First Daughter EXPORT - Softcover

January 20
Inauguration Day

Alli Carson sat in the back of the armor- plated limo, sandwiched between Sam and Nina, her Secret Ser vice detail. She was just three days shy of her twentieth birthday, but with her father being inaugurated President of the United States today, she’d scarcely had time to think about what she might get in the way of presents, let alone contemplate what she was going to do to celebrate.

For the moment, it was all about her father. The inauguration of Edward Carson, former se nior senator from the great state of Nebraska, was celebration enough. Even she had found it interesting that the media had made such a fuss over the exit polls showing that her father was the first president to be significantly helped by a massive African- American turnout. Those votes had been the result of a national campaign engineered by her father’s formidable election machine in conjunction with

the powerful black religious and political organization, the Renaissance Mission Congress. Her father had successfully run as the anti- Rove, basing his campaign on reconciliation and consensus building, for which the RMC had been the standard- bearer.

But for the moment, everything else was subsumed beneath the intricate and laborious plans for today, which had been ongoing for more than six weeks, as directed by the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies. The speeches, balls, cocktail parties, media ops, and shamelessly opportunistic sound bites had begun five days ago, and they would continue for another five days after her father was sworn in, an hour from now.

After eight years of the executive branch being at loggerheads with the legislature, today would usher in a new era in American politics. For the first time, a moderate Republican would be president—a man who, though a fiscal conservative, was unabashedly pro-choice and pro–women’s rights, which put him at odds with many Republicans and the religious right. Never mind. His mandate had come from young

people, Hispanics and African Americans who, finally deciding it was time for their voices to be heard, turned out in record numbers to vote for Edward Carson. Not only did they fi nd him irresistibly charismatic, but they also liked what he said, and how he said it. She had to admit her father was clever as well as smart. Still, he was of a species—the po liti cal animal—that she despised.

Alli didn’t even try to peer through the windows. The heavily smoked, bulletproof glass afforded only a glimpse of a world blurred in shadow. Inside, she was cushioned in a plush backseat, illuminated by the soft glow of the sidelights. Her hands were pale against the dark blue leather seat. Thick auburn hair framed an oval face dominated by clear green eyes. A constellation of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose like grains of sand, an endearing touch to a beautiful face. It said something important about her, that she deliberately didn’t cover her nose with makeup.

An engine of anxiety thrummed in the pit of her stomach. She’d given her iPod to the driver to plug into the stereo. A wash of fuzzed- out guitars, thumping bass, and steaming vocals from a band called Kill Hannah made the air shimmer and sweat.

“I wanna be a Kennedy,” the singer chanted, and Alli laughed despite herself. How many times had she had to endure the same question: “Are the Carsons the new Kennedys? Are you the political dynasty of the future?”

To which Alli would reply: “A Kennedy? Are you kidding? I don’t want to die young.” She’d said it so often, in fact, that it had become an iconic line, repeated both on hard news shows and late- night TV. It had even led to an appearance on Saturday Night Live, where they’d dressed her up like Caroline Kennedy. These antics didn’t exactly thrill anyone else in the Carson family, most of whom were seriously deficient in the sense- of- humor department.

They turned west onto Constitution Avenue NW, heading for the Capitol, where, as convention dictated, the swearing in of Edward Carson and his vice president would take place.

“What about Random House?” Nina, on her right, said suddenly. She had to raise her voice over the music.

“What about it?” Alli said.

Sam, on her left, leaned slightly toward her. “What she means is, are you going to take the deal?”

Sam wore a dark suit of a conservative cut, starched white shirt, striped tie. He had thinning brown hair, soft eyes, and an oddly monkish air, was broad, tall, and powerful. Nina had a long, rather somber face with an aggressive nose and large blue eyes. She wore a charcoal gray worsted suit, sensible shoes with low heels, a pale blue oxford shirt buttoned to the collar. Both Secret Ser vice agents had earbuds so they could communicate with their brethren in the presidential motorcade.

“The memoirs of the First Daughter. Well, in this age, public humiliation is a badge of courage, isn’t it?” Alli put her head back against the seat. “Ah, yes, the spellbinding saga of me. I can’t wait to read that, so I can only imagine how everyone else will be clamoring for it.”

“She’s not going to take the deal,” Nina said to Sam over her head.

“You think?” Sam said sardonically. Then he allowed a smile to creep onto his pock- cheeked face. “Right. She’s no Paris Hilton.”

Alli said: “Hey, listen, what Paris Hilton got before anyone else was the diff erence between exposing things about herself and being exposed. Why fi ght our tabloid culture, she asked herself, when I can make a mint from it? And that’s just what she did. She made exposing yourself cool.”

“You’re not going to make a liar out of Nina. You’re not going to take the deal.” Sam frowned. “Are you?”

Alli screwed up her mouth. “Real men would take bets.” She didn’t like being so predictable.

The limo made a dogleg to the right, onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW, passing under the four lanes of Route 395, and onto the ring road that swung around the sprawling Capitol building.

Another song came on, “Neon Bible” by Arcade Fire, shaking the interior of the limo, and, strangely, Alli found herself looking at Sam’s hands. They were square, callused, vaguely intimidating hands, reminding her of Jack McClure. She felt a quick stab deep inside her, and a darkness swept across her consciousness, like a veil lowered for a funeral. And just like that, the engine of anxiety morphed into a singular sense of purpose. She was looking at the world now as if through a telescope.

They were almost at the Capitol, rolling slowly, as if in thick, churning surf. She became aware of the press of people— dignitaries, politicians, security guards, military men from all the armed ser vices, newscasters, celebrities, paparazzi—their heaving mass impressing itself on the smoked glass.

She was aware of the tenseness of her body. “Where’s Jack?”

“My old buddy’s on assignment,” Sam said. But something in his voice alerted her.

“His assignment is here, with me,” she said. “My father made me a promise.”

“That may be,” Nina said.

“You know how these things go, Alli.” Sam leaned forward, grasping the inner door handle as they rolled to a stop.

 “No, I don’t,” she said. “Not about this.” She felt a sudden inexplicable fear invade her, and she felt the brush of the funeral veil. “I want to talk to my father.”

“Your father is busy