Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

He eased into the bathroom, stuffed his pug nose inside Jack’s medicine cabinet, and began poking around. Nothing worth noting here, either-the normal array of shaving supplies, mouthwash, toothpaste, and a spare bottle of shampoo. The strongest medicine in the cabinet was a bottle of aspirin-unopened and two years past the expiration date.

They would continue the search for two more hours. Everything-every paper, every paper clip-would be put away just as they found it. They were pros. They would leave only two traces of their presence.

Before they snuck back out the rear door, the electronics man would stuff bugs into all of Jack’s phones.

The other two would plant a five-pound sack of marijuana on a storage shelf at the back of Jack’s expansive three-car garage, slightly behind a mulch bag Jack might never touch, but certainly not before spring. An insurance policy; they had done this before and it worked like magic.

If it was needed, fine.

If not, they would sneak back at some later date and retrieve it.

The instant the jet cruised up to the private terminal at Ronald Reagan Airport, another black stretch limo raced up and cruised to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Jack, Bill, and the girls piled in, laughing at another Feist joke and having a ball. Feist began doling out the booze before they were rolling. He was a heavy drinker, matching Jack at least three for one, but he obviously had had plenty of practice, and he handled the booze well. A brisk ride ensued before they were idling at the side entrance gate to the White House parking lot. Bill rolled down his window and shoved some type of magic pass in the faces of the uniformed security guards. “Thanks, Earl, Tommy,” he made a point of saying quite loudly as they were whisked through without a second glance.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Feist,” one barely had time to mumble back as the limo shot by.

“You’ve been here before,” Jack observed.

“I worked here, under two different presidents,” Bill noted with an obviously insincere attempt at modesty.

A young naval officer packing enough ribbons and gold braid to capsize a battleship escorted the foursome upstairs, then across a broad hallway, straight into the spacious state dining room, where more than a hundred guests in resplendent finery were already congregated, sharing drinks, stuffing hors d’oeuvres down their throats, and gabbing about important subjects.

Eva and Eleanor were instantly adored by every male in the room. By far the two youngest guests, the most scantily dressed, and the loveliest, half the room admired them with every cell in their body.

The other half plainly detested them.

On just one side of the room alone, Jack picked out the secretary of state, secretary of defense, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs huddled together with their wives. Slightly to their right, the clutch of bespectacled gents whispering seriously among themselves were either Supreme Court justices or excellent imitations.

Bill and Eleanor split off, leaving Jack and Eva to drink, chat, and ponder the incredible fact that they were in the White House. The White House!

Bill immediately launched into a fast-paced whirl, virtually dancing around the room, gripping illustrious hands, complimenting the ladies, flitting from group to group, pollinating laughter in his wake.

If he was trying to impress Jack with who he-and by extension, the boys of CG-rubbed shoulders with, the performance was nothing short of impressive.

On several occasions Eva pointed out some luminary. “Who’s the big man Bill’s talking to? Isn’t he a movie star or something?”

“Was. I think now he’s governor of California,” Jack answered.

“What about the lady beside him? I’m sure I recognize her face.”

“On his left, the attorney general. The other one, the good-looking blonde, she’s the intern the president’s sleeping with.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Eva asked, looking more closely at the woman.

“I am, and you can stop now, Eva. The room is loaded with ridiculously famous people. I get it. Any moment they’ll notice I don’t belong here, and I’ll be forced to start waiting tables.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jack smiled. “Are you supposed to hustle me all night or can we have fun?”

Rather than pretend embarrassment, Eva laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

“I had you at hello.”

“I’m wounded,” she said, smiling coyly, apparently relieved to surrender her duties.

Suddenly the president and First Lady, accompanied by another couple, entered; the military band in the corner launched into a gusty version of “Hail to the Chief” and the roomful of powerful people began filtering dutifully in the direction of a reception line. Jack overheard somebody mention that accompanying the president and First Lady were the king and queen of a country he had failed to catch the name of, but where apparently everybody was tall, cadaverously thin, and had terrible complexions.

The royals stood shuffling their feet, making no effort to disguise that they were already bored out of their minds.

Eva grabbed Jack’s arm and nearly dragged him to the line. They found themselves crushed between a famous movie producer and a handsome, scowling senator who had run against the president and got creamed. The campaign had been long and nasty, an ugly mudfest. Together, they had polled the lowest voter turnout in history. It was the most expensive, and by general agreement, least inspiring campaign in history.

There was only one conceivable reason the senator was invited here tonight: “Hey, you sorry, loudmouthed loser, how do you like my digs?” they could picture the president asking him with a spiteful grin.

And the rampant rumors about the senator’s love life appeared to be accurate. He quietly ignored everything and everybody-that is, everything but Eva’s long legs and admirable fanny. The movie producer, on the other hand, launched into a long, simmering diatribe about the appalling situation in Swaziland. An obscure tribe of pygmies was apparently at risk of extinction from an equally indistinct disease the director pronounced differently each time he mentioned it. If only Americans didn’t care so little about the world, he moaned with a light flip of his hand, a miracle cure could be found. But for American indifference and stinginess, the tribe could be saved. Indeed, the only reason he had deigned to come here tonight, he confided loudly enough to be heard by everybody in the line, was to bring this abominable issue to the attention of Washington.

“A whole tribe? How awful,” Eva remarked, pinching Jack’s arm.

“Isn’t it?” the by now red-faced director snorted. “A whole line of DNA lost forever. What a terrible, terrible waste.”

“Maybe you should make a movie to bring it to the world’s attention,” Jack suggested, trying not to laugh.

The famous director’s face instantly shrank into a wrinkled scowl. “Yes… well, unfortunately, there’s no money in it.”

“How sad,” Jack said and he meant it.

The movie director was politely but firmly pushed and shoved through the handshakes before he could get out a half-strangled sentence about this poor ignored tribe and the poisonous microbe-like that, an entire tribe doomed to the dustbin of history.

Eva went next: nobody shoved or hurried her through. In fact, the president awarded her an extra ten or twenty hardfisted pumps with a smile that nearly broke his jaw.

Then it was Jack shaking the most powerful hand in the world. “Nice to meet you,” the president said, gripping and grinning with vigor.

“My pleasure, sir,” Jack replied, trying gracefully to ease out of his clasp and move on.