The uniformed Secret Service agent waved Landon Meyer through the northwest gate onto the White House grounds. Ten o’clock and Landon still hadn’t had dinner. CNN and other cable news reporters and their crews were packing up after filing their final stories for the night, all of them reporting on the same thing: the following day’s full Senate confirmation vote.
Landon had thought about calling Brandon during the drive from the Dirksen Building, but he decided he wasn’t in the mood for Brandon’s kind of glee, not with Senator Lightfoot’s death so heavy in his heart.
President Duncan and his chief of staff, Stuart Sheridan, both raised highball glasses toward Landon as he entered the president’s study. Duncan pointed at the buffet along the far wall where a silver tray bearing decanters of bourbon and Scotch lay next to a matching ice bucket and crystal glasses.
Landon shook his head and took the only unoccupied seat in the room, an upholstered wing chair set at one point of an equilateral triangle.
Duncan tilted his head toward Sheridan.
“The brain trust here says you’re ten points ahead of everybody else in New Hampshire, Republican or Democrat.”
Landon’s first thought wasn’t satisfaction. It was a question that had bothered him since he’d arrived in Washington: Why were taxpayers fronting the salary of a political operative like Sheridan?
“Give or take three percent,” Landon said.
Duncan smiled. “Ever the realist.”
“The Supreme Court nominations may have hurt me a little.”
“Americans have short memories. They’ll have forgotten about them in a month. But if they haven’t”-Duncan grinned-“just blame me. Everybody else does. And remember the old Nixon rule: Run to the right in the primary election and to the center in the general.” He laughed. “Not everybody can do a Bill Clinton or John McCain and run in all directions at once.”
Landon didn’t respond. It was exactly what Duncan had tried and failed at. The Supreme Court nominees were his last chance to save his presidency.
“It may help if you make yourself scarce for the swearing-in tomorrow afternoon,” Sheridan said. “A face in the crowd. Give yourself a little distance.”
Landon grasped what Sheridan was really saying: Let Duncan be seen alone planting the flag to mark his legacy.
“Won’t having the ceremony an hour after the vote seem a little rushed?” Landon said. “Maybe we should wait a day and make it look stately.”
“I want it to be more like a door slamming,” Duncan said. “You can do it your way when you live in this house.”
Landon’s peripheral vision caught Sheridan stir in his chair.
“I wanted to talk to you about the campaign,” Duncan said. “A deal is a deal.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“But instead of making some kind of explicit announcement, I’ll do it a little at a time. Each week the endorsement will get a little stronger. Sort of massage the base until it’s lined up behind you.”
“It’ll collapse if we move too quickly,” Sheridan said. “They like to see themselves as a voluntary army, not conscripts.”
Maybe a deal wasn’t a deal after all, Landon thought. It would be easy for political winds to blow away an endorsement written in sand. Impossible if it was etched in stone. He wondered what would be the quid pro quo that would bring out the chisel.
Duncan turned his body fully toward Landon. “I had a thought I’d like you to consider…”
The pause at the end of the sentence revealed Duncan’s timing at its best. It forced Landon to ask, “What’s that, Mr. President?”
“I’d like you to consider taking Sheridan on as an adviser in a couple of months. I’m the lamest of lame ducks, so there’s not much for him to do around here after tomorrow.”
Landon straightened. “I respect his abilities, Mr. President, but I’m not sure how that would play in the media.”
“That’s not a problem. His wife has been diagnosed with a medical problem. He can resign for family reasons.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Landon said, looking at Sheridan. “I hope it’s not serious.”
Sheridan shrugged. “She’ll get over it.”