Chapter 3

He looks different in the newsreels, more robust, thought Janice Covington as she spied her host's reflection in an antique mirror beside the door. He was taking a phone call, the second since her arrival and she'd graciously moved out of earshot even as he motioned for her to remain seated. She watched him now out of the corner of her eye as she navigated the spacious study, skirting stacks of books and admiring original oils of Hudson River landscapes. There were models, too. Her breath rippled the painted sails of a blunt-bowed Greek galleon, flanked on either side by Edwardian schooners, 5-masted clippers and brigantines. She submitted to the temptation to touch, running her fingertips lightly over the slick paint and spinning the tiny ship's wheel; she couldn't help but appreciate the skill evident in the replicas, all faithfully rendered in spruce and balsa, with crisp linen sails and riggings of waxed twine. She observed the gentleman seated behind the desk, trying to reconcile the public image of glib politician and respected leader of the most powerful nation on the Earth, and wondered if he had the patience to craft anything more than words.

"No, Jack," he said abruptly into the receiver. "If you were right, I would agree with you!" He spun his chair around and caught Janice's eye...and winked. "Now, you tell the junior senator from New York to sit on his thumbs and check his personal agendas at the door. Have I made myself clear? Of course I have. Yes...yes, thank you." He tapped the cradle once with his finger. "Marilyn?"

His fingers drummed absently on the desktop and once again, she found herself on the receiving end of a conspiratorial wink. She restrained the inclination to scowl. Oh, don't do that, Franklin. I don't want to be a part of your machinations. As he waited for his secretary to come on the line, his head dipped, and his eyes moved over the communiqué spread open upon his cluttered desktop. For herself, Janice knew those 12 lines by heart, though as prose they certainly did not lend themselves to posterity. More memorable for the source than the content, she mused.

"Marilyn? Yes, see if Peter Mullins is still in the building, will you? He said something about a meeting with Cordell Hull. And no more calls, please." He hung up the phone and spread his hands, palms up. "Dr. Covington, please forgive the interruption."

"Everyone wants your ear these days, Mr. President. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."

"Not at all." He gestured towards a vacant Jefferson chair across from him indicating that he was, at last, suitably prepared to engage in conversation. "This..." he said, tapping his finger on the official communiqué. "...is a most interesting offer."

"Yes, it is," replied Janice, taking a seat. "Interesting, among other things."

"But you have concerns...doubts," he replied in a rich, resonant tenor, each word carefully enunciated for clarity. "I don't wonder, considering the author." Seated behind an island of burnished rosewood, he regarded her placidly, a soft-tipped ivory cigarette holder clenched between his teeth. "It's hardly an olive branch."

"More like a dangling carrot, sir," she elaborated.

"Indeed." He removed his spectacles and tossed them carelessly atop a stack of dispatches. "Mr. Mullins was perfectly correct to refer this matter to me, the situation in Europe being what it is." With his tongue, he moved the cigarette holder to a corner of his mouth. "Rumor has it Hitler is a student of the occult, and an antiquarian to boot; the Xena Scrolls are, second to the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb, the single most important archeological find of this century." He watched a grin spread across her attractive face and countered with a broad gesture of his hands. "All right, you have me; that's a direct quote from the dust jacket on your book."

Janice laughed indulgently. "The truth bears repeating, Mr. President, and if I am anything, I'm a slave to the truth."

His smile was incandescent. "There is no better taskmaster, Dr. Covington."

"But I have to confess that any interest I have in the project is tempered by what my partner calls my innate sense of cynicism. Goebbels is their Minister of Propaganda after all. If he's gone to the effort to craft this offer, you can bet there's something in it for the Fatherland."

"Yes, Adolf doesn't just want to see the Scrolls, he wants them chaperoned by their discoverer. Are you intrigued enough to consider the invitation?"

"Is the State Department intrigued enough to let me?"

"You are in possession of the Scrolls, Dr. Covington."

"Temporarily, for the purposes of study and safekeeping." She noticed that the conversation had fallen into a rhythm, giving her the impression of a tennis match, ball in play. She fired a shot down center court. "They belong to the Ages. I'm merely the caretaker at the moment."

"There's a rumor going around Washington that you refused to turn them over to the Antiquities Department at Georgetown, and to Dr. Kenneth Shipmann in particular...something about putting the fox in charge of the chicken house?"

"Well, if it's a rumor in Washington, it must be true," she replied. She found that the smile which punctuated her admission had to be forced, and it bothered her, but only as long as it took him to charge the net.

"Would you consider releasing the Scrolls temporarily to the possession of the State Department?"

Big lob. "I'd sooner kiss Goebbels on the mouth...sir."

"Do you trust your partner, Dr. Covington?"

"With my life." That one's right down your throat, Franklin-boy.

"With the Scrolls?"

Janice cringed. Ooo, a scorching return. "I wouldn't ask her to do anything I wasn't prepared to do myself."

He crushed out his cigarette in an ash tray and retorted, "My point exactly! What are you prepared to do for your country?"

Janice resented the implication; she was as much a patriot as the next man, or woman. "The truth is, sir, regardless of the whereabouts of the Scrolls, I would advise against letting them out of the country. No, sir, on this occasion, I have to say that my curiosity ends at the East coast."

"Now that doesn't sound like the daughter of Harry Covington," he retorted and she stared dumbly at him. He filled the ensuing silence with action, selecting a cigarette from a tin of Camels and affixing it to the end of his holder. Almost casually, as if remarking on the weather, he said, "I understand they never found his body."

"No. No they didn't." Janice set her jaw and shifted uncomfortably under his gaze; some small part of her hated giving him that quarter. Her father had been gone more than two years, killed when the plane he had chartered ran afoul of rough weather and plowed into a mountainside in Italy. He had been on his way to meet her at the dig site in Macedonia and that knowledge carried with it a certain guilt on her part. "If my father were alive, he would've contacted me."

"Yes, I have no doubts that if it were humanly possible, you would've heard from him. Still, it must gnaw at you...the uncertainty, when with the right resources and a little luck, you might know for sure." Taking his eyes from her, he dragged a match along the underside of his desk and touched the flame to the cigarette with slow, deliberate movements, as if he might be giving her the opportunity to adjust her attitude. He dropped the match into a crystal tray as his phone rang, preternaturally loud within the confines of their conversation. "Yes, Marilyn...oh, wonderful. Ring me when he arrives." He hung up the phone and sucked the cigarette to a glowing ember. "Now, where were we?"

Thanks for asking. I do feel slightly disoriented. Janice calmly smoothed the line of her skirt and quipped, "I was about to politely and officially decline Herr Hitler's invitation to the party."

He raised an eyebrow and said delicately, "And if I made your cooperation a matter of national security?"

Janice's polite smile faded to a faint line. "Anyone who knows me knows that I don't respond well to orders, Mr. President, regardless of the source. Sit. Lay down. Roll over. Every one of them will get you the same blank stare in response."

He folded his hands on his desktop and regarded her with studied benevolence. "I think you will find we're cut from the same cloth, Dr. Covington." Referring to the communiqué, he asked, "Do you mind if I keep this?"

Janice shrugged. "It's only good for wrapping fish."

Folding the paper into quarters, he managed a snort. "You might be surprised to hear that folks around here generally make it a habit to go along with me."

"I didn't know I was setting a precedent." It was not unfamiliar territory, Janice decided -- youngest PhD to graduate NYU, first woman to receive a quarter million dollar grant from Georgetown University...first person to say ‘no' to a sitting United States president in 10 years. Oh, God...his eyes just narrowed! That can't be good. Now, do I apologize like a good, awestruck little girl, or... "Presidential entreaties aside, sir, I'm afraid my answer has got to be a firm, but reluctant, ‘no.' I'm sorry."

"No," he echoed, rolling the word around in his mouth like a suspicious berry plucked from a bush. Presently, he swallowed; the fruit was bitter, but not poisoned. He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling affably at the corners. "Well, rumor has it that deprivation is good for the soul. Since I have no personal experience in that area, I shall have to confer with my wife." The cigarette holder he wielded like a conductor's baton rapped soundly against a picture frame on his desk. "In all matters of the heart and soul, I defer to her."

Smiling with relief, Janice regarded the dowdy, unassuming visage of Eleanor Roosevelt, First Lady Under Glass. "You're very fortunate, yes," she said. "We all need someone to keep us centered."

"Indeed, but I've always found that if you speak the truth in all things, there is little need for guidance from others." He held up his hand defensively. "And before you say it, politicians and truth are not mutually exclusive."

Janice found herself warming to him once again. "Am I that transparent?"

"Not at all, my dear, but it's plain to see that there's a lot going on inside that pretty head of yours. As you said earlier, you are a slave to the truth. Your problem lies in that pesky overseer: tact."

Tact. Janice Covington. Oh, yeah, about as compatible as peanut butter and sardines. "No one has ever accused me of being tactful."

"Well, perhaps it's not a conscious effort on your part. May I share with you a piece of advice that has served me well over the years?" He was gratified to see her lean forward attentively in her chair. "Leave no thought unspoken." Her brow furrowed and he scrambled for elaboration. "When you speak what's on your mind, Dr. Covington, internal monologues are redundant."

Janice nodded. It was an irrevocable truth, and a dangerous one, worthy of Socrates. "I'll keep that in mind, sir." His phone rang again; anticipating her imminent departure, she rose from her chair and retrieved her coat from a teak rack beside the door. She took a groping inventory of her pockets, locating her gloves, and a crushed navy blue hat that she tried to restore to its original shape.

"Send him straight in, thank you, Marilyn."

"I think that's my cue." She moved around the desk and for the first time since her arrival, the braces on his legs, painted matte black to match his trousers, were visible. Without batting an eye, she extended her hand. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President. It's been...interesting."

He smiled a smile he kept for the newsreels. "It's been so much more than interesting, Dr. Covington. I do hope I haven't seen the last of you."

Janice could feel an unfamiliar rush of blood to her face. I think I just blushed. Aw, damn! Shaking his hand, she cast about for a distraction, and found one in the tantalizing aroma emanating from a mahogany humidor on his desk. "Those wouldn't be Cuban, by any chance?"

He opened the humidor with a broad smile. "A gift from the ambassador. Please, have one."

"I really shouldn't," she said as she plucked a cigar from the humidor with reverence. She held it under her nose briefly, savoring the heady fragrance. "Hand-rolled, rum soaked. It's good to be the President. Thank you," she said, consigning the cigar to an inside pocket of her coat. "I'll save it for later." She wheeled as the office door opened and the considerable bulk of Peter Mullins, her longtime friend and State Department connection, filled the frame.

Peter acknowledged Janice with a smile before focusing on FDR. "You wanted to see me, Mr. President?"

Franklin Roosevelt fanned one hand towards himself. "Yes, Peter, come in. Dr. Covington was just leaving. Excuse me just a moment, will you?" Before either could respond, he was ringing his secretary again.

"I suppose you were just going to slip out of here without seeing me, eh?" Peter whispered reproachfully as Janice joined him, tossing a slight shrug from her shoulders, but her smile was ambiguous; he trolled for an attitude. "Covington...hubba hubba..." He whistled lowly, appreciatively. "Nice gams...all the years I've known you and this is the first time I've seen you in a skirt."

She frowned at the print skirt ending just below her knees. "My one concession to civil society, and don't get used to it." She touched the sleeve of his immaculate 3 piece pinstripe suit, complete with the obligatory handkerchief in the breast pocket. She said, "Nice suit," then, with a wicked grin, "You look like Adolph Menjou."

There was more than a foot difference in height between them and he had to lean down to speak confidentially. He found he didn't mind the proximity at all. "Productive meeting?"

"He's passing out cigars. What do you think?"

Peter chuckled. "I think you gave him a hard time. How's your partner these days?"

Janice looked over her shoulder briefly, at the President, immersed in a whispered conversation of his own, before answering. "Up at dawn, home after dark. The folks at the university are getting a lot for their sixty dollars a week."

"Ouch. Slave wages. Well, I suppose there's only room for one darling of the Archaeological community at any one time. Look, this should be a short meeting, how's about I take the birthday girl to dinner?" She grimaced and he loved it. "Refresh my memory: is it 25 or 26?"

"You know damn well what it is," she growled, digging an elbow playfully into his side. "And I'd love to join you, but I already have plans."

He winced and clutched a hand over his breast. "Aww, you're breakin' my heart here. Who's the lucky guy?"

"None of your business," she replied with a smile. She hated lying to him. He was a dear friend and the man responsible for reuniting her with Mel. Her presense in this office, at his request, miles away from where she most wanted to be, was an infinitesimal installment on the debt she owed him. In the end, she was happy for the distraction occasioned by a glimpse of his wristwatch. "God, is that the time? I have to go."

With the courtesy that came as second nature to him, he held open her coat while she slipped into it. "Sure. Go on your hot date." As she turned to face him, he made a pitiful face for show. "Leave the poor, lonely bachelor to open a can of soup."

"My heart bleeds for you, really," she quipped dryly as she jammed the navy hat on her head at an angle. "And if I believed, for one second, that you would be dining alone on chicken noodle soup I'd --"

"You'd what?" he countered, grinning into her face.

"I'd give you two bits for a burger and a beer downtown. Gotta run, boy-oh. Now, go make nice with the President."

End Chapter 3