Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [108]
Mac brought Marienthal a tumbler of single malt. “I think Rich is genuinely afraid, Frank,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too judgmental at this juncture. It’s not all directed at you and Mary. Maybe none of it is.”
Marienthal ignored Smith’s counsel and asked, “Did he tell you where he was calling from?”
“No.”
The phone rang, and Annabel went to the kitchen to answer. It was a friend, an art dealer from New York confirming plans to visit Annabel at her gallery the following day. The two men sat quietly at the table, Annabel’s words filling the void.
“And I’m so pleased you’re coming, Karen. Your train gets in at Union Station at one? Grab a cab out front—you’ll be at the gallery by one-thirty. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”
At the Com Center in the Hoover Building, two agents from the communications division heard “We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”
”Just a couple of ladies doing lunch,” said one agent, laughing.
“Maybe it’ll get juicier later on,” offered the second one.
“Yeah, let’s hope.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Lights in the White House burned bright that night.
Political adviser Chet Fletcher had been at work since early morning, as had every other member of the president’s most trusted senior staff. A siege mentality existed in offices manned by press secretary Robin Whitson and her aides. “We have no statement at this time” was the official party line.
“When will the president address this directly?” reporters repeatedly asked.
“We have no statement to make at this time.”
“Does the president deny his involvement in the Eliana assassination?”
“We have no statement at this time.”
While Whitson’s staff fielded the barrage of media calls, the press secretary spent most of her day and evening conferring with other presidential handmaidens. Sides had been taken early in the day; Whitson lobbied for the president to hold a press conference and issue an official denial of the claims in the Marienthal-Russo book. Others, led by Chet Fletcher, argued that to do so would only bestow credibility on the book’s charges.
“No,” Whitson said during one of a dozen meetings since the news broke—she’d lost count of how many there had been. “That’s exactly what stonewalling will accomplish. The longer it festers, the more the story will be believed.” She’d become uncharacteristically strident during that particular debate with Fletcher, and left the room to calm down, hopefully to formulate a more reasoned case for her position. But she was painfully aware that no matter what tack she took, she would lose out. Fletcher’s power within the Parmele inner circle was unquestioned, particularly when it involved politics—and this was politics pure and simple, although a silent minority thought it might be a crime, impure and not so simple.
Robin Whitson twice met directly with the president. During those meetings, Parmele acted as though the issue was whether he wore boxer shorts or briefs, nothing more significant than that. “This is Widmer’s last gasp,” he told her. “He’s an old fool who’s grasping at straws, and I don’t intend to dignify this ludicrous, blatantly political ploy.” He came around the desk, his smile wide and reassuring, and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just let it ride a while, Robin,” he said in a measured voice. “Chet has had a handle on it from the beginning. We’ll put out a statement when he thinks it’s appropriate. In the meantime, let’s not become distracted. Stay on message, Robin. Widmer wants us to lose sight of the prize, that’s all. You’re doing a great job. Keep at it.”
His tone during one-on-one meetings with Fletcher was not quite as relaxed and heartening.
“How did we lose control of this?” he asked his political adviser.
“I don’t think we have, Mr. President,” Fletcher responded.
“It sure as hell sounds that