Suzanne Berube Rorhus

“You ever get death threats?”

Minister Andebu leaned across Emma’s plate to speak to Thomas “Tommy” Jackson, mayor of Memphis. Emma put down her fork to listen.  

Mayor Jackson, rotund and jovial with wisps of brown hair standing sentinel over his bald spot, looked startled. He had been focusing intently on his plate, prying apart his banquet chicken and mixing the meat with his mashed potatoes and boiled carrots. The delicate pattern of his Haviland dinner plate lay obscured under the orange mounds.

“Who’s threatening you? Not this lovely young lady, I hope?” He smiled at Emma and patted her hand where it rested on the tablecloth. She returned his smile and gently withdrew her hand, disguising the move by reaching for her wine glass and taking a small sip. Pinot Noir, one of her favorites.

“I have received my first death threat since arriving here,” the minister said. “I never had such a thing in Norway. The phone call was from ‘an anonymous friend’.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Minister,” Mayor Jackson said. “I get death threats all the time. Everybody’s got an opinion, and they all think it’s the Word of God. Can’t take them too seriously.”

“I suppose. All part of the American cowboy mentality – never show fear.”

Emma said, “Perhaps you should discuss added precautions with the festival’s security detail. I can put you in touch with the key personnel on the Secret Service team.”

“Not to worry. I have already discussed these threats with your Madame Vice President when I met with her last night. She seemed…” he paused “…unconcerned.” He smiled thinly at her, then glanced away.

Emma cringed inwardly. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to smooth over the vice president’s aloof manner. “I assure you,” she said, “Vice President Diener wouldn’t take any threat lightly. I’m sure she’s already notified the proper agencies of your concern.” Emma knew, of course, the vice president had not actually done so, or it would have been in the pre-party briefing, but she herself would rectify this oversight. The vice president’s security detail had emphasized that all members of her entourage shared the responsibility for the veep’s safety, and, presumably, the safety of her guests.

“Did you say you met with her yesterday?” Emma continued. As junior scheduler on the vice president’s staff, she was responsible for keeping track of her meetings. Had she been kept out of the loop, or did she forget something important? She’d better not slip up if she wanted the job of chief scheduler when the vice president moved into the Oval Office in two years’ time. As much as she loved her job, she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d left the EEOC for the West Wing.

Minister Andebu scraped the last of his potatoes onto the back of his fork. “We met, but rather impromptu. She asked me to visit her suite for coffee. It was just the two of us.”

“Probably just a courtesy call, then.” Emma pondered this and cut into another bite of her chicken. The vice president didn’t do “impromptu”.  Emma was certain the president had not asked Madame Veep to meet with the minister informally. What was going on?

“Actually, it was a little unusual,” the minister continued. He glanced to his left.  The vice president sat two seats away, just on the other side of the minister’s aide, Lars. Her back was turned to the minister and she was engrossed in conversation with the organizer of tonight’s dinner.

Minister Andebu leaned in closer.  His whiskey-soaked whisper was louder than Emma expected, and his voice vibrated in her ear. “Vice President Diener asked me about the proposed oil deal between our two countries, saying that President McCullough asked her to review my position before our trip to Camp David. But your president told me I was to negotiate only with him."