The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  “As you wish, Mr. President.”

  “It’s what I wish, Paul.”

  In ten minutes it was agreed the challenger would dethrone the champion in Las Vegas, and the president showed some enthusiasm for the first time that day.

  When Paul Blake returned to his quarters, annoyed at his failure to get anywhere with the president, he considered phoning his aides to pick up on the speech about cuts in domestic spending. Surveying his office, it amused him that if cuts were to be explored, they might begin with those he had made in his own office. It was a modest white-paneled cubbyhole, and the desk he used was an oak one of routine government issue.

  Blake moved to the desk, skimmed the overnight cables, decided that there were none that required the president’s immediate attention. About to ring his aides, he realized that he had not completed his task of drawing up Underwood’s remaining schedule for the day.

  Bringing a white pad and pen before him, Blake began to outline the schedule. He jotted the following:

  10:00—Full cabinet meeting.

  11:30—Sign papers.

  12:30 to 2:30—Lunch in President’s Dining Room with President Noy Sang of Lam-pang, to be joined by Secretary of State Morrison and Chief of Staff Blake. After lunch, conversation to continue in the Yellow Oval Room.

  3:15—Photo opportunity in the Rose Garden. Awards to the Boy Scouts of America.

  5:00—Watch heavyweight title fight in the Red Room on the third floor.

  Having completed his list of notations, and after reviewing them to be certain he had omitted nothing, Blake buzzed his secretary and requested that she type it and distribute it immediately.

  No sooner had his secretary departed than the blue intercom White House telephone rang.

  This usually proved to be the president.

  Blake lifted the receiver at once.

  The caller proved to be not the president but the first lady in person.

  “Good morning, Paul, did I catch you at a busy time?”

  In his courtliest manner, Blake replied, “It’s never a busy time when I have a chance to speak to you, Alice.”

  “How nice of you. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Do you have the president’s final schedule for the day ready?”

  “Almost. It’s being typed this very minute.”

  “I’d like to see it, Paul.”

  “It’ll be distributed to you automatically.”

  Blake could almost hear Alice Underwood pout on the phone. “I’d like to see it sooner if you please,” she said.

  Blake was immediately pleased. He welcomed any opportunity to be in the first lady’s presence. “I’ll get it to you sooner than soon. I’ll bring it to you myself.”

  “I don’t mean to interfere with your work.”

  “Not at all. Give me five minutes. Where will you be?”

  “In the First Lady’s Office.”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  There was a pause. “The president’s schedule hasn’t been distributed yet, has it?”

  “Not yet. Do you want me to hold it off for any reason?”

  “Possibly. We’ll see. I want to look it over first.”

  It was ten minutes before Blake, hair freshly combed, necktie in place, schedule in hand, entered the First Lady’s Office.

  She was behind her polished desk in a quilted swivel chair, staring through the window at Lafayette Square.

  When she heard him, she came to her feet. She started across the room to the chintz sofa beneath the wildflower prints on the wall.

  As she signaled him to the down-filled armchair beside the sofa, he hesitated an instant to watch her walk.

  She was perfection. He had never in his life seen a woman better put together. Alice was wearing a sheer white silk blouse, the lace brassiere visible underneath, and a short shantung skirt. Her long legs, in the flesh-colored stockings, were breathtaking.

  Even his own wife, who had good legs and regular features, seemed somewhat less and even dowdy by comparison.

  Alice Underwood was seated on the sofa, crossing her legs, and Blake found himself hard put to remember what he was expected to do next. Then, with effort, he remembered and walked stiff-legged across the room to settle in the armchair beside her.

  “Paul,” she said, “the president’s schedule—did you bring it?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled the schedule free, and unfolded it.

  She reached out impatiently. “May I see it?” He handed the schedule to her, and she quickly scanned it.

  “What I’m interested in,” she said slowly, “is what the president has lined up after lunch. I see he’s having lunch with that woman from Lampang.”

  “Yes, Madame Noy Sang.”

  “What an odd name,” said Alice absently. “Is this some kind of social lunch or what? I mean, is it a courtesy thing?”

  Blake could not see where she was going, but he decided to be forthright. “It’s somewhat more important than that. Which is the reason Ezra Morrison and I will be there, too.”

  “I see you’ve allocated two hours for it,” said Alice. “Isn’t that a long time for lunch?”

  “The time isn’t set aside only for the lunch,” said Blake. “First there will be the amenities, the usual process of getting acquainted. The really serious business of the meeting will take place after lunch, when we all move into the Yellow Oval Room.”

  “Does all that have to take two hours?”

  “Well, not necessarily,” said Blake cautiously. “It could be compressed to an hour and a half.”

  Alice leaned toward him. It caused her breasts to jiggle, and Blake was momentarily disconcerted. Alice asked, “Can you compress it to an hour and a half?”

  “I’m not sure, Alice. What do you have in mind?”

  Alice spoke earnestly. “You remember when we came into the White House and you wanted me to have some do-good activity? We felt anti-drugs and anti-alcohol and help for retarded children had all been opted by previous first ladies. You were the one who suggested arts and education for me.”

  “I still regard it as a good choice,” said Blake.

  “Okay, you know that among other things, I became very involved in the new Contempo Museum. Well, we’re having a high tea there as a fund-raiser, mostly for patrons. I’m expected to speak and I will. But I’m far less effective at that than Matt. I want him to join me at the Contempo and say a few words, too. Surely that’s as important as Lampang. I mean, he can still have his talk with that woman from Lampang and find time to be effective at the Museum. Isn’t that possible?”

  Paul Blake hesitated. When he had gotten Alice into arts and education, he had specifically had in mind doing things for the poor and underprivileged. The patrons and backers of the Contempo Museum were hardly in that class. They could not be thought of as needy. The tea and the appearance of the president would merely be added icing on a cake that was already overly rich.

  “I—I don’t know, Alice—” Blake began.

  Alice was immediately on her feet. She had made an inroad, and did not mean to lose it. “Come on, Paul, dear, you can do it, an itty-bitty favor. Please.” She bent over him and kissed him on the cheek, and in doing so one of her breasts brushed his uplifted hand.

  Shaken, Blake retreated. “Well—”

  “Come on,” Alice burst out. She hugged him, and be could feel both those magnificent breasts. “For me, for my cause.”

  For Blake, any further resistance was gone. He tried to adjust himself to her face over his. “Well, I suppose it could be done.”

  “You’re a doll!” Alice exclaimed, pressing her lips against his. “Thank you.”

  “I—I’ll rearrange the schedule.”

  “It’s easy,” said Alice briskly, straightening up. “Matt hasn’t seen his final schedule yet. Mark in that Lampang woman from twelve thirty to two, and then have Matt drive over to the Contempo Museum with me by two thirty.” She handed the schedule back
to him. “Will you do it immediately?”

  “Immediately,” he said, staggering out of the deep chair.

  Alice had him by the arm and was leading him to the door. “I’ll expect Matt to pick me up at two thirty.”

  He was out the door and in the corridor. Alice had closed the door behind her.

  Blake knew that he had been manipulated. Those warm lips. Those soft breasts. They had been worth it.

  Starting away, Blake asked himself, What did it matter? An hour and a half more or less with some woman from the South China Sea.

  Blake told himself the president might even be grateful to escape a half hour sooner.

  Forty minutes earlier, Chief of Staff Blake had made another change in the president’s schedule and had sent out a special memorandum by hand to the interested parties.

  He had postponed the full cabinet meeting.

  He had been concerned with his failure to brief the president on Lampang earlier, and felt that the meeting in the Cabinet Room should concentrate on Lampang entirely, on what the president should be ready to give and expect to receive. With this concentration on the immediate subject of concern, there was no need to be burdened by the secretary of agriculture, the secretary of commerce, the secretary of transportation, the attorney general, and other members of the president’s staff.

  Entering the Cabinet Room, Blake could see at a glance that the necessary officers had been alerted and were on hand. Blake greeted the secretary of state, the CIA director, the secretary of defense, and the three officers of the National Security Council, and then he took the leather chair next to the president’s vacant one.

  “How did your pre-briefing go with the president?” Morrison wanted to know.

  Blake grimaced. “Lousy.”

  “What does that mean?” Morrison asked.

  “It means lousy,” said Blake. “The president didn’t give a damn about Lampang. He only wanted to speak of the heavyweight fight in Las Vegas later in the afternoon.”

  “Then our work’s cut out for us,” said CIA Director Ramage.

  “Right you are,” said Blake. “It’s got to be Lampang and more Lampang. That’s why I cancelled everyone else. I wanted to concentrate on what’s waiting for the president at lunch.”

  They were planning their briefing of the chief executive when a door opened and President Underwood came into the room.

  Tall and erect, he appeared to be in good humor. He brushed back his hair, grinned at the assemblage, and said to no one in particular, “What’s been going on behind my back?”

  Making his way to his leather chair, he greeted everyone in the Cabinet Room by name.

  “We’ve been discussing your lunch with Madame Noy Sang,” Blake told the president as he settled into place.

  “Is it going to be a long lunch?” the president asked.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Morrison assured him. “After some get-acquainted talk with the Madame, you can wind up lunch and we’ll move into the Yellow Oval Room. That can be strictly business.”

  “I just wanted to know because I didn’t want to miss the big fight,” the president explained.

  “You’ll have plenty of time for that,” Blake promised. “This lunch and meeting with Madame Noy Sang is scheduled to last one and a half hours. Then the first lady expects you to accompany her to the opening of the Contempo Museum and say a few words, maybe five minutes’ worth, about an important fund-raiser. That’ll give you plenty of time to get back for the fight.”

  The president surveyed the room. “I see a lot of our friends are missing and you’ve brought in only the big brass.”

  “Deliberate,” said Blake simply. “Since you’re going to be bargaining with Madame Noy Sang, we wanted our full concentration to be devoted to a treaty with Lampang.”

  “Fair enough,” said the president. “This lady I’m lunching with—can anyone tell me what she’s like?”

  Secretary of State Morrison leaned forward. “We don’t know exactly. None of us has met her. You remember her husband was president of the island when he was assassinated. She was vice-president, as per custom in those parts. So she inherited his seat.”

  Underwood nodded. “Yes, I remember. I’ve seen her picture in the press. She doesn’t look too formidable.”

  Ramage entered the conversation. “She isn’t, Mr. President. Our station head in Lampang, Percy Siebert, says she’s a small, gentle woman, and was in shock and retreat a long time after her husband’s death. In effect, she gave it a year of mourning and the entire year to learn her job for herself.”

  “And now that a year has passed,” said Morrison, “Noy Sang is coming out of seclusion. Her first trip abroad is this one to the United States. I suppose mainly because she needs us.”

  “Money, I’m sure,” said the president.

  “There might be a little more,” said Blake, “and it could be sentimental. Noy Sang has been in America before. Some while ago. She spent four years doing undergraduate work at Wellesley.”

  The president seemed to perk up. “That’s where Dianne is at school,” he said proudly. “She’s now in her senior year.”

  Everyone was supposed to know, and did know, that Dianne Underwood was his twenty-one-year-old daughter.

  “That’ll give you something in common to talk about,” said Blake, “before you settle down to the nitty-gritty.”

  The president nodded. “All right, what’s the nitty-gritty?”

  Morrison had been busy drawing a map on the page of a long yellow pad. He tore it loose and came around the table to the president. Addressing Curtis Cannon, the secretary of defense, he said, “Curtis, take my seat and give me yours. This will make it easier for me to explain a map of the South Pacific and beyond, which I’ve been drawing.”

  The exchange was made, and Morrison squirmed into the chair beside the president and placed the yellow sheet before him.

  “What’s this?” the president wanted to know.

  “A crude drawing of the Far East, highlighting our major air bases that help us contain any over-enthusiasm that may occur in North Korea, China, Vietnam, and Cambodia.” Using his pen as a pointer on the map, Morrison resumed. “As you can see, Mr. President, our Pacific Air Force has three major wings. Not counting Hawaii, which is Pacific Air Force headquarters for the 15th Air Force, we have three large air bases. Here’s our air base in Japan for the 5th Air Force. Here’s our air base in South Korea for the 7th Air Force. Here’s our air base in the Philippines for the 13th Air Force. Do you see anything unusual about my map?”

  The president shook his head. “Not especially.”

  “Well, look down here. What do you see?” The president stared at the map. “An island, a large island and two small ones.”

  “Lampang,” said Morrison. “We have no air base there.”

  “And you want one there?”

  Morrison raised his head and met the president’s eyes. “We not only want one there, we must have one there. That would give us a base a stone’s throw from Cambodia, Vietnam, and China, all Communist.”

  “I see. How do we get it?”

  “By depending on your own power of persuasion and undeniable charm to reduce Madame Noy Sang to a compliant puddle,” said Morrison. “We’ll outline what we want from her, and what we can give her in return.”

  “Go ahead,” said the president.

  Morrison looked down the table. “Curtis,” said Morrison to the secretary of defense, “let’s trade seats again.”

  They did so.

  Firmly settled beside the president once more, Cannon said, “Mr. President, I’m going to tell you exactly what we want from Madame Noy Sang. You don’t have to commit it all to memory. I have our demands typed out on several cards for you. You can refer to these when you and Madame Sang get down to hard business.”

  He drew several cards from a pocket and passed them to the president, who placed them in his own pocket.

  “Okay, go on,” said the president
.

  “What we want is an air base on roughly a hundred and thirty thousand acres in Lampang. About ten thousand of those acres will be needed for various buildings and other facilities. There should be room for ten thousand Air Force personnel, and about fifteen thousand native civilians and contract employees.”

  “What about the airstrips?” inquired the president.

  “There’ll be plenty of room for two vital runways,” said the secretary of defense. “One long one will take about fifty fighter planes—F-5s, F-4Es, F-4Gs, and maybe room for twelve F-5Es.”

  “Do we have to buy all this property?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to suggest that, even if it were possible,” Secretary of Defense Cannon said. “The base itself, excepting planes and buildings, would be owned by Lampang. What I foresee, and what Madame Noy Sang will undoubtedly want, will be a mutual agreement between Lam-pang and ourselves. We get a long-term lease on the base—perhaps ninety years if you can swing it —in return for substantial aid to Lampang in American dollars,”

  “What’s substantial aid?” the president asked.

  Cannon looked across the cabinet table at Morrison. “Have you got a figure, Ezra?”

  “I have two figures,” said Morrison. “These are based on inquiries I’ve made of my Far Eastern experts. Alan Ramage has also been helpful and given me a lot of input from the CIA. The first figure is the low figure. It may work, because Noy Sang is so desperate. Play around with that figure, Mr. President.”

  “How much is it?” Underwood asked.

  “A hundred twenty-five million dollars.”

  “That sounds substantial enough to me,” said the president.

  “To you, sir, but it may not to the president of Lampang,” said Morrison. “While she might not be too sophisticated, she’s been in office a year and has an idea of what we need. She knows her ace in the hole is the air base. She knows its importance to our national defense. So she may be a little hard-nosed about all this and bargain for more.” Morrison considered what he wanted to say next. “The fact is, Mr. President, you can go for more Put on the appearance of being a good guy and go for the higher loan.”