Page 37 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 33

The White House

I n his West Wing office, just a few steps from the Oval, Burton Pearce checks his desk clock.

Rachel Bernstein, chief of staff for the vice president, is ten minutes late.

Playing the game.

Sitting on Pearce’s desk is a framed photo of President-Elect Madeline Wright taking the oath of office.

Cole is holding the Jefferson Bible with a big, proud smile on his face.

Pearce is two rows back, behind the outgoing president.

He remembers how full his heart felt that day.

How far the three of them had come since they were Dartmouth undergrads living in a rickety off-campus student residence dreaming of the future.

His intercom buzzes.

“Yes?”

He hears the voice of his assistant, Pam Hitchcock.

“Ms. Bernstein is here.”

“Good,” he says.

“Wait exactly three minutes, then send her in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two can play this game, he thinks.

In fact, everybody in Washington plays this game.

Pearce picks up the framed photo.

Behind the chief justice is the newly sworn-in vice president, Ransom Faulkner.

And right over his shoulder is Rachel Bernstein.

Faulkner’s former campaign manager—and, as of that bright January morning, chief of staff—knew the powerful symbolism of clothing.

Bernstein had chosen a gray dress so dark, it looked like funereal black.

Burton turns the photo so it will be right in Bernstein’s face when she sits down.

Then he folds his hands and watches his clock.

Two minutes… three…

A quick knock.

Pam Hitchcock holds the door open as Bernstein storms through, wafting her expensive fragrance.

Her burgundy dress and matching manicure complement her shiny dark hair and flashing green eyes.

No question she’s an attractive woman—and an angry one.

“What is it, Burton?” she asks.

“I’ve got a legislative meeting in ten minutes.”

“It’ll wait,” says Pearce.

“Sit.”

Bernstein perches on the edge of a cushioned chair.

Pearce sees her glance at the photo.

It’s hard to miss. Point made.

In meetings like this, time is power.

And Pearce has all the time in the world.

He rocks back in his chair and puts his feet up on his desk.

“How’s the vice president today?”

Bernstein stares.

“You know I can’t—”

“Screw that HIPAA bullshit, Rachel. You know it doesn’t apply here. How is he?”

Pearce sees Bernstein’s cheeks flush.

She’s mad. But he knows she didn’t get this far without being able to control her temper.

“He’s holding his own,” she says curtly.

“The infection is better, but the chemo is debilitating. The next few weeks will be key.”

“They’re taking good care of him at Walter Reed? If there’s any problem, I can make a call—”

“Thanks,” says Bernstein.

“So can I.”

Pearce slides his feet off the desk and positions himself so that he and his guest are eye to eye.

“Rachel, I’ve heard that the vice president may be spreading baseless rumors that someone is trying to sabotage the president.”

Bernstein’s expression doesn’t shift.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Listen, Rachel. I remember the convention, how upset you were when your boss agreed to take the VP spot.”

“Agreed? I’d say he was forced.”

“Let’s play it this way,” says Pearce, his voice level and calm.

“All rumors, all remarks—whether they’re coming from the vice president’s hospital room or your office across the street—are to stop.”

“I don’t work for you,” says Bernstein.

“I didn’t say you did. But anything and everything that involves this administration belongs to me. I own it.”

“You don’t own me .”

“Maybe not. But I can make it hard for you to get your job done. So hard that you might start considering one of those lucrative offers you’re getting from the private sector.”

Bernstein is smiling now.

Pretty smile. Perfect teeth.

“Let’s play it this way,” she says softly.

“In my position, I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. And from what Vice President Faulkner has said in the hospital, I know that you and the president are working on a legislative deal that’s highly compartmentalized. I know it involves entitlements. I know enough to put some activist bloggers on the case. With the right poke, the whole thing will pop like a balloon. So stop threatening me. It makes you look small.”

Pearce digs the fingernails of his right hand into his left palm.

A trick for managing his anger.

“We’re done here,” he says.

“Go to your meeting.”

Bernstein picks up the inauguration photo.

She turns it around so it faces Pearce again.

“I like this office, Burton,” she says, standing up and smoothing her dress over her hips.

“And I’ll do what I have to do to make it mine.”