Noy pushed herself to her feet, glared at him, then walked past him to the inner door. “Matt, you needn’t bother to prove anything to me.” Her hand was on the doorknob. “I choose to believe you are to blame for this terrible tragedy in my life, and—and I never want to see you again.”
With that, she opened the door and was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
When he had left Blair House and been driven back to the White House, Matt Underwood’s mind was in turmoil.
Reaching the Oval Office, his first impulse was to find Alice and go after her until she told him where she had obtained the false information about him, and why she had passed it on to Noy. His next thoughts were to locate Blake and Morrison, and learn more about this whole mess.
Sitting at his desk, he considered his loss. He had been unable to convince Noy that he was innocent in the matter of her husband’s death, and he was bereft at the realization that she might never again speak to him.
Why these feelings about Noy? Underwood’s mind went back to Dianne, to his daughter’s certainty that he was in love with Noy. That couldn’t be, he continued to tell himself. He was a sensible married man. He was president of the United States, with a hundred other matters to occupy him.
But now the loss of Noy outweighed everything else.
There was only one thing to do. He must get to the bottom of the falsehood about his involvement with Prem’s assassination. He must dig for the truth, and once he had it he would finally be able to prove to Noy that he’d had no part in Prem’s murder.
That Alice would pin responsibility on him in order to turn Noy against him was not the whole story.
The missing part of the story was how Alice had got her hands on the information accusing him.
He must start with Alice and work backward until he arrived at the source of the malicious falsehood.
Glancing at the clock on his desk, he saw that it was close to midnight, and Alice might already be asleep. Anyway, he would find out and start with her.
Shoving aside the papers on his desk, he rose and went outside, where he was followed by a Secret Service agent. He strode along the colonnaded walk into the White House once more, and entered the small elevator, waving off the Secret Service agent.
Alice would be in the Queens’ Bedroom, he knew.
Entering quietly, he saw that she was stretched under the blanket of the canopied bed.
He went to see if she was awake. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her.
She stirred. Her eyes were shut, but she opened them briefly, and said drowsily, “Hello, Casanova.”
It was the kind of stupid remark she would make after she’d had her sleeping pill and was on the brink of sleep, and he was determined to contain his anger and try to speak to her before she was gone and unreachable.
“Alice, I’m back. Can you hear me?”
“A little.”
“I know you had a meeting with Madame Noy today.”
“Who?”
“Madame Noy,” he repeated.
Alice awakened slightly, but was fuzzy and hesitant.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I saw her. She came here. We had tea.”
“Why did you see her?” Underwood persisted.
“Your friend… I wanted to meet her.” A lapse, a struggle for wakefulness. “She—she’s pretty, all right. Don’t blame you.”
He tried to withhold his impatience. “There’s nothing to blame me for.”
“Oh, no?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly. “But I have something to blame you for.”
“What?”
“Alice, can you hear me?”
“Don’t shout.”
“Alice, why did you tell Madame Noy such a ridiculous story? You know I’m not responsible for her husband’s death. You know that’s not true.”
There was a long silence. Alice moved under the blanket. “I heard it,” she said.
“You heard I killed Prem Sang?”
“Never said you killed him. You’re too—too far —too cowardly to shoot anyone. I said you were responsible for the assass—whatever.”
He fought her sleeping pill. “Where did you hear that cock-and-bull story?”
“Heard it,” she whispered.
“From whom?”
“Can’t tell you. State secret. Please go away and let me sleep.”
Underwood grabbed her shoulder and shook her a little. “I’ve got to know the truth. Who gossiped such tripe? You’d better tell me. I’m not going to let you sleep until you tell me.”
There was another long pause. “Blake,” she muttered.
“Blake told you that? He’s only chief of staff. He doesn’t know a damn thing I don’t know. Where did he get his information?”
“Secretary of—” She sighed. “Morrison. Ezra. He told Blake.”
“What was Morrison’s source?”
“Dunno. Please leave me alone.”
He shook her slightly once more. “Alice—”
“What?”
“It’s a lie, and you must know that. I know nothing, not a thing, about Prem Sang’s death. Why did you lay that on Noy? What an awful thing to tell her—and worse, that it was my fault.”
She was half conscious. “Maybe… your fault.”
“It was not my fault,” he said loudly. “I had nothing to do with it, yet you believed the first thing you heard and carried on with it. Why, Alice, for God’s sake, why?”
There was a shred of consciousness left, and Alice made an effort to grasp it, although her voice was indistinct. “I—I wanted that sarong woman to stop coming… on to you. She’s a troublemaker. She’s a widow and wants me to be a widow, too, by taking you away. Won’t let her, especially since she’s a widow because of you. It’s you who did it to her, not me. Ask Morrison. Now go away and let me—let me have some peace.”
It was early morning in the Oval Office, and Underwood, showered, shaved, neatly dressed, was ready to do battle as Ezra Morrison came inside in answer to his stern summons.
Underwood waited for his secretary of state to be seated.
Once Morrison was settled in, Underwood lost no time. “Ezra, you’ve given me a helluva lot of trouble. I should fire you.”
Morrison was all innocence. “My God, Chief, that’s tough talk for this hour. Especially when I don’t know what in the devil you’re talking about.”
Underwood fixed angry eyes on him. “You’ve given me trouble with Madame Noy Sang. You’ve given me trouble with the first lady. You’ve accused me of an assassination. What in the hell haven’t you done?”
Morrison slumped backward in his chair, as if relieved. “Oh, that,” he said. “I’d half forgotten.” He sat up. “It’s simple, and I don’t mind being honest about it. As far as I know, for some reason unknown to me, Alice wanted to know every detail of how Noy had become a widow. She laid it on Blake to find out. Blake came to me; said the first lady was very persistent about this. He wanted to know the truth about Prem’s death for Alice. Blake was so anxious for the full story that I contacted the most discreet person I know at the CIA. I spoke to someone and found out what I could find out.”
“Someone?” asked Underwood.
“Privileged, Matt. Some things are privileged. Anyway, it’s not important who the someone was. Someone who presumably knew what was behind the killing. I learned it was a CIA scam. I’m not saying anyone there did it personally. It was just something to put on their agenda. Something that would benefit the USA. Hell, you get the CIA’s NW and FTPO reports daily. I was certain you were aware of it.”
Underwood controlled his indignation. “Well, I was not aware of it. Liquidate Prem? No, that was never in any report I saw.”
“Maybe the CIA role was secondary, not important enough to trouble you with.”
“Bullshit, Ezra. An assassination, even a hint of one, too unimportant to report to the president of the United States? The plan was never reported to me. I received no word fr
om the CIA. Are you telling me they deliberately bypassed me and acted on their own? They made me responsible when I had no responsibility? Dirty pool, dirty poker, plain dirty everything. Ezra, I’m going to get the answers to all this, and fast. I’m going to have Ramage in here within the hour, and I’m going to get the truth out of the director of the CIA.”
“Good luck,” said Morrison, rising. “You know, Ramage runs his own shop out there.”
Underwood stood up. “Maybe he does, but I’m the landlord, and don’t you forget that.”
After Morrison had left, Matt Underwood sat at his desk awhile, avoiding all calls, to see if he could determine how to handle Alan Ramage.
Soon enough, he realized there were no options. The only way to approach the director of the CIA was to do so directly and frankly. But this was not for a telephone conversation. This had to be done man to man.
At last, Underwood put through the call to Langley.
When he had the director on the phone, he said, “This is Matt Underwood.”
“So your secretary announced. How are you, Mr. President? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Alan, I want to see you here in the White House.”
“Sounds urgent.”
“It is urgent, Alan. I want you to get your ass over here immediately.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” said Ramage.
For Underwood, taking calls again, the twenty minutes went swiftly.
Finally Ramage was announced and was in the Oval Office.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
Unsmiling, Underwood gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Sit down, Alan.”
Taken aback by the president’s aloof manner, Ramage lowered himself into the chair and waited.
Underwood said, “This has to do with Lampang.”
“Lampang,” said Ramage. “I thought that was all under control.”
“Not quite, not quite,” said Underwood. He leaned forward on his elbow, eyes set on the director of the CIA. “There’s one bit of unfinished business I want to discuss.”
“Sure, whatever that can be.”
“It concerns the assassination of President Prem Sang.”
Ramage squeezed back in his chair. “What do you want to know about that?”
“Who did it?” Underwood asked harshly.
“Who did it?” Ramage echoed. “The Communists, of course. General Nakorn investigated it, and that’s what he came up with.”
“General Nakorn is a liar.”
“He is?” said Ramage, appearing surprised.
“I know who did it. We did it.”
“We? You mean the United States? You can’t possibly mean that.”
“The CIA,” said Underwood. “I guess that’s still part of the United States.”
“The CIA? You’re on the wrong track, Mr. President. We’re not in the business of assassination, and you know that.”
“You’re into some kind of nasty business in Lampang,” said Underwood, “and before you leave here I expect to know all about it.”
“You’d better clarify what you’re after.”
“I know some of it, Alan, so no more ifs or ands or buts. This is straight-arrow time. I’ve been informed we had a hand in liquidating President Prem Sang. Now I want to know if that’s true, half true, or not true at all. No more ducking. This is your president you’re speaking to. Now it’s my turn to listen.”
Alan Ramage did not disguise his discomfort. His eyes avoided the president’s as they went from one flag to the other behind the president’s desk.
He chose his words carefully. “The Company had some involvement, of course,” he said. “Whatever you’ve heard may be partially true, but I assure you it’s not completely true. I’ll give you the real scenario, as far as I know it.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and held it up. “Mind?”
The president did not mind.
Ramage flushed out a cigarette and put a lighter to it. “All right,” he said. “All right,” he said again. “We knew we had some enemies on Lampang. We knew that Prem would not give us the air base we wanted, and, more important, that he would not eliminate the Communist insurgents. We knew that if Prem should somehow be put out of office—”
“What does that mean?” Underwood interrupted. “What does ‘put out of office’ mean?”
“Not killed, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, rather, forced to resign. Maybe something debilitating that would make him resign. Then he would be succeeded by his wife, Noy, and she would be weaker, easier to handle. There would be an election coming up, and if she ran, she’d be running against General Nakorn, a proven friend of our country. He’d win in a walk and we’d get what we want from him. So I consulted with our station head in Visaka—Percy Siebert, whom I believe you’ve met—”
“Yes, I’ve met him.”
“—and I told him, I had no choice but to tell him after numerous meetings with Morrison, that we were unhappy with the president of Lampang and would much prefer his wife as president.”
“But there were no instructions about assassinating Prem.”
“None whatsoever. I told Siebert we had to find a means of getting rid of Prem Sang in an acceptable fashion. I told Siebert to ask around and find out anything he could about Prem that would make Prem throw in the towel.”
“Why was I not informed about this in your daily briefing book?”
Ramage squirmed uneasily. “It was a covert operation in a preliminary stage. I don’t like to involve you in covert operations until I know for certain what the CIA will do. I thought it was better to tell you about it after we had a direction, knew it could work out, and knew General Nakorn would soon be in the driver’s seat.”
“What happened next?” asked Underwood.
“I know that Siebert went to General Nakorn and requested his cooperation in finding a means to remove Prem from office.”
“And Nakorn chose the quick route—assassination.”
Ramage held up a hand. “Easy, Mr. President, we don’t know that for a fact.”
“We know the assassination happened. That’s a fact. Who else but Nakorn could have done it or ordered it?”
Ramage was less certain. “Any of a dozen or more men under him. He may have suggested they investigate Prem, and someone may have taken it upon himself to get rid of Prem. For all I know, Nakorn may have gotten the word to the Communists, and they did it.”
“They wouldn’t have touched Prem. You yourself said he was on their side.”
“Not totally. He was willing to talk to them, but not necessarily give in to their demands. They may have wanted to clean the slate for an easier, softer mark, namely Noy Sang.”
“I doubt it. I doubt it very much. I don’t think the Communists were responsible.”
“Then I don’t know who was,” said Ramage. “I don’t know where the responsibility lies, and I’m not sure that Siebert knows either. The assassination brings us to a blank wall.”
Underwood was turning it over in his mind. “Not quite. It was a Company decision, and I’m responsible for all CIA decisions.” He scowled. “This was done in my name. I simply was never informed. Had I heard what you were up to, I would have restrained you. I’d have been suspicious that your gang would let it get out of hand and lead to murder. This was done behind my back.”
“Forgive me,” said Ramage. “I don’t know how to put this to you…” He wavered to his feet, and paced back and forth before the president’s desk. Then he halted and held his gaze on Underwood. “Mr. President, I must be blunt with you. I’m not sure you’ll like it—”
“Go ahead,” said Underwood.
“I think it all has to do with how you’ve been handling your office. You’ve been delegating matters of state and defense to others, to National Security and people under them. I was aware of this. For that reason, I did not send you our report in its tentative outline. It was something I had every reason to believe you’d delegate
to someone with less competence than the CIA to act on.”
He returned to his chair and gripped the back of it. “Anyway, Mr. President, it’s all too late to change. It’s ancient history. There’s simply nothing that can be done about it anymore.”
The president stood up. “You’re wrong about that, Alan. There is something that can be done about it, and I’m going to do it. I’m not delegating this one. Good day, Alan. We’ll not discuss this further.”
Alone at his desk in the Oval Office, chewing away at the hamburger sandwich his waiter had brought in for his lunch, Matt Underwood considered what could be done about the mess he was in with Noy Sang.
There was only one way out, he saw, and he must act on it.
When his chief of staff returned to his own office an hour later, Underwood buzzed him and told him to come right in.
Paul Blake entered, a question on his face, and Underwood gestured him to the same chair that Ramage had vacated this morning.
Once Blake was seated, Underwood picked three sheets of paper off his desk and ran his forefinger down each one in silence. At last he looked up. “Your tentative schedule for the highlights of the next four weeks…” Underwood said.
“I hope it’s all satisfactory, Matt.”
“Fine. No problems.” He found what he was searching for on the second sheet. “Except for one change.”
“Yes?”
“The invitation to China. It says here I’ve been invited to attend an anniversary festival in Beijing and meet with the heads of the People’s Republic of China.” He raised his head. “Is that still in the works?”
“It is and it isn’t,” Blake said. “The invitation stands, of course. But when I first brought it up with you—well, you turned it down. You felt it was too far to go to watch some dancing and to talk with the Chinese leaders again about nothing of moment. You suggested we send the vice-president in your place. I haven’t revised that yet because I felt you should have more time to think it through.”
The Guest of Honor Page 18
