Nope, there was no need for the White House press service to help disseminate news like that.
“We’re sitting in here because the glazier won’t be finished with the Oval Office for a couple of more hours,” answered Sunderland, without looking up from his desk.
“I see . . .” said Wesley, not knowing what the man was talking about. What was a glass cutter doing in the Oval Office? As far as he knew, the windows were okay.
The president entered, shook hands with Defense Secretary Wayne Henderson and Billy Johnson, Secretary of Homeland Security, then signaled for everyone to sit down. “Well, Lance,” he said to his new chief of staff, “do we have the Donald Beglaubter situation under control?”
The choice of words hit Wesley’s tortured soul hard—“the Donald Beglaubter situation.” Did he speak about what had been done to inform the public—because absolutely nothing had been done—or about sending condolences to Donald’s parents and his sister, who worked in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building next door? Did he mention the state funeral at Arlington Cemetery that was to be held on Monday? No. Could it be instead that Jansen meant silencing any speculation as to how things had gone so terribly wrong?
Lance Burton shifted on the sofa next to Wesley and nodded affirmatively.
“Very good . . . And who would like to start? Wayne, what are we saying now? Are we going to capture Moonie Quale by Sunday evening, as you promised us?”
During the past few days it had become easier to see that Defense Secretary Henderson was the government’s eldest member. Sometimes lined faces and wrinkled skin speak of a person’s courage and the experiences life has sent his or her way, and sometimes they tell more about the consequences of these experiences. Whatever the case, these past weeks had changed Wayne Henderson’s skin completely.
“Did I promise that?” Henderson attempted a smile, then realized how ill placed it was. “Yesterday we killed two of the militia coalition’s leaders, in any case, and last night we totally wiped out the Missouri Bushwackers. We’ve uncovered several of the coalition’s lines of communication, and we continue working as hard as we can. We’ve discovered close ties between the militia and rebellious military officers, and I absolutely believe we’ll soon have a decisive lead as to Moonie Quale’s whereabouts, certainly within the next forty-eight hours, I’d imagine. Until then, we’ll have to let things take their course.”
“Yes, and we know Quale’s been wounded,” added Billy Johnson. “Seriously wounded, as a matter of fact. If he goes to a doctor, we’ve got him, and if he doesn’t, matters will take their own course. According to my information, he won’t survive a week if his injuries aren’t treated.”
“Why shouldn’t the militias have their own doctors?” asked Wesley, Sunderland’s eyes piercing his temples.
“Yes, they do, and we’re well aware of this,” answered Johnson. “Which is why there isn’t a single hospital operation theater in the whole country that FEMA doesn’t have under surveillance.”
“I was thinking about field hospitals.”
Billy Johnson gave a wan smile. “Don’t you worry, Barefoot, we’ll find them.” President Jansen looked at Sunderland. “I understand we’re beginning to run out of space in the camps for the internees.”
“No, I don’t believe so.” Thomas Sunderland leaned back and tapped his ballpoint pen on his desk. “Our people are very efficient out there, but shouldn’t we take that matter up again later? General Powers’s helicopter is expected in half an hour.”
Wesley frowned. Efficient out there. What was that supposed to mean? It felt as though he’d never sat in a meeting with these men before now. He didn’t know them, had no idea what they stood for. Not anymore.
“Okay, we’ll get back to that later,” said Jansen. “It’s true, there are more important things on the agenda, but first, Billy, you have to tell me whether you’ve found Doggie Rogers.”
Wesley was on the edge of his seat. What now?
“No, not yet, but we’ve tracked her cell phone to somewhere between Philadelphia and Trenton, so we assume she’s headed for New York. It was a very brief signal, so we can’t be more precise, but that’s the lead we’re following for now.”
“Does she have relatives in New York?”
“No, but several of her old school buddies live there. We’re checking all possibilities.” Wesley noticed how, for a second, Jansen got a faraway look in his eyes, a stark contrast to Sunderland’s hard glare. She was still on the loose, but they were on her tail and they’d find her. And here he was, sitting on his hands, letting it happen.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. President, as far as Doggie Rogers is concerned, I believe she tried to get hold of you to ask you to stay her father’s execution because new evidence is supposed to have turned up . . .”
Sunderland smacked his pen down on the desk. “I’m well aware you’ve got your eye on Doggie Rogers!” He glanced over at Lance Burton. “But don’t you forget that this same Doggie Rogers assaulted me earlier today, a criminal act that could have ended disastrously. She has nothing new to say about the Bud Curtis case. On the other hand, it’s a fact that she was carrying a heavy object under her arm and was on her way to the president’s office, so I don’t think you should be pleading her case right now, Wesley. It’s inappropriate. One’s choice of acquaintances can have unfortunate consequences.”
“A heavy object? What heavy object?”
“It hasn’t been established by our surveillance video, so I can’t answer you on that, but while we’re on the subject, I would like to know when it was that you spoke with her about this evidence having to do with her father.”
Wesley sat for a moment, looking the vice president in the eyes. Should he say that he’d talked with her in his office just before she attacked Sunderland? He’d be surprised if Sunderland didn’t already know, but then he must also know their conversation didn’t show up on the tape recording. Maybe next, Sunderland would want to know how this could be, and Wesley would be forced to admit he’d put the microphones out of commission. This was a deciding moment. If he confessed, he’d lose his credibility, and what would happen to him then? They talked about camps out there; they talked about surveillance and suspiciousness. There was paranoia everywhere, so what couldn’t they do to him if they no longer trusted him? Several congressmen and other prominent persons came to mind who had disappeared recently. Would they ever be found? And would they ever let him leave the room if he finally said things straight out?
“I don’t think Doggie is guilty of anything serious, if she’s guilty of anything at all.” He tried evading the issue.
Billy Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll find her, Wesley, and then we’ll know. So there’s no need to worry. In the kind of war we’ve got out there at the moment, there’s going to be casualties.”
“Try to distance yourself, Wesley,” said Jansen. Wesley could sense he was irritated, but not to what degree. Still, it was a sign to keep his mouth shut. “We’re nearing our goal. Soon America will be the paradise we’re all dreaming about, and until then we just have to do our jobs.” He turned towards the others. “The British prime minister has contacted us again, gentlemen, and this time he means it. Terry Watts has informed us that, on his way to a state visit to Argentina, he wants to pay us an informal visit—tomorrow—and we propose to comply.”
“Tomorrow?! That’s what I call fair warning!” said the secretary of defense, the circles under his eyes darkening noticeably. Wesley knew exactly how he was feeling.
“If we accept, we have to make it public this evening, which means you two will be busy.” Jansen nodded at Lance Burton and Wesley. “We must assume that Watts basically wants to discuss our domestic situation, but of course that angle is out of the question, so find a plausible approach. And in the meantime, the rest of you see to getting the streets around the White House cleared and security me
asures optimized.”
“Why not hold the meeting at Camp David?” the secretary of defense suggested.
“No, the entire Catoctin Mountain area is too unsecure at the moment,” said Billy Johnson.
“Then I propose the meeting be held at the president’s country residence in Onancock,” said the secretary of defense. Wesley could see his point. How the hell could one hide the present situation in Washington from a foreign delegation on such short notice?
Jansen nodded. “Needless to say, I’ve already discussed that option with Billy, and he tells me that, even if we close Route 13 up by Pocomoke City, we still won’t have the folks down at Willis Wharf under control. Onancock is out of the question.”
Billy Johnson didn’t look proud of the situation. “I doubt the prime minister will appreciate having rotten fish—and worse—thrown at him.”
“Then what about Tangier Island? It’s got to be safe.” It was obvious Secretary of Defense Henderson didn’t want any summit meeting being held in his own backyard.
Then Jansen broke in. “We hold the meeting with Terry Watts here in the White House early tomorrow morning, and that’s that. You two discuss the security measures with your respective staffs, and see to it that the air space all the way from Dulles Airport is cleared of all traffic except Watts’s helicopter.” He turned to Lance Burton. “You’re in charge of the ceremonies and the state dinner, and you, Thomas . . .”—he laid a piece of paper on Sunderland’s desk—“you see to it that this agenda is delivered to the relevant departments. Why not let the State Department get involved and come up with some ideas? What the hell else have they got to do these days?” He gave a short, dry laugh. It wasn’t a laugh Wesley had heard before.
“Tomorrow, Watts and I will hold a short and concentrated meeting,” Jansen continued, “and after afternoon tea and the official banquet, our helicopter will fly his delegation back to the airport. Everything must be handled adroitly so we give the impression that everything’s under control and that we’ll soon be able to resume our peaceful trading with the rest of the world. Watts must be able to go directly to the so-called unfettered world press awaiting him in Buenos Aires and—from a totally neutral point of view—tell the media that what is happening in America is the realization of a long-recognized necessity, not the out-of-control revolution the world has made it into.” He pointed up at Sunderland’s bulletin board. “I think you understand what I’m saying.”
They all nodded, except for Wesley.
“Excuse me, Mr. President, but if I’m to write the press release, I must assume that Lance Burton has already been informed as to what it’s supposed to say. I mean, guidelines have already been laid down, haven’t they?”
Burton laid a hand on Wesley’s arm, but he shrugged it off and continued. “So, for me, the question is: Who do we send it to, when most of the media has been shut down during the past week? As I see it, there’s pretty much only NBC, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, the Herald Tribune, and Newsweek left, and we’ve severely curtailed their capacity to inform. Has the president considered how we’re to make the flow of news function if these few remaining national media sources suddenly go on strike? I mean, it could happen, couldn’t it? And if such a situation arises, have we considered letting people from various government departments take over the job? Because if we have, I’m really afraid that we’re currying the local and pirate radios’ favor, and especially disfavor.”
The president looked at him patiently. “By then there won’t be any more pirate stations, Wesley.”
“Okay. What I’m trying to say is, we can’t just settle for sending out press releases stating the official present state of affairs. We’ll also have to give the press some stories that aren’t completely predictable, stories so their readers won’t believe we manipulate everything.”
“Like what, for example?”
“Like that this administration has set a time limit on its current methods.”
“That’s coming, Wesley,” the president replied. “The British prime minister’s visit is the first step.”
“Yes, but, in the future, couldn’t we try to nuance our information—admit a mistake now and then—and find other stories that we can cast in a positive light? Small, everyday stories? Otherwise people will understandably lose confidence in the media.”
Thomas Sunderland gave one of his hard looks. “If you have some concrete suggestions, Wesley, then write them down and send them to our offices.”
The president interrupted his vice president. “I know what you’re thinking, Wesley, and you’re right. That’s an excellent idea. Give the media a little good news every day. Send your suggestions in to Thomas, and he’ll choose one.”
Wesley nodded. That was something, at least. “Thank you, Mr. President. Tomorrow I think we should run a story on the loosening of state control. That’s the kind of thing people want to hear. They don’t care about the British prime minister, just as long as they can return to their old way of life. It will make them relax.” He took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d expressed something meaningful. When one wants something bad enough, one imagines a scenario for achieving it—waiting for the right moment and believing one knows how it will feel afterwards. Herein is to be found the ingredients needed to give a feeling of happiness. And that’s how Wesley felt in that brief second where his boss nodded in agreement. But it lasted only the instant that it took to realize he’d capitulated, that he’d finally, definitively signed up as the president’s faithful errand boy. “It will make them relax,” he’d said. But what was so wonderful about that? Was that what he really wanted? Or was it actually the dream of being able to manipulate the populace that had propelled his career so far?
Jansen nodded. “Good, Wesley. You can write that distribution of foodstuffs will be normalized in the coming week.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Billy Johnson. “That’s a good idea, but I’m afraid we can’t keep a promise like that. The roads are still too unsecured. It could be weeks before we’ve neutralized the militias. Then of course there will still be the deranged loners to deal with.”
“Yes, but at least we will have expressed our good intentions, isn’t that correct? If something unexpected happens, it won’t be our fault. . . .” He turned to Wesley. “Right?”
He had no idea how to answer.
“That’s an excellent idea,” said Lance Burton, instead. “But we could also begin by naming the big-brother arrangement for drug addicts and violent criminals. That’s a so-called feel-good story, and besides, it holds up.”
The president pointed at Wesley and gave him a commanding look. So the resolution was adopted.
“Wesley and I will have a list of next week’s sunshine stories ready by this afternoon,” Burton bubbled on. Wesley was about to protest, but Burton lay a firm, cautioning hand on his arm.
Jansen smiled. “Good, then! And, as far as Bud Curtis is concerned, the subject has been exhausted. This isn’t the proper time for relaxing our system of justice. The vice president has just received a survey confirming that the people feel good about the releasing of prison inmates, but they also go in for the execution of those with death sentences. So we’ll be able to say this proves the American people are willing to accept the consequences of a national consensus. Of loving thy neighbor but severely punishing those who overstep certain limits.”
Wesley was about to ask how the survey had been made, since the opinion-poll institutes were no longer in operation, but he felt Lance Burton’s grip on his arm tighten.
“Here, friends . . .” The president tore some pages out of his yellow notepad and handed them around. “Now I want each of you to write down your honest opinion and give the piece of paper back to me. The question I want you to answer is whether we should continue practicing capital punishment in the United States. Write Y for yes, N for no, an
d DK for don’t know. Here . . . write.”
They each wrote down how they felt, folded the paper, and handed it back. Jansen sat for a moment, smiling. “Shall we guess that you’ve all written DK? Yes, I’ll bet you have . . .” He unfolded the yellow sheets of paper, one after the other, and his smile broadened.
“Voilà,” he said. “Everybody has written DK except for I believe Thomas, who has written a Y. Is that correct, Thomas?”
The vice president nodded.
“If you—the best and the brightest—can’t make up your minds, then we have no reason to assume the American populace feels any different, meaning that we deal out capital punishment, no matter what.”
Wesley was chagrined. He would have liked to have written N, but he had knowledge of far too many recent nasty crimes. About cannibalism and scenes of prolonged torture, about dismembered children and minds so sick that not even the most intensive psychiatric treatment had any hope of producing a positive effect or sign of atonement. He would have liked to say no, but couldn’t, thus making his vote meaningless. Jansen knew exactly what he was doing.
Wesley pulled his arm out of Lance Burton’s grip. “Where is it we’re headed, then? We execute people by the hundreds every day. If not in the prisons, then out in the forests or along the highways and back roads. How will it all end, if we don’t stop one day?”
“How will it end?” Jansen gave him a frown. “I’ll tell you how, Wesley: precisely with the fact that we will stop. One day people will have had enough.”
* * *
—
After the meeting, Wesley joined Chief of Staff Burton in his office. Burton informed his secretary that they wished not to be disturbed, that they had a lot to do and not much time. Then he slammed the door and stood before Wesley, hands at his sides.
The Washington Decree Page 32
