Back | Next
Contents

THIRTY-ONE

The president was swimming slow-paced powerful laps in the White House pool, the breast stroke in one direction and a side-wheeling backstroke in the other. He'd been swimming daily for several days, and his endurance was improving, though less than he'd expected. Getting old, he thought. Swimming parallel to him along the opposite side was Stephen Flynn. Their laps were out of phase—Flynn was swimming on his side, and the president did a modified racing turn at each end. The sound of their strokes and exhalations were loud in the enclosed space.

Lester Okada had entered the natatorium, and stood watching for two or three minutes without making himself known. The room was warm and steamy, and Okada felt a fine dew of sweat form on his face. Then the president stopped at the deep end, breathing heavily, and after a moment hoisted himself onto the pool deck. It was then he became aware of Okada.

"Good morning, Les. Something?"

Okada grimaced slightly. "There's always something, Mister President. I need to ask you some questions before I talk to the ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate this morning."

"Go ahead."

"Mister President, I know these people pretty well; I know how they think. After all, I was one of them a few years ago. Some of them are going to take the position that your talking about the geogravitic power converter, in your last speech, amounted to using your position to promote your commercial products."

The president's brows formed a gnarled ridge above his eyes, then gradually relaxed. "If anyone asks that question, tell 'em it's too stupid to dignify with an answer."

Okada waited a moment before responding. "Do you really want me to tell them that?"

The president grinned. "Sure. Tell them you asked me, and that's what I told you. And if they seem unhappy with that, ask 'em: Does that bother you? And if one of them says yes, tell him he needs to develop a thicker skin. Tell them they insult politicians and other public figures often enough, and that what I said was at least the truth. Okay?"

Okada looked at the president. "I'm not sure if you're kidding me or not, sir."

Haugen's eyebrows arched this time; then he laughed. "No, I really mean it. You can reword it if you'd like, to suit your style, but that's the message. That's probably what I'd tell them if they asked me."

He got up from the edge of the pool deck, and at the other end, Father Flynn got up too. "Anything else, Les?" Haugen asked.

"Yes sir. Last night you didn't address the rumors about the OSS. The rumors that you've got everything over there in a turmoil, and that the FBI is running a purge there."

"Okay. Don't answer any generalities unless there's an advantage in it. If someone says something about 'everything in a turmoil over there,' ask them what they mean by 'everything in a turmoil.' " The president made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "And then don't answer any more questions till one of them's answered yours. When they have, then pin them down on the next generality, like what they mean by a purge. Or however they put it. Tell them the FBI has been investigating one person there, ex-Director Blackburn."

"Suppose they ask about Blackburn, sir?"

The president stood thoughtfully for a moment. "If they ask the question, tell them the truth. This is one we don't want to be cagey about. Just don't let them walk on you. Don't answer bullshit questions; pin them down to real-world questions and answer those.

"And don't let them play prosecuting attorney with you. Take a lesson from Wheeler. When that arrogant asshole Samuelson got too offensive, he had him removed and never let him back in. And 200 million people applauded."

The president paused. "And speaking of the real world, better check with Dirksma at the FBI first, and make sure it's still just Blackburn he's investigating in the OSS; he hasn't updated me the last couple of days. But I think he's finished asking questions across the river anyway."

Okada nodded, not entirely happy. "Another thing, sir. Is there anything further I should know about the State Department? I expect I'll get more questions about it, too."

"Tell them you've said all you have to say about that. That Mr. Tyler and I had serious disagreements on his performance in Poland, that our discussion became heated, and that he said he could no longer function as ambassador there. That I then relieved him from duty and he has since resigned from the State Department. That's what you told them yesterday, right?"

"In substance, yes sir."

"Good." He looked the press secretary over. "You're doing a good job, Les, and I appreciate your staying on here. If they surprise you with something, trust your judgment, whether it agrees with mine or not. Chances are you'll say the right thing. And I'm seldom hard on honest mistakes."

***

Then the president and Flynn went to the dressing room.

"Mr. Okada's afraid of you, Arne," said the Jesuit.

"You're right, he is, a little," Haugen answered. "But mainly he's afraid of the White House press corps. What scares him about me is that I ask him to be tough with them. He's a good, decent man, Steve, and he's capable. He's even shown he can be hardnosed in a pinch. But he has this consideration that he has to be nice to people." The president pulled off his trunks, wrung them out, and hung them on a peg. "And it's preferable to be nice to people," he went on. "It really is. But it's trouble when you feel as if you have to be."

"What are they going to say when you announce that you're firing Secretary Coulter? After saying the trouble was with Ambassador Tyler."

The two men walked into the well-lit, white-tiled shower room.

"Tyler and Coulter are two separate troubles. And I can't tell the press I'm firing Coulter until I tell Coulter. That would be a helluva thing to do."

Haugen turned the water on and gave his attention to adjusting the temperature, then ah-ahed with pleasure as the coarse hard spray beat on his back. "I should have another report on Coulter from Dirksma today," he added. "Then I'll know what I can say about my reasons. And I can contact my selection to replace him. Rudolfo Valenzuela."

"I don't know him."

"He's the Dean of International Studies at Miami of Florida. Milstead put together an interesting dossier on him."

"At Miami. Is he Cuban?"

"His parents were; they left during the Batista regime and settled in Puerto Rico. He started out as a poor black kid quarrying marble with his dad. Heavy damn labor." Through the spray, Haugen grinned at Flynn. "Reminds me of me; maybe that's one reason I like him so well. Then he joined the army—101st Airborne; served in Viet Nam. Decorated, made first sergeant, then went to school on the GI Bill, like a lot of guys." The president turned off the water, and stepping out of the shower room, took a towel from a stack of them. "He was Deputy Secretary for African Affairs under Wheeler, and served as Wheeler's envoy to Cuba after Castro died. He's the one who worked out the agreement that Wheeler closed with Colonel Lopez."

Valenzuela sounded to Flynn like a good choice—experienced and effective. And being black and Hispanic, he'd have certain advantages at home from the political point of view. It occurred to Flynn then to wonder why Coulter had been appointed secretary—what his qualifications had been. He asked the president.

"You'd have to ask Donnelly. When Wheeler died, Alford stayed on at State until the end of Donnelly's partial term; then resigned. He had health problems. Then Donnelly appointed Coulter. Coulter'd been a professor of political science at the University of Colorado, and I suppose they'd gotten to know one another back there when Donnelly was in state politics."

Haugen hung his towel on a peg. Someone unseen would come within minutes and the wet towels would disappear, to show up anonymously later on, among others, laundered soft and white and neatly folded. He put on his shorts, then took his shirt from a hanger and thrust thick hairy arms into the sleeves.

"It's not the greatest time to change secretaries over at State," he added. "But it's better than keeping someone who's got strange fish of his own to fry." He pulled his slacks on and buckled his belt. "And I'm perfectly willing to have malfeasance charges filed against him, if Dirksma comes up with proof of anything."

***

Scowling, Paul Willard Randolph Massey tossed aside the editorial section of the New York Times; it landed on top of three others. Reading it, one might almost think the Times approved of Haugen, praising as it did with faint and equivocal damns. And two of the other papers had been no better.

He looked at the clock: 2:41. In nineteen minutes, Keller and Johnson were due to arrive for their meeting.

He got up from his chair and began to pace. Normally Massey was a mild and patient man, but Haugen's speech had stirred some deep and restless poison in him. Pausing, he stared unseeing through the wall-size window toward the Statue of Liberty and wondered what Barron had done toward getting more satisfactory performance from the press.

He was becoming frustrated with Tallmon again. And he couldn't threaten him with "Merriman" because Merriman seemed to have disappeared. Nor had he taken time yet to find anyone else with Merriman's expertise. He wasn't sure there was anyone else.

It was the kind of thing that, ordinarily, Tallmon would take care of for him.

Massey felt suddenly tired. Things were becoming difficult, and he no longer had the force he'd had ten, twenty years ago. Perhaps he should pass more of the responsibility to Keller and Johnson. He gathered himself then, and inwardly shook off the thought. Not now; not yet. This was just a mood; he'd feel better tomorrow at home.

***

Barron Tallmon had not been about to send the thick, 9 X 12-inch envelope with the mailman, nor even mail it at the village post office in East Roughton. Not addressed as it was. Instead he weighed and stamped it and took it all the way to Waterbury, dropping it in a curbside box outside the main post office. Before he pulled back into traffic, he glanced at his dashboard clock: 2:41. He wondered what Massey was doing at 2:41.

Not that it made any difference to him, Tallmon told himself. Massey had no teeth; he used other people's teeth. And outside of politics and finance, Massey didn't know the ropes, didn't have the contacts to hire the teeth himself. He, Tallmon, was the one Massey depended on to arrange the occasional assassination.

Except, of course, for Merriman. Merriman with his dangerous people. Massey knew Merriman. But Merriman had dropped out of contact. Maybe he was in a cell somewhere, or maybe dead. Considering the kinds of things Merriman did to people, neither one would be surprising.

Back | Next
Framed