Millikan extended his hand to Hennessey, grinning broadly. Hennessey looked taut and grim and tired, like a man walking into a hospital for prostate surgery. But he shook Millikan’s hand firmly and, as an afterthought, patted Millikan on the back, as if to say, “You got me this time.” Inside the van everyone exhaled.
They climbed out of the van one by one. Millikan was still making small talk with Hennessey; he had positioned himself so that he could look over Hennessey’s shoulder and watch them emerge. He ignored all of them except for Betsy. When he zeroed in on Betsy’s face, he nodded to himself, as if mentally checking an item off a checklist. “Welcome to Kennebunkport, Ms. Vandeventer,” he said. Betsy did not think that he sounded terribly sincere.
A White House aide, a perky young woman who seemed out of place around all of these saturnine spooks and burly machine-gun-toting guards, stepped toward Betsy holding a White House blazer, extra large. She introduced herself—Betsy forgot her name instantly—and explained, “You’re coming to dinner tonight, and you have to look like a staffer. Care to try this on for size?”
Betsy tried it on. It fit perfectly. She was glad to have it; late afternoon above the ocean in Maine was much cooler than running toward National Airport at midday carrying heavy bags.
A government sedan awaited. Millikan stepped toward Betsy. She almost flinched, half expecting him to sock her in the jaw, but instead he offered her his arm and nodded significantly toward the car.
She took Millikan’s arm and looked back at Spector, who saluted her and said, “Bon appétit.” It was clear that the rest of the new arrivals were going to be dining on the Colonel’s Best Extra Crispy Chicken, with gravy and biscuits.
Millikan continued to be the very picture of refined manners during the brief drive to the house. He was in an expansive and jovial mood. “The President, as you well know, likes raw intelligence. He has great respect for the analytical branch of the business and wants to meet you. But you should not misinterpret this.” Millikan held up one finger and shook it in a gentle and self-mocking way. “This is a social event—not an opportunity for you to circumvent the system. You are to keep substantive conversation to a minimum. You’ve been named part of the working group on nonconventional warfare—a signal honor. That group is a team, and I am the leader of that team—everything important goes through me. Do you understand?”
Betsy, still remembering the abuse that Millikan had showered on her, nodded her head and said nothing.
“You bypassed me once, but you’ll never do that again. Do you understand?”
Betsy said nothing. The car pulled up to the residential compound; Marines opened the doors.
“Remember,” Millikan said, “as long as we are out-of-doors, you are a White House staffer.”
Marlin Fitzwater was giving a briefing to the press. Off to the side the first lady was entertaining some kids with Millie tricks. A tall man with a high forehead was poking around in a large net bag of life preservers and other boat stuff. He straightened up, mumbling, “Well, I thought I’d put the darn things in here, but I’ll be goddamned if I know where they went.” He focused on Millikan. “Oh, howdy, Jim. And good evening, Betsy. What say we go for a run in the boat?”
Betsy could sense Millikan tensing up.
“Ha, ha!” the tall man said. “I forgot Jim hates the water. He won’t admit it, but he does. You can stay home, Jim. Bar’ll fix you a drink.”
“It’s quite all right,” Millikan said. “I’ll come with you and Ms. Vandeventer, Mr. President. I would just ask that you not try to make the boat flip over this time.”
On cue a White House staffer, a young man in a blue blazer, stepped out of the house and approached them. “Dr. Millikan? Telephone call for you, sir.”
Millikan glowered. It was clear, even to someone as new to Washington as Betsy, that all of this had been staged. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to take you up on your invitation, Mr. President. Enjoy the ride, Ms. Vandeventer.”
“You look like a large to me. Er, maybe a medium,” said George Herbert Walker Bush. He rummaged in his net bag and pulled out a couple of life jackets. “Try these on for size. We probably won’t need them, but”—anticipating the joke—“must be prudent.”
Bush and Betsy went down to the dock, where a small contingent of Coast Guard and Secret Service waited next to the President’s Cigarette boat. “Bet you didn’t have anything like this in Iowa,” Bush said.
“Idaho,” Betsy blurted before she realized what she was doing. But Bush seemed easygoing, not the type who would mind being corrected. She was so embarrassed that the next sentence came out in a tumble. “Hell’s Canyon—jet boats. They have them there. Big jet boats in the canyon.”