The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America

by Michael Kurland

  “Right, good thinking. Not just soldiers, though—Special Forces, maybe. They’re good, loyal men, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re trained and indoctrinated for that.”

  “See if you can line some up. I’ll give you the word. Meantime, keep an eye on this Jubilee business. Try to get a date. Let me know if it hots up.”

  “I’ll stay on top of it,” St. Yves said. He headed for the door. Vandermeer might talk to himself, St. Yves thought as he left the office, but he still had a sharp, incisive mind and stayed right on top of business. The President was lucky to have such a man at his right hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Aaron Adams drove cautiously down Dumbarton Street to Wisconsin Avenue and made a left, pulling his car to the curb right past the corner. There had been five cars behind him and none of them made the turn. He waited two minutes and pulled out and went halfway up the block to a garage and turned in. It was three-thirty in the afternoon of Tuesday, the twenty-first of December: three shopping days until Christmas. Even an unimportant shopping area like the middle of downtown Georgetown was crowded with shoppers.

  Adams guided his car up the circular ramp to the fourth floor, where he paused briefly. When he came back down Kit Young was in the seat next to him.

  The bored attendant at the exit glanced at the time on the ticket and at his clock. “Not here long,” he remarked.

  Adams nodded. “So it goes,” he said, handing the attendant a dollar. He turned right on Wisconsin and headed out toward Montrose Park.

  Neither he nor Kit spoke to each other until he had found a place to park. They got out of the car and strolled past the snow-dusted tennis courts.

  “We should be reasonably safe now,” Adams said. “Unless they’ve got your overcoat bugged. Which, come to think of it, I wouldn’t put past them.”

  “I have some news,” Kit said, tugging the collar of his tweed overcoat up around his ears.

  “I hope so,” Adams said.

  “You know, I can’t even talk about things when I get home, for fear the damned Plumbers have put a bug in my light switch and a TV camera behind the mirror over my dresser. Miriam’s starting to show the strain, and I think I’m developing a twitch on the right side of my face.”

  “The waiting is the rough part,” Adams agreed. “But hang on, we’re almost there.”

  “So are they,” Kit said.

  Adams looked at him sharply. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “They’re wise. They’ve found out.”

  “Who’s found out what?” Adams demanded. “Come on, man, be precise.”

  “I’ll be as precise as I can,” Kit said. “They—and by ‘they’ I mean Vandermeer and St. Yves, and presumably the President—know about the coup.” He stopped walking and smiled a bitter smile. “How does that grab you?”

  “Keep talking,” Adams said. “How do you know?”

  “St. Yves told me we have to be prepared for a coup attempt. ‘We’ meaning them, you understand.”

  “What did you say?” Adams asked. “When did this conversation take place?”

  “The funny thing is,” Kit continued, “that for a minute I had no idea he was talking about us. I mean I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought, but the possibility that he knew about Jubilee never entered my mind. ‘What coup?’ I said. ‘Who’s attempting a coup? Left wing or right wing?’

  “‘A congressman named Porfritt doesn’t think we’re holding the new elections fast enough,’ he told me.

  “‘Porfritt,’ I said to him, trying to figure out where I’d heard the name before. Aaron, I was really trying to figure out if I’d ever heard of this guy Porfritt. Talk about induced schizophrenia. The me that works for the White House is a different person. I mean, there’s a lot of psychological suppression going on while I’m there. Then as soon as I get off, I become this other person, convinced that St. Yves is having me followed.”

  “Yes,” Adams said.

  “Does any of this make sense?”

  “Of course,” Adams said. “You’re under strain, and you’re not used to it. Not this sort of strain. Tell me exactly what St. Yves said.”

  “We’ll have to give it up,” Kit said. “They’re not onto the rest of us, yet. At least half the time I think they’re not, and the other half I think St. Yves is being subtle.”

  “What did he say?” Adams asked patiently.

  Kit concentrated. “He said that Representative Porfritt was part of a coup attempt. That they were having him followed to find out who else was in on it. That they didn’t think it had gotten very far. No—he said that Vandermeer didn’t think it had gotten very far but that he wasn’t sure. And that Jubilee was an identity code or a go code, he didn’t know which.”

  Adams seemed to have regained his cool. “That’s it?” he said.

  “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’? Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not enough to cancel the mission.”

  “What will it take, the sound of fists pounding on your door at midnight?”

  Adams shrugged. “Try not to worry about it.”

  Kit looked at him.

  Adams managed a smile. “I’m not insane,” he said. “I expected the operation to be partly blown at some stage. It was bound to happen, just by the laws of chance. As few as we are, we’re still too many to keep a secret for long. Remember, the German High Command knew the date and location of D-Day. Now, we’re lucky enough to know when and how we’ve been blown. If we’re smart, we can cause their interest in Obie to lead them away from us.”

  “I see what you mean,” Kit said, thoughtfully. “Will Porfritt go along?”

  “We can’t tell him,” Adams said. “It would make him too nervous.”

  “He’s going to be pissed when he finds out.”

  “I’ll apologize.”

  A flurry of snowflakes, blown from nearby trees, filled the air around them. Kit suddenly had the impression that everything had become incredibly clear and unbelievably three-dimensional around them. “I keep thinking that a coup can’t work—not in the United States.”

  “It can, Kit. What we must do is become a legitimate government as quickly as possible.”

  “How do we do this?” Kit asked.

  “That’s where our friend Congressman Obediah Porfritt comes in,” Adams said. “We’re going to have the House vote a bill of impeachment against the President and rush it over to the Senate for trial. Once the bill is voted, the removal of the President from his seat of power attains an air of pseudo-legitimacy. Then his house of cards comes tumbling down, and we all live happily ever after. If we’re still around.”

  “Then the military personnel we’re lining up is just a smoke screen,” Kit said.

  “By no means,” Adams told him. “We have to go in and grab the President. We have to fight off the White House guards and the Secret Service men and get him away and under arrest for this to work. And we have to hold the White House and the surrounding area for long enough so that any ‘loyal’ troops who come in to rescue him are convinced and lay down their arms. Unfortunately, unless we’re damn lucky, a lot of those innocent soldiers are liable to end up shooting at each other, as well as at you and me. I plan to be lucky, you understand, but there is an imponderable element of—luck—involved.”

  “It’s going to be harder than you think,” Kit said.

  “How’s that?”

  “St. Yves told me they’ve decided to recruit a new presidential force to deal with that sort of thing. An elite corps based around a nucleus of newly released Special Forces people. They’re going to start recruiting for this group in the next few days.”

  “Fascinating,” Adams said. “Who’s doing the recruiting?”

  “St. Yves,” Kit said. “He asked me to send along any likely-looking prospects.”

  “And indeed you will,” Adams said.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  Tuesday, Decembe
r 28, 1976 (2:14-2:30 p.m.)

  MEETING: The President, Vandermeer, and Ober

  AUTHORIZED TRANSCRIPTION FROM THE EXECUTIVE ARCHIVES

  Vandermeer and Ober are in the Oval Office. The President enters.

  P. Billy. Charlie. Have you heard? That makes eighteen.

  V. Congratulations, sir.

  O. Eighteen what?

  P. States. Eighteen states tied up to pass the repeal of the Twenty-Second Amendment.

  O. Eighteen already. We’ve got those citizens’ groups in every state now, don’t we?

  V. Citizens for the Repeal. Yes. A spontaneous show of support for the President and the administration. Can’t have this lawless element taking over our society.

  P. Damn right.

  O. Speaking of the lawless element, how’s the coup coming?

  V. It makes progress. Thanks to the indiscretion of Congressman Porfritt, a few more of the pieces have dropped into place.

  O. I still think it’s dangerous.

  V. Not at all. It can be controlled. Jubilee will be our creature, not theirs.

  P. Did you find out who their leader is?

  V. No. But we’re closing in. And his identity doesn’t matter now. It will all come out at the trial.

  O. I still think that we should announce a date for new elections, sir. Then it would make the coup attempt seem even more dastardly.

  P. No elections. Not yet. I haven’t heard any popular groundswell in favor of elections. I have a very sensitive ear on such things. The people don’t want elections, they want safety. Law and order. The people are afraid. And a frightened people need a strong leader. Not that there shouldn’t be elections—at the right time. After all, this is a democracy.

  O. That’s right, sir. The American people aren’t ready for elections yet. After the coup attempt, we’ll be able to get the repeal through in jig time. Then an election. When there’s no question that you can run.

  P. The country needs me.

  V. The ground is still radioactive at the Capitol.

  P. How’s that?

  V. They can’t begin rebuilding yet. It will be another couple of years before they begin rebuilding.

  P. What’s that? The Capitol?

  O. The Capitol architect has come up with a really fine plan for the rebuilding. In the meantime, the Senate can continue to deliberate in Ford’s Theater. Wait until you see the model!

  P. We’ll set up a command center in the bomb shelter in the basement. Get the media in on this. It will be quite a show. They have any military units besides the Eighty-Second?

  V. We doubt it. If so, they have to be very small. When they find out that they don’t really have the Eighty-Second, that should break the back of the operation. But, of course, by then it will be too late to back out.

  P. How are those new boys working out? The Special Forces group?

  O. The first unit is set up. Twelve men. They’ll be the corps commanders of the group as we expand.

  P. I think, “Special Federal Police Force.” How does that sound?

  V. Too formal. What about “Executive Police”?

  O. Maybe.

  P. It has to have the right sound. The name is all. And the dress uniform. Very important. A really impressive dress uniform. I like the feel of the, you know, the coup thing. Let them carry the ball through the defense—almost to the goal line. Then smash! Hit them with everything we’ve got. Cream them. And mop them up on national television.

  V. The greatest show of the season.

  O. We just have to make damn sure we don’t get hit by a surprise end-around play. Or something. I still worry.

  V. We’re secure on this one.

  P. Maybe Charlie has something. We should go for protection in depth. Some group ready to slide in and provide defense when we need it. Some outfit standing by, ready to move. And when the morning comes, we attack with the sword in our right hand, the marshals, and defend with the shield in our left hand—this group. Whoever.

  V. I’ll get on that. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong on this. There’s too much at stake.

  P. Damn right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Major Connor Fitzpatrick was a short, stocky man with a round, swarthy face, thick black hair, and shrewd eyes. He peered about suspiciously as he entered the downstairs bar of E. J. O’Reilly’s Alley Pub and walked toward the rear. At first he didn’t see Colonel Baker, or perhaps didn’t recognize him in civilian clothes, so he strode up to the bar and ordered a draft beer.

  Baker stayed quietly in his shadowed corner, nursing his scotch and water, and took this opportunity to observe Fitzpatrick, who had leaned back against the bar and was facing the door, obviously under the impression that the colonel hadn’t yet arrived.

  On the surface, Connor Fitzpatrick was a calm, self-possessed man with the restrained air of command that the Army looks for—and so seldom finds—in its officers. Colonel Baker, who had spent years training himself to read below the surface, felt that a man revealed himself most clearly when he thought himself unobserved. So for five minutes he sat and watched Major Connor Fitzpatrick, commanding officer of the 404th Military Police Battalion, as he fidgeted, adjusted his tie, checked his watch, and worked at suppressing a growing impatience and irritation.

  Major Fitzpatrick, Baker was pleased to observe, handled growing impatience well. One of the traits necessary to a good officer, or a good conspirator, is the ability to wait.

  Just as Colonel Baker was beginning to think about attracting Major Fitzpatrick’s attention in some unobtrusive manner, the major spotted Baker at his corner table. For a second he wasn’t sure it was Baker. Then a look of annoyance passed over his face. He casually sat down.

  “Glad you could make it,” Colonel Baker said. “Good to see you.”

  “I could have made it a few minutes earlier,” Fitzpatrick pointed out, “if I’d known you were back here.”

  Baker shrugged. “It gave me a chance to see whether anyone followed you in here,” he said.

  The thought seemed to startle Major Fitzpatrick.

  “People follow people these days,” Baker added. “It’s in the air.”

  Fitzpatrick looked around. The bar had a few other patrons, but none close enough to catch the conversation, and none who seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to the corner table. “About what we were discussing the last time we met—I’d like you to be more specific.”

  “Specific?”

  “About my part, I mean. Just exactly what do you want me to do, and what will it accomplish?” He finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another one. “I’m the commander of a battalion of MPs. Three companies of men armed with sidearms. An armory full of carbines, except for a few M-1 rifles with their stocks painted white for parades. This isn’t exactly my idea of the invincible strike force in the coming revolution.”

  Colonel Baker leaned forward, his arms on the table, and stared off somewhere to Fitzpatrick’s right, in the general direction of the front door. “You can be of great assistance,” he said in an intense, low voice, “take my word for that. But before I get into it in any greater detail, I’d like to know—we’d like to know—how you feel about the project.”

  Fitzpatrick leaned back. “When asked by the judge whether he advocated the overthrow of the government of the United States by force or violence,” he said in a conversational tone, “the little man admitted that he rather preferred force, if it was all the same to the judge.” He paused, brooding into an empty glass of beer, and appeared to be slightly startled when the waitress suddenly appeared and replaced it with a full one.

  “I’m a career officer in the United States Army,” Fitzpatrick continued. “It’s all I ever wanted to be, and I’m satisfied with it. For the last eight years I was in Counterintelligence. It’s not a great, glamorous job—you know that—but I enjoyed the work and I was good at it. Very good. I speak eight languages. I knew more about the Soviet intelligence networks in Indochina
than they did.”

  Fitzpatrick made an indecipherable gesture involving both hands. “And here I am,” he said. “A spit-and-polish major in charge of a spit-and-polish MP battalion right in the middle of goddamn Washington goddamn D. of C. And all because I wrote a position paper—my job, you see, writing position papers—that said we ought to zig when the politicos really wanted to zag. So, as you might guess, we zagged and got our asses handed to us. This did not please the President. So I got pegged for disloyalty, relieved of my job, and shipped back to the States.”

  “I see,” said Baker, who had heard the story before from another source.

  “It’s not that I’m pissed about losing my job,” Fitzpatrick said, “although I am. I’m frightened of a man with ultimate power who fires anyone around him who tells him he’s wrong. By now I’m sure there isn’t anyone who works within a square mile of the White House who’s prepared to disagree with the President. I think this fellow should be stopped. But I’m not going to stand up there with you and try to stop him unless I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you’d expect from me and my three companies of men in white gloves. If you have us scheduled to assault the Executive Office Building, or neutralize the Pentagon, we may have nothing further to discuss.”

  “Can you control your men?” Baker asked.

  “If I can control my officers,” Fitzpatrick said, “I can control my men. And I can handle the officers.”

  Colonel Baker leaned forward. “If you had to create a traffic jam—a real monster of a traffic jam—do you think you could do it?”

  “I haven’t been at this job for so very long, but some of my sergeants directed the Normandy landing—according to them. We’re trained to clear up traffic jams, of course, but if they can clear it up, I’m sure they can fuck it up.

  “You might want to practice that a bit,” Colonel Baker said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I feel an unwilled speeding up of my pulse,” Major Fitzpatrick said. “We do live in exciting times.”