The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

“Thank you, Paul, dear, thank you. It does a lot for a woman to hear that.”

  “You must hear it a good deal.”

  “Not enough,” said Alice, pouting. “Thank God for you and some gallantry.” She changed the subject. “There are a few things I want to talk to you about. You must understand that they’re personal and that this is confidential.”

  “Between us,” said Blake. “You have my word.”

  “I’ve always known I could trust you. Paul, when something confusing comes up, especially when it relates to Matt, there’s no one to turn to—except you of course.”

  His eyes shifted from hers downward to her décolletage.

  “Say anything you wish, Alice,” he said quietly. “Speak your mind.”

  Alice nodded. “About last night at dinner in New York. You were there with Matt and Dianne, and that—what’s her name?—Noy Sang woman, weren’t you?”

  “Throughout the dinner, then on the plane with them to Boston.”

  “I’m interested in the evening,” said Alice. “I’ve heard two versions of it. Matt, of course, tells me nothing. I mean, as if there weren’t a thing to report. Dianne, on the other hand, was more forthcoming, so I have some idea of what went on. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

  “Like what, Alice?”

  “I want to know if the president behaved.”

  Blake was bewildered. “Behaved?”

  “Specifically, I want to know how he behaved with Madame Noy Sang. Did he gush over her? Was he attentive to her? Dianne says he was attentive. I have the impression he was more than routinely so. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say he was attentive.”

  “There are two ways of being attentive to a woman, Paul. Politely or specially.”

  Blake considered this. At last he answered. “It was more than politely. In fact he praised her a good deal to Dianne.”

  Listening, Alice felt she wasn’t getting enough from Blake. She could get more. She could stun and excite him by taking him into the bedroom, into bed; but it was unthinkable, even though she had thought it.

  “Let me put it to you another way,” Alice said. “Do you think my husband’s interest in Madame Noy is only political? Or is it something other than that?”

  Blake had been staring at Alice’s exposed knee and thigh. He tried to keep his mind on what she had been saying. It was elusive, but he fastened on to it. “Truthfully,” he found himself answering, “I don’t think Matt is the least bit interested in Lampang.”

  “Then you’re saying he’s interested in Madame Noy?”

  “I can only guess, Alice. But yes, I’d say his interest in Lampang has to do with Noy. Not politics. Noy.”

  “You feel certain of that?”

  “Consider the evidence,” said Blake. “From the start, when she first came here, when he met her, he broke all commitments and his entire schedule that opening day with her. He was supposed to give her a limited loan. He gave her a huge loan. He was supposed to get a large air base from her. She wanted to allow only a small one, and he gave in to her wishes. She was to go home that night. He cancelled everything and spent yet another day with her. When her sister died—someone Matt didn’t even know—he dropped everything to fly all the way to Lampang to attend the funeral. Then I’m sure you watched television and saw him go swimming with her—”

  “I saw,” said Alice stiffly. “I saw her in that sarong.”

  “Wouldn’t that indicate his interest in her is personal and special?” His eyes were once more on Alice’s thigh. Then he said indignantly, “You don’t deserve that, Alice.”

  “Well, then, what it comes down to is Noy herself. I suppose I should know more about her, and what there is about her that interests him.”

  “I’m sure there’s little I know that you don’t know.”

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “In an exotic fashion, I guess. But certainly not as beautiful as you, Alice.”

  “Thank you, Paul.” She paused. “This Noy, she’s a widow, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a widow all right.”

  “If this nonsense with my husband goes on, I may be regarded as a widow also. As a loner, at least. Paul, how did Noy’s husband die?”

  “He was shot in his office by persons unknown. The Communists were supposed to have done it.”

  “How could that have been?” Alice wondered. “I remember Matt saying her husband was friendly to Communists.”

  “Not quite,” said Blake. “Prem Sang had been trying to accommodate them, absorb them into his government. Many people were impatient about that.”

  “Paul, that doesn’t sound right to me. I’d like to know how he really died. Every detail.”

  “I don’t think anyone has that information fully, Alice. Although I could try to find out what’s known to date.”

  “How?”

  “Ezra Morrison should know. Do you want me to speak to him?”

  “Could you be a dear and do that? Question him confidentially of course.”

  “I’ll do that at once.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” said Blake, regretfully taking his eyes off her and rising. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I know something.”

  Once he had his appointment, Blake decided that it would be safer to see Ezra Morrison at the Department of State.

  In Morrison’s vast office, Blake found it difficult to settle down. He paced about, waiting for Morrison to sign some papers, and when Morrison was done, Blake dropped into the leather chair across from him.

  “What can I do for you, Paul?” Morrison inquired. “Is this for the president?”

  “It’s for the first lady.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a personal matter. Confidential. A favor.” Morrison snorted.

  “I’d do her any favor, if she’d do one for me. I’d love to fuck her.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” said Blake.

  “You, too? Not that I care for her that much. I just have a hunch she’d be fun between the sheets.”

  “Well, you can forget it, and so can I,” said Blake. “Alice has her mind on her husband.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She wants to keep him,” said Blake. “She wants to be first lady, not second lady, and she’s a little nervous about the time he’s spending with Madame Noy Sang.”

  “The Madame’s not bad either,” Morrison said. “If I could get there, I wouldn’t mind a tumble with her.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what is on Alice’s mind concerning Matt.”

  “You think he’d do something?” said Morrison.

  “He’s done plenty already,” said Blake.

  “So the first lady is worried about Madame Noy. What’s any of this got to do with you?”

  “Alice wants to know more about Madame Noy Sang,” said Blake. “I guess the way a football coach scouts and wants to know more about the opposition.”

  “What’s to know that the public doesn’t already know?”

  Blake came forward in his chair. “How Noy’s husband, Prem, died, how he really died.”

  “That’s not my cup of tea, Paul. He was shot by assassins.”

  “That seems to be a fact. The missing fact is, How did he really die? Alice wants to know who was behind it.” Blake paused. “Maybe she wants to know if Noy was implicated. Although that’s doubtful. Still…”

  “Official word is the Communists.”

  “Also doubtful,” said Blake. “Who really?”

  Morrison shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. If anyone here knows, it would be someone in Langley. Ask Director Ramage. The CIA is supposed to know everything.”

  “Would Ramage tell you?”

  “No. Not on your life.”

  “Is there any way you can find out?”

  Morrison twisted uneasily in his swivel chair. “There might be ways. Maybe.” He stared at Blake. “Level with me, Paul. How important is this to you?”

&n
bsp; “How important is the first lady to us?”

  “I see, it’s like that,” said Morrison.

  “Alice wants to know,” said Blake. “She insists. I told her I thought I could find out. Could I?”

  Morrison was thoughtful. “Possibly.”

  “Will you pursue this further, Ezra?”

  “I can try.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Morrison laid his arms on the desk and met Blake’s anxious eyes.

  Morrison pushed himself to his feet. “Give me a few hours.”

  Not long after leaving Paul Blake, Ezra Morrison let himself into the luxurious apartment on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown that Mary Jane O’Neil owned.

  At first glance, it was difficult to associate her with Alan Ramage, the CIA director. For a deputy director for operations, one would have expected a young lady who was brisk, efficient, somewhat masculine in manner. While Mary Jane might have been efficient on the job, she was neither brisk nor masculine. At five feet two, she was entirely feminine, playful, fun, although intense in her lovemaking.

  Morrison found her in the lacy bedroom, as he expected to. She was in a soft chair next to the bed, watching television. Today there were, as there had been every week, two glasses of Scotch and soda on a table beside the chair.

  “Hello, sweet,” Morrison greeted her, bending to kiss her fully on the lips. The lingering kiss induced an immediate erection, which rarely happened with his wife, and reassured him now as he reached for his drink.

  They both drank, making small talk, and the moment that Mary Jane’s drink was finished, she came to her feet and threw off her silk bathrobe. Already undressing, Morrison was mesmerized by her small, firm breasts and the thick patch of pubic hair between her legs.

  She went straight to the bed, and Morrison finally undressed, followed, and dropped beside her on the cover. Foreplay was brief. He wasted no time on preliminaries. He was ready.

  Mary Jane was as active and energetic as ever, and Morrison was pleased with his endurance. When they were through, he lay on his back, panting, and Mary Jane, satisfied, curled against his body. “You’re good, Ezra, very good. You’re the best I know. You’re spoiling me for all other men. Happy?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Why don’t you leave your wife and move in so we can do this every day?”

  “Mary Jane—”

  “I’m just kidding. You know it.” She fell back. “I wish I could do something as special for you.”

  Until then he had not given a thought to his earlier conversation with Blake. Yet it had been in the back of his mind as something he should bring up. Now, pleasured, his senses returning, he remembered Blake and what he must find out for him and for the first lady.

  “Something special for me?” Morrison repeated. “You already have, my love. Hey, wait, there is something else you can do.”

  “Name it.”

  “Uh, Mary Jane, I’m involved in a situation where I’ve got to know more about Madame Noy Sang.”

  Mary Jane was puzzled a moment. “That Lampang woman?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s anyone who’d know more about her than you do.”

  “This is something specific,” said Morrison. “I must find out how Prern Sang was murdered. Exactly who killed him and why.”

  Mary Jane sat up in bed, wrinkling her brow. “Even if I had the answer, I can’t discuss such things, you know that.”

  “I’m not asking for some top, top official secret.”

  “The best I can do is make an educated guess, from what I’ve heard,” said Mary Jane. “The United States was worried about President Prem and his relationship with the Communists. I think the feeling was, at least at Langley, that if someone could get rid of Prem, his wife would become president. But she’s an amateur, helpless, useless, inexperienced. When she runs in the next election, it seems a certainty that General Nakorn, a tough customer, could easily beat her. As far as the CIA is concerned, Nakorn is our man.”

  “Yes, he’d make life easier for us.”

  “He’d do our bidding,” said Mary Jane. “He’d go right at it, wipe out the Communist insurgents, and give us the biggest and best air base and defense in the South Pacific. So I’d say the strategy, the strategic wishful thinking, was to get rid of Prem, let Noy take over, then beat her legitimately in an open election.”

  Morrison was sitting up. “Very good. Yet someone had to take the risk of getting rid of Prem.”

  “Even if I knew, Ezra, I couldn’t discuss it. So let’s forget that part.” She stared at Morrison. “You’re looking chipper. Ezra, can you get it up again?”

  “It is up.”

  She reached out between his legs. “That’ll do nicely. Now’s the time to use it. I can think much better when I’m relaxed.”

  “Think about what?”

  “About whatever you’ve been asking.”

  “I want you to give it another try.”

  “After we have another try,” she said.

  “Lie down, Mary Jane. Enough talking.”

  Immediately, she was on her back. Morrison kissed her breasts and then got up between her legs.

  This was an extended one, better than the first, and noisy. They both came loudly, a few seconds apart.

  “How was that?” he asked, falling off her.

  “A winner,” she gasped. “I’m yours. You can have anything you want from me. You still want to know who killed Prem?”

  “It would be helpful.”

  “I’ll tell you, you rapist. I’m at your mercy. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Who killed President Prem?”

  She steadied her breathing. “The boss knows. Ramage knows. He set the whole thing in motion. It’s nothing he did or that the CIA would do. I’m fairly certain he sent the word along to Percy Siebert, our CIA station head in Lampang.”

  “And Siebert?”

  “I don’t know positively. Logically, I would think that Siebert transmitted our wishes to General Nakorn. Probably told him it was President Underwood’s idea. Now, you seducer, does that help?”

  “It does, sweet.”

  “Where did you hear all that? Not from me. A little birdie told you. Don’t dare get me involved.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Good.… Have you got one more left in you?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he was grateful. “Maybe. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll give you another drink and twenty minutes: Don’t forget, I’m counting the time on the clock.”

  Still somewhat exhausted from his acrobatics with Mary Jane O’Neil, Ezra Morrison prepared to call Blake.

  He hesitated briefly before picking up the phone to reassure himself that Mary Jane had it right. He had to remind himself that she was the CIA deputy director for operations under Ramage, and she would have it right.

  He had Blake on the phone at once.

  “Paul, are you alone?” Morrison wanted to know.

  “Relatively.”

  “I don’t mean your staff. I mean the president. Is he within earshot?”

  “He’s gone up to the Hill with the treasury secretary. He won’t be back for a while. What’s up? Have you got something for me?”

  “I do. I may have it all.”

  “Your source?”

  “About as high up as you’d want at the CIA.”

  “Can you tell me?” Blake was eager. “I want to know as soon as possible.”

  “Not on the telephone,” Morrison said. “I’d suggest you come over and have a quiet chat with the secretary of state.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll be here and I’ll be alone,” said Morrison. Forty-five minutes later, Blake was in Morrison’s office.

  Morrison buzzed his receptionist’s office. “No calls, Suzie,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

  Morrison walked over to the sofa and sat down beside Blake. />
  “I have as much as we’ll ever get,” said Morrison.

  “And you’re sure of your source.”

  Morrison smiled. “I couldn’t be closer to my source unless I fucked them.”

  “I’m listening, Ezra.”

  Slowly, choosing his words carefully, Morrison told the chief of staff what he had heard from Mary Jane O’Neil—without mentioning her name.

  When he was through, he said, “There you have it, Paul.”

  “But you don’t know exactly who was responsible.”

  “You mean, who sent the hit men? That’s unimportant. It’s enough to know that somehow they were assigned to get Prem with the full knowledge of Ramage, and with a clearance from the president. After all, the CIA notifies the president of everything in progress in its morning briefing book.”

  “Suppose Underwood didn’t know?”

  Morrison grunted. “I choose to think he did know. In any case, the president bears the prime responsibility.”

  “Incredible.”

  “What are you going to do with this information?”

  Blake got off the sofa. “I’m going to tell the first lady. I don’t know if it will make her happy enough.” At the door he considered what he would say. “It might,” said Blake. “Thanks, Ezra. I owe you one.”

  Having received Blake’s call, Alice Underwood readied herself for his momentary arrival in the First Lady’s Dressing Room.

  She posed in front of the full-length mirror, wearing only sheer black bikini panties and a lacy half-bra. Then she pulled on a black dress that she knew would slither above her knees when she sat down. She stepped into high-heeled pumps and sat to await Blake’s coming.

  When he came in, she signaled him to the chair immediately opposite her.

  After greeting her, Blake settled down low in the chair and made no pretense of looking at anything above her neckline.

  Her hemline was up high, and when she uncrossed her legs, he thought he could make out the wisp of panties at her crotch. He was certain it was her panties, and there was a dark triangle behind them between her legs.

  Alice quietly allowed him to enjoy himself. “You have something for me, Paul?” she said softly.

  What he wanted to tell her was that he had something better than talk. He had an embarrassing erection. He wondered if she was disgusted enough with her husband to give her husband’s chief of staff a chance. Then, reluctantly, he dismissed his erotic fantasies and tried to concentrate on the news Alice was waiting for.