The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  “Trying to convince nine leaders of nations that have nuclear weapons—or the capability to make them—to give them up. Matt, you can do that more effectively as president.”

  “I can’t. Not as leader of the United States. My self-interests are suspect. But as an ex-president—”

  Alice had not been mollified.

  Underwood had tried to understand his wife. For Alice, four years were not enough. She wanted eight years. It was like being Miss America again, only bigger. She welcomed the spotlight. She would have loved it forever.

  Also, Underwood knew, she was competitive toward the first ladies who had preceded her. Alice was aware that Jacqueline Kennedy and Lady Bird Johnson had each had forty persons on their secretarial staffs as press and social aides, and Alice hoped for more. During two terms, Pat Nixon had been hostess at sixty-four state dinners, and Alice wanted to equal that record or surpass it. She liked to have a major domo in charge of seventy-five servants for the 132 rooms of the White House, and she did not want to give up any of it.

  So contention over a second term remained the strongest disagreement between them. He tried to retreat into himself, avoiding any further mention of the matter. Alice would not let go. She was as aggressive as ever, missing no opportunity to chastise him for his unwillingness to continue.

  Arriving at the Queens’ Bedroom, he was resolved to patch things up, get closer to Alice, heal their differences.

  He opened the door without knocking.

  Alice, in a flimsy white negligee, was comfortable in the American Sheraton canopied bed, a bed that had been used by five famous queens during their official visits to the White House.

  “Top of the morning,” Underwood called out. “I thought you’d like me to join you for breakfast.”

  Only then did he notice that there was a breakfast tray across her lap, from which she had been eating.

  “Too late,” she said cheerfully. “Next time let me know in advance. I’ve been busy with Monica—”

  Shifting his gaze, he realized that Alice’s social secretary, Monica Glass, was also in the bedroom, standing by the tall windows. Monica, who had been riffling through her briefcase, stared at him coldly.

  Underwood ignored the social secretary. For Underwood, Monica was too ugly to look at. She was bright and efficient, but her thick features were a put-off.

  “Too bad,” Underwood grunted, annoyed. “You busy today?” Alice asked, making a polite effort at public friendliness.

  “Fairly,” he said. “See you around.”

  Underwood closed the door, not softly.

  Proceeding to the northwest corner of the hail, Underwood reached the President’s Dining Room, a small room furnished with Federal pieces from the White House collection. Underwood liked the historical feel of the room, especially a sideboard that graced the West wall and still bore the inlaid initials D.W. for Daniel Webster.

  At the mahogany table in the center of the room the president’s appointments secretary, a clean-cut young man named John Zadrick, was already seated with his papers, waiting as the dining-room waiter, Babcock, poured his strong coffee, and then went to the serving cart to bring the president’s breakfast to the table. As usual, the president’s breakfast was austere—orange juice, a small bowl of cereal, and buttered toast.

  After Babcock had departed with his cart, Underwood sipped his orange juice and raised his eyes to his appointments secretary. “How does it look?”

  Zadrick said, “A light morning. You’ve got your usual meeting at nine o’clock with Chief of Staff Blake and Secretary of State Morrison.”

  Underwood showed his surprise. “Ezra Morrison? What’s Ezra doing there?”

  “As secretary of state, I suspect, he wants to brief you on your lunch.”

  “My lunch?” Then he half remembered. “Oh, yes, some diplomat—”

  “Not exactly a diplomat,” interrupted Zadrick. “Your guest—the guest of honor—is the president of a nation.”

  “What nation?”

  “Lampang, Mr. President.”

  “Lamp—what?”

  “The island nation not too far from the Philippines. You are to lunch at twelve thirty with Madame Noy Sang.”

  Underwood finished his orange juice and started spooning his cereal. “Noy Sang? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a native name, Mr. President. She’s been president a year, since her husband’s death. She’s been allocated two hours with you. Mr. Blake and Secretary Morrison will be lunching with you. I gather it is important.”

  Underwood wolfed down his cereal and reached for his coffee and toast. “How important can anything be about Lampang?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Never mind,” said the president, stopping him. “I’m remembering now—Lampang and the woman who runs it.” He snorted. “What’s on the agenda before that?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Because of the early-morning traffic, Secretary of State Ezra Morrison was running eight minutes late.

  Normally this was a relatively short ride from the Department of State to the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Actually, it was less than a ten-mile ride from the center of Washington, D.C., to Langley.

  Although his driver did his best, the traffic was intense every mile of the way.

  At last his driver took the limousine through the Dolley Madison entrance to the CIA headquarters. A guard with a clipboard routinely entered Morrison’s name.

  Once deposited in front of the blocklike glass-and-concrete building, Morrison stood to straighten out his gray suit—although of considerable bulk, he was always dapper—and then patting down his peaked, bushy eyebrows and scratching the itch on his potatolike nose, he went inside the foyer. The walls and columns, all marble, were as formidable as ever, with the walls carrying fifty-two small stars carved into them, one star for every CIA man who had lost his life in the service. The CIA motto etched on a single wall made Morrison inexplicably uneasy: YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE.

  On the floor, as he crossed it, Morrison was once more conscious of the CIA emblem: a circle bearing a star on a shield and the bold lettering CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY/UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  At the far end of the foyer two guards signaled Morrison up the flight of stairs that led to the badge room, where Morrison, to his annoyance, was still required to obtain his identification badge.

  There were five elevators waiting—CIA Director Alan Ramage’s private one, and four others—and Morrison took the one that led him nonstop to the CIA director’s penthouse office on the seventh floor.

  Once inside the vast office, with its signed Giacometti lithographs on the walls, along with a row of portraits autographed to Ramage from four presidents of the United States, and windows that gave a view of most of the 219 acres of wooded country on the Potomac, Morrison could make out that the others were already there. He nodded to the president’s chief of staff; who was comfortably seated across the desk from Director Ramage and his CIA deputy director for operations. Morrison gave a brief smile to the deputy director. She was Mary Jane O’Neil, a pretty and petite young lady, and Secretary of State Morrison had been sleeping with her for over a year. True, he had a wife and three children, but they were no problem, since his family understood that in his job there were no formal quitting hours. The year before, when he had first dined with Mary Jane, he had not only been taken by her but had been delighted at how friendly she had been toward him. Two weeks later, Morrison was blissfully ensconced in her double bed.

  “Sorry to be late,” Morrison said to the CIA director, setting down his fedora hat and his briefcase. “There must be a gold rush the way the cars are lined up out there.”

  “You’re on time,” said Ramage, shifting some long strands of hair from one side of his scalp to the other in a futile attempt to cover his baldpate.

  Ramage sat erect, as a former admiral might, and since he was a tall Texan, it enabled him to look down
on his visitors and aide. He was an urbane man, given a sanguine look and dignity by his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Absently, Ramage shuffled the papers before him. “Lampang,” he announced, and with that the meeting came to order. “I understand, Ezra, that you and Paul are briefing the president”—he checked his wristwatch—”in an hour. Does Underwood have any idea of what’s at stake here?”

  “I’m sure he knows,” Blake said, “but I wouldn’t say he’s very interested.”

  “He has to be,” said Director Ramage emphatically. “He must be made to understand.”

  Morrison waved off the director’s concern. “Don’t worry, Alan. There’s a cabinet meeting scheduled before he has his lunch with Madame Noy Sang. We’ll pound the facts, and our goal, into his head.”

  “The president will remember,” Blake reassured the director. “Even though he’s so laid-back, he’ll remember. He was good at that on television, and he’s just as good at it in the White House when he has to be.”

  “I hope so,” said the director.

  “Not to worry,” Blake reassured him again.

  “All right,” said the director, “let’s be sure we have it all exactly together before we try to brief him.”

  Director Ramage twisted toward his aide. “Mary Jane, you have copies of our memorandum on Lampang. Want to pass them out?”

  Mary Jane O’Neil stood up. No more than five feet two, Morrison knew, with a tremendous pair of boobs for one so small. Morrison pictured her as he liked best to see her. Nude and acrobatic.

  She was handing the memorandum to Director Ramage, and then she came around to pass one to Blake and saved Morrison for the last. As she gave him his memorandum, she allowed her hand to touch his.

  Morrison peered up at her excitedly, and she offered him a promising smile.

  As she returned to her chair, Morrison fixed on her undulating backside. Unforgettable cushions of love, Morrison thought, when you held each buttock in one hand.

  Morrison was beginning to get an erection, which he didn’t get often with his wife but always with Mary Jane, when the CIA director’s voice brought him up sharp and into the reality of the morning.

  “Lampang,” announced Director Ramage. “Let’s get right into it.”

  “All set,” said Morrison.

  Ramage sat back a moment. “Does the president know anything about it?”

  Chief of Staff Blake leaned forward. “A little. He knows a little about everything.”

  Ramage nodded. “Then you’ve got to brief him thoroughly, simply but thoroughly.”

  “We’ve got two opportunities,” said Blake. “I’m meeting with him shortly in the Oval Office. Then again after that at a full cabinet meeting.”

  “And he meets with Madame Noy Sang at noon.”

  “At twelve thirty,” said Blake, more precisely, “for lunch and talk. I’ll be in attendance and so will the secretary of state.”

  “Very well,” said Ramage. “Right off you should prepare the stage. Locate Lampang for

  “I think he knows where it is,” said Blake.

  “Make sure,” said Ramage. “Be as precise as possible. He’s got to know its relationship to Cambodia and southern Vietnam, and he must be made to understand how it will complete our defense perimeter.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” promised Secretary Morrison.

  Ramage was uncertain. “What he achieves with Madame Sang is vital to our interests.” Ramage began thumbing through the papers on his desk. “At the same time, he must be made aware of what kind of resistance he can expect from Madame Noy Sang.”

  “Do you expect much?” Blake wanted to know.

  “I can’t say.” Ramage found the sheet of paper he had been hunting. “Percy Siebert, our CIA station head in Lampang, gave me a rundown on Madame Noy Sang. I’ll give you the essence of his sketch.” Ramage consulted the sheet in front of him. “She comes from a good family; they own rice plantations and are well-off. They sent her to the United States for her college education. So she has a real awareness of our country. She married a left-wing liberal named Prem Sang, a scholarly man of forty-two, and ten years her senior. They had one child, a son named Den, now six years old. When Prem became president of Lampang on a platform of agrarian reform, his vice-president was his wife. Odd to us, but that’s the custom in that neck of the woods. I wouldn’t say Prem was exactly a friend of the United States, but he wasn’t an enemy either. He was really a nationalist. He wanted Lampang to be free and independent.”

  “Where does his wife stand politically?” Blake inquired.

  “I really don’t know,” admitted Ramage. “From what Siebert has told me, she goes along pretty much with her husband’s ideas. Now, after a year in office as president, and confronted with all the problems that exist, she may have relaxed her independent stand about the United States. Two things for sure. America’s only powerful friend on the island is General Samak Nakorn, head of the army, and his deputy, Colonel Peere Chavalit. America’s only powerful enemy on the island, or islands, is Captain Opas Lunakul, head of the Communist insurgents who dominate the two outer islands of Lampang Lop and Thon. Madame Noy Sang is walking a fine line in between.”

  “But she has to stand for something,” Blake stated.

  “She does,” said Ramage, “based on the information we’ve assembled. She needs our help to get her agrarian reform policy going. At the same time, she doesn’t want the Communists to propagandize that she’s selling out to a capitalist country that will exploit Lampang. Madame Noy Sang, has the people behind her—mostly peasants who take a dim view of communism. They want the land divided, the economy improved, and to get this they’d settle for U.S.-style democracy.”

  “Yes,” said Blake. “That would satisfy most of us. The question is how to achieve it.” He stared at the secretary of state. “That’s your department, Ezra.”

  Morrison acknowledged his responsibility. He came to his feet, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a folder. Returning to his chair, he leafed through the folder.

  At last he found what he wanted and extracted a page. Skimming it, he raised his head to take in the others.

  “It’s a trade-off,” Morrison said. “What it comes down to baldly is a trade-off. We give Madame Noy Sang something she wants to get what we want.”

  “She wants a loan,” said Blake. “Big dollars.”

  “Exactly,” Morrison agreed. “In return we want a big air base on Lampang.”

  Ramage roused himself. “That’s a tough decision for her to make,” he commented. “Considering her political situation, allowing an air base for our jets and bombers and agreeing to thousands of our personnel parked on her island is going to draw heavy objections not only from the Communist insurgents but the Madame’s own People’s Party. If she does it at all, she’ll want a lot of money in return.”

  “If she doesn’t do it,” said Morrison firmly, “she doesn’t get a dime.”

  “I can’t see that happening,” said Blake. “She needs us.”

  “And we need her,” said Morrison. “That’s why I say it’s got to be a trade-off.”

  “Well, let’s start with our part,” said Blake. “How much do we authorize the president to offer her?”

  “We’ll start low and work our way up slowly,” said Morrison. “Much of it depends on the numbers she brings to us. Meanwhile, I’ll confer with Secretary of Defense Cannon for his thoughts on what we can give for what we want. We’ll agree on a top figure and pass it on to Underwood at the cabinet meeting.” He turned to Blake. “Do you think you can handle the president on his pre-briefing—give him facts, no figures—before the cabinet meeting? I want to spend some time over at Defense first.”

  “I can manage,” said Blake.

  “Remember, save all figures for the cabinet meeting so that the president has them firmly in mind before his lunch. In any case, I’ll make notes for him to use as reminders. If he forgets, I’ll be there to back him up.” Morriso
n glanced around at the others. “That should cover it,” he said. “We’re ready for Noy Sang.”

  “I hope so,” said Blake, a little nervously.

  “Well, let’s just be sure the president is ready,” Morrison added. “This lunch, it’s an important one. Underwood has to come through. A little charm wouldn’t hurt.”

  Blake shrugged. “The question is—who’ll be more charming—Matt Underwood or Noy Sang?”

  After leaving the CIA building for the White House in his chauffeur-driven black limousine, Paul Blake, the president’s chief of staff, had entered the west basement. Nodding good morning to several National Security officers, Blake hastened up a narrow flight of stairs to his own office, two doors down from the president’s Oval Office.

  Inside, three of Blake’s aides, informally attired, were lounging about discussing the contents of a speech the president would soon deliver on cuts in domestic spending. After returning their greetings, Blake dismissed them, postponing the conference on the speech for later in the day.

  At the moment, he was expected in the president’s Oval Office to give his chief a general picture of the lunch with Madame Noy Sang.

  Seated across from the president, Blake felt at ease. He had known Underwood a long time. A graduate of Harvard Law School, Blake had eventually become a partner in a prestigious New York law firm that had among its clients Matt Underwood. Blake had been assigned to handle Underwood’s affairs from the start. Blake was a smallish round man with a cherub’s face. Clean-shaven, pleasant, with a constantly benign expression, his affability suited Underwood. So did his intellect and his ability at organization.

  Now Blake tried to fill the president in on the situation in Lampang. The president appeared to be only half listening. Gradually he managed to turn the subject matter to the heavyweight boxing championship fight in Las Vegas late in the afternoon. Who did Blake think would win?

  Blake wasn’t sure, and double-talked, knowing only who would lose if he didn’t get the president back on the rails about Lampang.

  The president was impatient. “Look, Paul, let’s get to Lampang later. Do I have to hear it all twice? Let’s go over it at the cabinet meeting, then it’ll be fresh in my mind when I settle down to lunch with Madame Sang.”