The Mask of Minos, Bruno's Inferno

Chapter 17 - The President

Stan Gardner looked at his reflection in the dark glass for a while and thought how grey his hair had gotten in so short a time, while the secretary typed continuously and rapidly on the huge terminal as she listened with headphones to a tape recorder. He brushed through his hair with his hands, fluffing it because it had gone flat from the dry cold air and it had gotten thinner too, he thought, and he frowned. The receptionist had stopped typing and was looking at him curiously - her eyes turned to slits - and he walked to the chair and sat down. Does she even know who the hell I am? Time ground stone on stone. It should be getting dark by now. He felt his rough stubbled face. I need to shave before tonight's dinner.

He hated waiting and lit a cigarette and inhaled impatiently and blew the smoke quickly out towards the ceiling. This was all so new to him, politics on the grand scale. He had been here many times before he was the president - planning and strategizing, plotting. Now he was trapped within the walls of this, a prison of his design without bars but the light brown wooden walls carved and mortised without a seam. He stood and paced looking for an ashtray.

Photographs depicting Arthur Nicias hosting many foreign dignitaries, scientists, and heads of state filled the wall behind him. The coronation of his newest protégé prominently displayed in the center. "How young I looked." Three large color televisions sat in each corner, turned on with no sound, each showing one of the three major networks at all times of day. The evening news was airing, and the president glanced casually at Walter Cronkite behind his desk. He paid little attention to the news, and his staff to keep him well enough informed. Tired of pacing, Stan Gardner finally sat down and swore quietly to himself, annoyed that he would have to wait for anybody. His sense of duty made patience possible, but his pride made it difficult.

Three secret service agents stood guard at the two doors to the room, another stood outside in the hall and would allow no one to enter. They waited patiently watching the news. The intercom buzzed on the secretary's desk. "Okay Trudy," the man's voice said. Gardner turned his head to the monitor and stood.

"Mr. Nicias will see you now Mr. President."

Gardner waited for her to open the door. His pride whittled knowing she probably made more than he did. She opened the door and let him in. An old grey-haired man was there to greet him. "Mr. President, so nice to see you," he said and extended his hand and nodded to the secret service to close the door. Arthur Nicias was 81 years old, short and overweight, but strong, and in his younger days, well built, and athletic. He looked at the President through small round thick glasses. A sweet and innocuous look.

The office was large, lined with bookshelves and windows at the far end. A fireplace burned in the middle of the room along a windowless wall. This was his office in town, discretely concealed above the coffee shop on the ground floor. From outside it looked no more than the windows and wooden siding of a colonial structure in Georgetown. Three stories of history and outside on the tables of the coffee shop, three men sat smoking cigarettes and drinking espresso while traffic rushed by and people shopped.

The President walked into the office as he had done many times before during the campaign when they spent hours designing his policies, and his agenda.

"Sit," Nicias said instinctively and offered an overstuffed leather chair as the only option. The President sat in the chair and immediately sank into its cushy depths. "Would you like a drink, Stan?"

Nicias always drank at 4 PM and stood next to an armoire that he opened to display an array of alcohol and service.

Stan thought he could have used one earlier and perhaps it would help calm his nerves. "I've had a busy day, Arthur."