through the lobby stopped when they saw the motionless, silent group around Bugatti.

  Finally, Bugatti’s producer told him to continue.

  He turned towards his monitor. “Is there any update from the hospital on the child’s condition, Erica?”

  An indistinct picture of his colleague Erica Nelson appeared on the screen. She was standing in front of the hospital, her breath steaming. “No, John, I’m afraid there’s no news. We know there’s hectic activity here on the third floor just now. The baby was delivered by caesarean in a ground-floor operating room, but I’ve been told the child’s been brought up to the intensive care unit.”

  “This could mean the baby is alive. Has there been a statement from any of the doctors, Erica?” Now there was a close-up of Erica Nelson. She looked numb with cold, and it was hard to see her face in detail for all the falling snow. Behind her loomed the blurred yet impressive buildings that housed Chippenham Campus, one of the country’s best hospitals. “Just a second, John . . .” For a moment she stared vacantly into the camera. “Okay, we’ve just been told that the chances of the baby surviving are very small. Even though the child wasn’t hit in the shooting, Mimi Todd Jansen lost a lot of blood, and it’s unfortunately quite probable that the baby won’t survive this trauma.”

  “What were the doctors doing with Mrs. Jansen on the way to Richmond, Erica? I assume they did everything they could.”

  She nodded. “Yes, John, there’s no doubt Mrs. Jansen received the proper emergency treatment. The question is whether the child did, too. We know they gave Mimi Jansen blood transfusions, but I haven’t received all the details yet.” She tilted her head a bit and adjusted her earpiece. Then she nodded a couple of times as her expression became still graver and, clearly moved, looked into the camera.

  “I regret having to say . . .” She stopped a moment to swallow. “I’ve just been told the child’s life couldn’t be saved. The delivery went well, but the baby was so weakened that death came after a few minutes.”

  Bugatti let her pull herself together for a moment. It was all incredibly sad, but it was also hair-raisingly good television.

  “I know it’s difficult, Erica, but I must ask you, anyway: Do we know the baby’s gender?”

  “Yes, it was . . . He was a boy. He was . . . He was . . .” She looked down and tried to continue but couldn’t.

  Over the earpiece, Bugatti’s producer told him to take over, but it was very, very hard.

  He took a deep breath. “We’ve just been faced with one of the most tragic incidents in our country’s history. At precisely the moment when Bruce Jansen has reached the greatest pinnacle of his career, he loses his wife and unborn child. A man’s life comes crashing down from one second to the next. A tragedy of unfathomable dimension has occurred.”

  * * *

  —

  The national election prognosis came a half hour later. Senator Jansen was the United States’ next president with an overwhelming majority, exactly as expected. This was supposed to be the moment of his life’s triumph, but no one knew where he was. Some guessed Chippenham Campus, others, his country home in Onancock. Some even said the White House.

  In any case, he was gone.

  Thomas Sunderland didn’t come on TV until 2:00 A.M., when he reported to the public that their new president was safe and in good health. That he hadn’t been hit by the gunman, but he’d hold off on a statement until he’d gotten over the first great shock. Then Sunderland thanked the American people for their support and bowed his head for Mimi Todd Jansen and her dead child.

  Despite the late hour, it was the most-watched television program in the country’s history. Bugatti was dead on his feet and could have done without making the final, concluding transmission, as his p
roducer ordered him to do. But he gave a friendly nod to the camera lens, as always.

  “Our thoughts are with President-Elect Bruce Jansen and Mimi Todd Jansen’s family. May God bless them all. The question is, what will happen now? The Constitution demands we have a president, but since there are two months until the swearing-in on January twentieth, a lot can happen in the meantime. Bruce Jansen has a decision to make. Can he take over the presidency under these circumstances, or will he hand over the reins to his vice president and former Democratic opponent, Michael K. Lerner? We know Mr. Lerner as a rather dry but reasonable and honorable lawyer who in many ways stood in the shadow of the party’s main candidate, and who the American public has seen as a serious person, if not particularly charismatic. Time will tell. There hasn’t been a president who has lived alone in the White House since the divorcé Woodrow Wilson in 1915. If Bruce Jansen accepts his calling, he’ll be the fifth widower-president, and the first in one hundred twenty years.” Bugatti held his breath a moment before he continued. “Besides these five presidents and Wilson, only the unmarried James Buchanan has lived alone in the White House. Buchanan was met by a land in grave conflict, on the verge of civil war. The inner conflicts Bruce Jansen is being confronted with at the present time must be just as brutal and dreadful to deal with. Therefore we all must send him our best wishes from the bottom of our hearts. May God give him strength!”