“From what you say there’ll be rumors whether or not I remain in this seat. That’s the weakness in your strategy, Bill.”
“No sir. If you step down now it’ll prove you had nothing to gain by Fairlie’s death. It won’t stop the rumors but it’ll take the force out of them. Their target will be a retired politician, not the incumbent President of the United States. There’s a world of difference.”
Howard Brewster reached for a cigar but did not light it. He studied it for a very long time. Lime felt the busy hum of the White House through the soles of his shoes.
Finally the President spoke. “The idea of nominating Andy Bee to the Speakership—was that your notion, Bill?”
“A lot of them thought of it, or something like it. Naturally. But they didn’t act on it because they weren’t sure it would work—they all assumed you’d fight it bitterly and none of them had the strength left for another battle. They’re scared, Mr. President. We’re all scared.”
“But you put them up to it.”
“You could say that. It’s still uncertain. If you decide to fight it they may not even introduce the measure. You’ve got enough loyal supporters to maintain a filibuster from here to tomorrow noon.”
“Putting me exactly where Hollander was twenty-four hours ago, hey?”
“It’s not quite the same. But close enough.”
Suddenly Lime felt the presidential eyes drill into him. “You sir. What do you think?”
“I don’t count, Mr. President. I’m just a gumshoe.”
“You’ve got a brain in your head. A good one. Tell me what it thinks.”
“I think you’ve been a pretty good President, sir. And I think the people voted you out of office last November.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Lime.”
The President’s attention dropped to the cigar in his fingers and Lime glanced at Satterthwaite. They were both thinking the same thing, Lime felt. The President hadn’t really been seeking advice from him; he’d been looking for something deeper—a clue to the realities that lay outside this room. He knew he still had the authority to say “Frog” but he was no longer certain which way the people would jump in response.
Brewster was in fact awesomely close to Hollander’s position of yesterday and he knew it, visibly. Once again, dizzily, the country had a choice. Andrew Bee was the closest thing to Fairlie it was possible to offer. Bee would be acceptable to the left because of his politics; paradoxically he might be equally acceptable to the right because he did have a lawful claim to the office, he represented everything the voters had mandated, and his position would appeal to the sympathies of those who held to strict adherence to law and Constitution. Only the blessing of one man was needed—a man who sat in a historically unique position because he alone had the power to decide which of two men should become President of the United States.
THURSDAY,
JANUARY 20
12:00 noon EST “Hold up your right hand and repeat after me.”
The cameras zoomed in close on the face of the next President. Lime reached for a cigarette without taking his eyes off the screen. On the couch Satterthwaite stirred his coffee. Bev stood behind Lime’s chair watching the television screen, massaging the back of Lime’s neck.
“… do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me God.”
Satterthwaite bounded off the couch and strode to the set to turn the sound down. His burning magnified eyes rode around to Lime. “He could have told us the minute you and I walked into the office yesterday. I feel like a prize ass.”
“Uhn.”
“You figured it out before I did. Didn’t you.”
“Maybe,” Lime said. “I guessed; I wasn’t sure.”
“But you didn’t tell me. You could have warned me to pull in my horns. You didn’t.”
“I thought it was up to him to do that.” Lime stretched drowsily; tipped his face back and peered into Bev’s smiling upside-down eyes.
“Not telling me,” Satterthwaite muttered, “that was his way of punishing me for losing the faith.”
Bev from her experiential wisdom of years in the Speaker’s office said, “Andy Bee’s a Republican of course,” as if that explained everything.
Perhaps it did. Brewster was an old-line Democrat and that was why it hadn’t occurred to him until Krayle had got him out of bed yesterday to tell him Satterthwaite’s scheme.
On the screen President Andrew Bee was launching into a low-keyed Inaugural Address and the camera pulled back to show the others on the dais with him: Howard Brewster prominently at his right elbow, looking attentive and content—almost smug. It brought to mind the smile Brewster had shown yesterday when finally he had said to Satterthwaite, “Have Perry set up the television room.”
“Yes?”
“I made my decision hours ago, Bill. I’m afraid you’re too late to change my mind. I tried to reach you quite a while ago but I suppose you must have been out at Andrews to meet Mr. Lime. Nobody knew where to reach you.”
Satterthwaite had reddened. “And you’ve just been letting me shoot my face off.”
“It helped. It wasn’t an easy decision—I’m glad to have had confirmation from both of you. Bill, I’m sorry the idea of nominating Bee to the Speakership didn’t occur to me before it occurred to someone else. It’s the only answer—the only way out of this bog we’re mired in.”
Lime had caught Satterthwaite’s wry tail-of-the-eye glance. They had expected appeals to loyalty, friendship; attempts to reason, to fight; threats and pleas. Now it was like throwing a fist against an opponent who had obligingly fallen to the floor a split second before you tried to hit him. And the President was taking pleasure in it.
The Brewster smile broadened. “Haven’t you ever known me to give in graciously?”
“Not where your whole political career was at stake.”
“My political career ended last November at the polls, Bill.”
“And you’re giving up without a fight.” Satterthwaite’s tone was laced with disbelieving skepticism.
“I never refused to fight,” the President said. “I fought pretty well, I think. I just lost, that’s all. You fight, you lose, you go home and lick your wounds. That’s the biological law. The arguments you’ve been raising here this morning—I’d be a prize fool if I hadn’t thought of them long before you proposed them to me. Now if there’s nothing else I’d suggest you set up the news conference, Bill. And get Andy Bee on the wire for me.”
After that there had been the frantic telephoning and organizing and caucusing. It took pressure and persuasion to bring some of the leaders around: they got balky because they felt they were being treated cheaply. First Brewster had railroaded his “emergency measure” through. Now Fairlie was dead, the emergency measure stood ready to fill the gap, and suddenly Brewster didn’t want to use it—he wanted something else instead.
In the end he had got what he wanted, but not because it was his wish. The House voted to seat Bee simply because he was an alternative to Brewster as Brewster had been to Hollander. But it had taken herculean work from Krayle and all the others and even so it had barely squeaked through, more as a protest against Brew-ster’s high-handedness than as a gesture of support for him. The vote had come through at seven-fifty this morning.
Bev said, “Hadn’t you better go home to your wife?”
Lime jerked upright and only then realized she was talking to Satterthwaite.
“I probably will. No place else to go anymore.” Satterthwaite gave them a benign look, got up and reached for his coat.
Bev’s strong fingers kneaded Lime’s back. Satterthwaite was moving to the door; Lime kept him in view.
Satterthwaite waved his coat grandly. “It’s pretty funny when you think about it, David. You and I have changed the history of the planet and what do we have
to show for it? We’re both out of a job.”
Lime neither spoke nor smiled. Satterthwaite had his hand on the knob. “What sort of unemployment compensation do you suppose you have for people who saved the world for democracy?” His laughter, very off key, rang behind him after he had left.
Lime put his cigarette in the ashtray and closed his eyes. He felt Bev’s strong ministrations” and heard faintly the mutter of Andrew Bee’s steady reassuring voice.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1972 by Brian Garfield
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
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