Even with Secretary Robinson giving the orders, the symbolism of Isabel flying in the President’s personal helicopter and then on one of the two presidential planes, as well as her being escorted by C-5s and protected by AWACS, F-15s and F-16s—while President Foster remained incommunicado for the second day running—was torturing an incredulous media and an increasingly jittery public.
Before boarding the chopper, Robinson and Bentley had fronted the media swarm outside the hospital. They repeated the lines they’d started parroting the prior afternoon: that because President Foster was physically weak after the debilitating asthma attack, even though he was fully competent and definitely in charge, the White House Physician had confined him to bed rest ahead of his State of the Union Address, due that evening. And yes, they had spoken to him personally.
That two such respected men, who were also known to be his personal friends, were standing side-by-side saying this so unflinchingly placated many people watching, but there were enough rumblings around the country to keep the nation on edge… that the President was dead… he was seriously incapacitated… there’d been a coup.
The hardcore conspiracy theorists were having a field day.
74
THE JOINT SESSION of the two Houses of Congress was scheduled for 8:30 PM, with the State of the Union Address being broadcast at nine. This time every network, not just C-Span and the news channels, was scrabbling to take the feed live. Tonight, virtually every eye in the nation would be glued to a TV screen.
In the corridor, just before she entered the Hall of the House of Representatives, Isabel sighed, “And now for the public hanging.” Marcus Bentley hoped he knew what she meant, but after what was to follow they were words he would scarcely ever forget.
Ed went to take her wrist, her undamaged left one, to wish her luck but, so noticeably that even Secretary Robinson flinched, she shook him off. So far, she’d barely said anything to Ed, and certainly nothing about his affair or, for that matter, the President.
Ed’s fingers had felt like sandpaper against her skin, and as his hand dropped away, she noticed flesh-coloured pads covering a couple of his fingertips.
“What’re those?” she whispered, trying not to move her lips, aware that Davey wouldn’t be the only one able to read them this time; there were no press or cameras permitted in the corridor, but it was abuzz with staffers, the Secret Service and the Capitol’s own police.
“A couple of warts,” Ed shrugged, leaning into her ear. “Got ’em burnt off.”
Isabel didn’t recall him having any warts recently, but didn’t think about them further after a nod from the Sergeant at Arms signalled her to follow him in, leaving Ed and Davey with the two Cabinet Secretaries.
Bert pointed out the correct door for Ed and Davey to wait at, and he and Marcus turned, heading for the anteroom where the Cabinet was assembling.
CARRYING the traditional mace, the Sergeant at Arms walked slowly down the aisle to the rostrum. As Isabel limped behind him, the Hall kept an embarrassed silence, no one confident enough of the circumstances to lead any applause. Her cane was its own mace of sorts, reminding some of the now almost folkloric day she hobbled into George and Annette Hicks’ diner. When her eyes located George up in the public gallery, the old guy, genetically contemptuous of convention, leapt to his feet and started to clap. His outburst seemed to trigger an electric shock through everyone’s seats at the same moment and they all stood to follow him, though their applause was hesitant, unsure.
Isabel cracked a wrinkled smile, as genial as she was able given her stitches, and pushed on down the aisle until she stood unsteadily to the side of the podium.
The applause thickened, and with small, precise steps, Isabel cut a slow pivot to face the chamber simultaneously scanning over the faces while the hundreds of Representatives, those cramming the press and public galleries, and the millions more in the TV audience, all scanned her and stared back in shock.
She knew she wasn’t the pretty sight they’d got comfortable with during the campaign but she’d scrubbed up well enough: a gifted makeup artist had plastered over her facial bruises, though her stitches were there for all to see, and she was stuck with her right arm bent in its sling and her left having to lean on a gnarled oak cane. There was nothing she could do about any of that, but to her, even making it to stand here tonight was an extraordinary feat.
As the ovation clattered on, she turned and, with her back to the chamber and the cameras, she slowly climbed step-by-painful-step to the top tier of the rostrum where eventually she slumped into the Speaker’s red leather chair.