Murder in the White House

Andrews Air Force Base, Tuesday, June 12, 9:00 PM The radio on the helicopter was tuned to the tower frequency, and the crisp metallic voices said Air Force One was on final approach long before anyone could see it. The little welcoming party--the Vice President, the President's daughter, the President's Special Counsel--climbed down from the helicopter and crossed the ramp under umbrellas held by the Marine attendants. They passed through the knot of media people waiting in the drizzle and stood apart from them, a little closer to the roll of red carpet that would be unrolled to the foot of the steps when Air Force One was on the ground. They joined the media group in staring expectantly at the overcast sky. Lynne Webster, the President's daughter, found Ron Fairbanks's hand. She squeezed it. One of the television people noticed and nudged the woman beside him. It was nothing odd. Washington knew there was something between the President's daughter and his Special Counsel. The NBC camera zoomed for a moment to the clasped hands, and suddenly hundreds of thousands of people saw. For many it was more interesting than the President's return from Paris, where he had just signed some kind of trade agreement. His daughter was a tall, handsome, brown-haired girl. The nation had watched her mature in three years in the White House: from a gawky adolescent to a young woman gaining self-assurance, poise, and presence. Fairbanks was an obscure figure. Everyone had seen his picture in Time or somewhere: one of the bright young men who worked for the President; but what he did, exactly, was not clear. Anyway, he was a good-looking young fellow; he made a good picture standing in the rain holding the hand of the President's daughter. They made an appealing couple, a good picture for the home screens and for tomorrow's tabloids. Air Force One appeared beneath the overcast--a Boeing 747 now--huge, majestic, vaguely eerie in its landing configuration, with flaps down, gear down, long thin beams of light extending from its wings toward the runway. It settled slowly, its movement almost imperceptible, silent, powerful. The honor guard came to attention just as the tires touched the runway with a quick screech, and the airplane rushed past, noisy now, roaring, slowing. It passed the ramp and ran almost to the end of the runway; then slowly it turned and began its slow taxi back to the ramp. Wind drove the rain momentarily into the faces of the little welcoming party. Fairbanks put a finger to Lynne's cheek and pushed away a strand of her hair that had been blown there and stuck in the glistening rain water. It was an intimate gesture the television cameras missed. He smiled at her, she returned it. They were not lovers, whatever the speculation. Since last fall, when she left for her third year of college, he had seen her only two or three times. Now that she was back at the White House for the summer, he would see her more often. He might become, over the summer, something more than a convenient, quasi-official escort for her--the staff bachelor who was available to accompany her when it was awkward for her to be alone. They might decide if they wanted their relationship to be anything more . . . they were amused, both by the situation and by the speculation it generated. They understood each other. She liked him, he liked her. The 747 taxied to the ramp, its great engines whining, overpowering the chatter among the media people and the low monotone of the network narrators. Air Force One never failed to awe. Even the bold legend along its body--united states of america--was awesome by its simplicity. President Webster understood the dramatic value of the big airplane, and he took full advantage of it. He had retired the 707 that had long served as Air Force One and substituted this 747 for it--not without some grumbling from the Congress--probably as much from a sense of its grandeur as from the practical neeTruman, Margaret is the author of 'Murder in the White House ' with ISBN 9780345443793 and ISBN 0345443799.