“My mind?”
“I’m pulling a few things together. A suspicion not fully formed. Let me give it some time to gel.”
“By the time it gels, I’m going to be at a table in the White House without proper hair, shoes, or dress.” Bernadette studied him, then crossed her arms and glared. “You’re doing it again. Get that smirk off your face.”
“I—”
“And don’t try to sweet talk me with promises of fidelity and devotion. You’re going to be in trouble over this for a week.”
Ben decided to back off and let Bernadette organize her battle plan for the dinner. Besides, he really did need for his thoughts to gel. It was still a hunch, but it might explain why Hector Lopez was in the room before the meeting and why Ben had the floor for virtually the entire time.
Welcome to Washington, he thought, where even an invitation to dinner is fraught with intrigue.
But at the moment the intrigue was limited to the Coleman household, where Bernadette was walking quickly about the house, talking loudly about the situation at hand. Ben had learned early in their marriage not to speak to her at moments like this, even though her ravings were directed at him. She would pass it off as women often did, and prying would only bring him more grief.
Finally she wandered up the stairs, muttering something about what was in her inadequate wardrobe, and soon was out of earshot. Ben took this as his cue. He wandered into his den cum office and poured himself a bourbon. He heard the closet door slam from upstairs, picked up the decanter again and made it a double. Then he settled in his recliner and used the remote to turn on CNBC World.
On the flat screen, the Singapore-based anchor seemed more animated than usual. Ben watched with the sound off, his usual custom. He wanted to focus on the numbers in the Hot Box, the stock, bond, and currency prices from around the world. The numbers finally scrolled to the Shanghai market open, and it was down over three percent.
News of the riots, Ben thought. They’ve probably reached the trading floor in spite of the authorities’ best efforts to keep it quiet. He mused, I guess mass shootings in the nation’s capital are hard to keep quiet.
He turned the volume up to hear what the anchor was saying.
“The big story of the day is that Xinhua News Agency has confirmed rumors of a riot and army intervention to suppress it on Tuesday. The report said anti-social elements had tried to create trouble and were stopped by PLA troops. Xinhua did not report any specific number of casualties, but we understand from many sources on the ground that over eighty people are dead.”
Yeah, Ben thought. That would be enough to send Shanghai down three percent.
The screen switched to a real-time measure of the Shanghai losses. The numbers kept dropping. This is going to be interesting, Ben thought.
He picked up the phone to call George Steinway. “Hey, turn on CNBC World. Shanghai is down almost four percent. Xinhua has confirmed the riot I was in. Now they’re in damage control mode.”
“Already there,” Steinway said. “I don’t know how long they’re going to let this go on.”
After some time, the numbers on the screen stopped falling and reversed direction. Within ten minutes, the decline had been reduced to one and a half percent.
“George, did you see that? Their government’s obviously trying a price-keeping operation.” But the rise seemed half-hearted at best. Eventually the market began to drop once more. “The smart money is betting they won’t be able to hold it today and decided to pocket what the government just spent by selling at the temporary high price.”
For a couple of minutes there seemed to be a classic standoff between the bulls and the bears. The bears finally won. Now Shanghai was dropping like a stone.
“That didn’t work.”
“More trouble,” said Steinway. “Can’t say I’m sad to see it.”
“Let’s see what their next trick is.”
By the time of the hour-long lunch break in Shanghai, the market was down almost eight percent.
“Now comes the die roll,” Ben said, “to see if they can revive things when people come back from lunch.”
He soon got his answer. CNBC’s correspondent in Shanghai burst onto the screen.
“It has just been reported that an electrical fire has broken out in the room where the main server for the exchange is located. Exchange spokesmen reported that they are working hard to fix the damage, but caution that it may be possible that trading will not resume in the afternoon.”
Steinway’s voice came over the speaker. “Ha! No one is ever going to believe that.”
“Spontaneous combustion,” said Ben. “Some red ink got too close to a stack of sell forms. But when an exchange is closed, it’s closed. The big question is going to be, what happens when they reopen on Monday?”
Bernadette entered the room carrying two of her classic black dresses—one that showed everything off in the best way possible and another, more modest wrap.
“Which one?”
“Honey, you know I’d love to see you all night long in the short one. But a visit to the residence requires a bit more modesty. I don’t want to be distracted, and I don’t want the President staring as well. I know that he and Cynthia are devoted but no adult male can keep from staring when you wear The Sure Thing.”
“Okay,” Bernadette said. “I’m doing this one for you. But don’t think for a minute that you’re forgiven for the short notice. You’ll be making it up when I visit Tyson’s Galleria on Monday.”
Ben knew the shopping spree would easily run five figures. All he could do was hope for a low five figures. Then he heard a chuckle from his phone.
“Who is that?” Bernadette asked.
“George Steinway.”
She motioned to the phone and Ben put it on speaker. “Shame on you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Steinway said. “Your husband and I were following the antics on the Shanghai market and I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“That’s fine, George. I didn’t want to go shopping alone. I’m sure that Dora would be happy to accompany me.”
Steinway sighed, “I guess our bank accounts are both in for some punishment next week.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “But it’ll be worth the peace at home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
BERNADETTE WALKED ELEGANTLY INTO THE office of the Chairman.
“Mr. Chairman your date for the evening has arrived,” Peggy announced. Then, to Bernadette, “When did you have time to get ready? That dress is stunning.” Peggy loved it when Bernadette came to the office. The two had become good friends over the years, having bonded over their joint role of managing Ben Coleman.
“Ben isn’t one for giving lots of notice,” Bernadette replied, smoothing her dress down. “I had to pull this from my closet.”
“In his defense, I don’t think he had much notice either,” Peggy said.
Ben stepped through the door with his jacket slung over his shoulder. “You ladies talking about me again?” Then taking Bernadette in, he said, “Wow. I told you that you’d pull it together.”
“Tell me, Peggy, is he always this self-centered at the office?” Bernadette inquired. “I’d like to think I have him trained better than that.” Then she gave Ben a discreet peck on the cheek. “Looks like I have more work to do on that score.” Bernadette reached up to straighten Ben’s tie out of habit.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Coleman, he is always a gentleman.”
Hoping to take advantage of the moment and escape further scrutiny, Ben took her hand saying, “You look seriously ravishing. My male ego will be in full protective mode when you are in the presence of the President.”
“Assaulting the President is a serious offense,” she chided back. “Besides, I have a handsome stud to protect me.”
Peggy chuckled as Ben guided Bernadette to the elevator down to the garage. He knew when he was being managed but would never admit that, sometimes, he actually enjoyed it.
; It was only nine blocks to the East Executive Avenue entrance, so Ben knew he would have to talk fast. He said to his wife, “Hector Lopez was in the Oval before our meeting yesterday. Apparently only a few minutes. I’m suspicious and insanely jealous, of course, but we all know the CIA has been caught flat footed on China. Dinner in the residence is a very unusual thing. I mean, why not a slightly larger gathering downstairs? The State floor is much more impressive. This is something private.”
“Your synthesizing mind is working overtime, as is your imagination,” Bernadette reassured him. But she knew Ben was on to something. He always was. And while she could probe and analyze a situation from the bottom up, Ben was the expert at top down, pulling together seemingly unrelated facts and linking them, as if he had a view of all that was going on from 37,000 feet. It was one of the many things she admired about him.
The corridor through the East Wing was endless but surprisingly homey and inviting. The First Lady’s offices and Congressional Liaison were located behind the paneled walls on either side. This fed them into the receiving floor. Straight ahead was the path to the West Wing and the Oval Office. The Diplomatic Reception room, where heads of state entered, was to the left.
The guards motioned Ben and Bernadette up the stairs on the right to the State floor. The President and First Lady stood at the top in the great entrance hall of the White House. It was an ornate and surprisingly regal space for a country that prided itself on being a republic. The white banquettes accented in crimson and gold matched the walls. Ben and Bernadette walked across the highly polished Truman-era marble floor arm in arm. Bernadette made sure to take note of the skillfully crafted columns and detailed plaster ceilings and the warm light emanating from the pristine chandeliers, showcasing the overall beauty of James Hoban’s modified design.
“Ben, thank you so much for coming.” The President began the greetings welcoming Ben and Bernadette with open arms and a warm smile. “But you didn’t tell me how absolutely gorgeous your bride was. Where have you been keeping her?”
Bernadette said, “Mr. President, you are far too generous. Mrs. Turner, you are so kind to have us to your residence.”
“Where did you get that dress, Bernadette?” said the First Lady. “It is absolutely stunning.”
The black satin stood out against Bernadette’s red hair and green eyes to create a collage that would draw any man’s attention. It was a truly wonderful dress. It was plain but didn’t need embellishment. Perfectly tailored, the Queen Anne neckline and the simple sheath shape were exceptionally flattering on Bernadette. Finished with simple pearls and peep toe heels, it looked as though Bernadette had hardly tried.
“I can tell that you and I need to compare notes,” continued the First Lady. “I saw something similar in Vogue, but it wasn’t the right cut for me.”
“Mrs. Turner,” said Ben, “thank you so much for your kindness in that regard. The one thing I can’t stand is clothes shopping. Somehow, I always have something to do around the house when that happens, even if it is mowing the lawn or washing the car or something I haven’t done in years.”
All four laughed, then the President said, “Okay, folks, first it’s cocktails in the Red Room, then upstairs for dinner.” He extended his bent elbow toward Bernadette. “Mrs. Coleman, would you be kind enough to accompany me?” Ben did the same for the First Lady, thinking, This is turning into a best-of-friends evening. Turner must have something up his sleeve.
The charm offensive continued upstairs over an appetizer of a lobster and avocado timbale, during which the President used the opportunity to butter up Ben. “So, Mr. Chairman, do you know why I picked you?” He took a sip of his drink and looked at Ben over the rim of his glass. “Lots of people vied for your job. My political guys were against you because you advised my opponent during the primaries.”
“He was my college roommate,” Ben said.
The President waved away Ben’s objection. “In politics, if you’re explaining it means you’re losing. I never said that Milquetoast Michael didn’t have good taste in the people he surrounded himself with. That had nothing to do with it. The man just didn’t have the temperament for the job. A president has got to be tough.”
Ben couldn’t argue with the sobriquet that Turner had used to great effect in the primaries. Michael St. Louis was a bit of a wimp. Nice guy. Very smart. And he was actually pretty tough emotionally. It just didn’t come through in the campaign where visual imagery was key. Most interpersonal communication is nonverbal, and Mike sent the wrong cues.
“Ben, dozens of people come through my door every day of the week. I’ve come to appreciate that each and every one of them thinks they are supposed to tell me what they think I want to hear. It’s always, ‘Yes, Mr. President,’ ‘You’re so right about that, Mr. President,’ ‘That was a great point, Mr. President.’ Nothing ever seems to go wrong on my watch—at least not that they want to tell me about.
“We’ve met maybe a dozen times—when I interviewed you and in the four months you’ve been on the job. You’ve never flattered me once. Never been rude either. It’s always been the facts, and you never sugarcoat those. Nearly everyone calls you a pessimist because you always seem to bring bad news. But you invariably turn out to be spot on.”
“Well, sir, it is the dismal science.”
Turner turned to Ben’s wife. “Tell me, how did Mr. Never Flatter Never Cheerful ever catch you? Please tell me he at least tried to properly court you. His style isn’t one that’s going to get a girl to jump in the sack.”
“Will, really.” Cynthia gave the President a withering stare.
“Actually, Mr. President, he was not a shameless flatterer.” Bernadette thought back to The Music Man. “He’s quite matter-of-fact and to the point. To a fault, I might say. It’s actually quite seductive after the initial shock. Women know what men are after, so they tend to discount the flattery as much as they enjoy it. When a woman instinctively knows the man is interested but doesn’t get what you call ‘the full court press’ the gentleman suddenly becomes more interesting. The chase is no longer one way and often the lady likes that challenge. At least I did.” Bernadette gave Ben a knowing wink that signaled to both the President and the First Lady that they were still very much in love.
“Now, I am really impressed.” The President signaled to the staff to bring on the main course. It was also a signal that the direction of the flattery was about to change. As dinner was presented on White House china by silent and efficient staff, Ben took in the exquisite food beautifully arranged on his plate.
“Mrs. Coleman,” the President finally said, “may I call you Bernadette?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Bernadette, you are a most remarkable woman. I know Ben obviously thinks so and he is a very discerning man. But your reputation precedes you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir. I am just a simple Virginia housewife. And loving every minute of it.”
“A simple Virginia housewife? You are far too modest. How many of your peers have had seven bestselling novels—Edmund Whitehall?”
Bernadette gave a modest smile. “Mr. President, you are remarkably well informed.”
“It is a president’s job to be well informed. Which means I know of your other alias as well. Dare I call you Red Ninja?” The President and the First Lady studied Bernadette to gauge her reaction.
Her background equipped her to keep her shock well hidden. She smiled demurely. “Mr. President, I have already agreed to have you call me ‘Bernadette’ instead of ‘Mrs. Coleman.’ Perhaps we should stick to that.”
“My husband obviously lacks Ben’s grace and finesse,” said the First Lady. “I do hope you will forgive him. But it is a bit of a habit. Directness was the key to his success in business, and he has managed to carry that over into politics. I assure you he meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Bernadette said. “Each individual has his or her own interpersonal strategies.”
The President had used flattery on Ben, but directness with her. Bernadette found that strange but was intrigued to see where it led. She remembered Ben’s synthesizing mind had warned her about what might follow and realized that Willard Turner was doing something not all that different from what Ben had done on their third date. Perhaps she had underestimated him; he was not the monochrome alpha male boor and bully that the media painted him out to be.
“Now that Cynthia has let the cat out of the bag regarding my style, I will be very direct.” The President deliberately placed his fork on the side of his plate. “Hector Lopez briefed me thoroughly on your resume and said that, when it comes to understanding China, you are the best. Present tense. No one has come close to you in terms of skill.
“You know, I actually read Dragon’s Heart. And I loved it—it was all so real. Then Lopez explained your little arrangement with MI6. You’re still on top of things through your novels even though you technically haven’t been in the business in the eight years since you left. Fortunately, our ‘special arrangement’ makes us privy to what you’re up to.”
Not everything, Bernadette thought. One piece of disinformation was aimed at sending the CIA looking in the wrong spot for who had bugged the Secretary of State’s phone several decades back. MI6 correctly thought that the man was too close to some not-so-nice people in the IRA and arranged the tap. So Edmund Whitehall spilled it all out plainly in one of his books—it was the Cubans. The CIA fell for it. Discovering the truth would not have been so good for the ‘special relationship’ of which the President had spoken so fondly. She kept few secrets from Ben, but out of necessity that was one.
“I am so glad to be of service to the cause of freedom,” Bernadette said deliberately, not differentiating between her native country or her newly adopted home.
“I’m glad you feel that way.” The President was about to drive his evening’s agenda through the door she had just opened. “I am sure you’re aware of what your husband has been up to over the last twenty-four hours or so. The Chinese are going to do their best to upset the global financial system. We know that their goal is to topple the dollar from its status as the world’s key currency.
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