Shelley's Heart

by Charles McCarry

  “I hold it in my hand. It’s very persuasive, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Goddamnit, Carlisle, is it genuine or isn’t it?”

  “I called up Jack Philindros, the director of FIS—”

  “I know who Jack Philindros is. Get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a memorandum about this episode signed by Philindros in the file, and I asked him if the information we had been given reflected his own knowledge of the case. His answer was yes. Evidently FIS installed fail-safe devices in the computer to record abuses or unauthorized use of the equipment. These devices are connected to an earth satellite whose existence is known only to the director and a very small unit, code name ZIWatchdog, located somewhere in the desert in New Mexico, or maybe Utah or somewhere else; the file doesn’t say and Philindros wouldn’t tell me. Everything was sucked up by the satellite, even the pictures and sound recordings of the thieves at work—”

  “ ‘ZIWatchdog’?” Lockwood said. “You ever hear of that, Julian?”

  “No, sir,” Julian replied.

  Lockwood said, “An earth satellite only Philindros knows about? Who authorized that?”

  Blackstone replied, “President Mallory did, sir. It was launched during the second fiscal year of his administration with secret funds. According to Philindros, you knew about the satellite. Or at least Julian did.”

  “Jack Philindros told you that?”

  “Yes, sir. He wasn’t at all surprised by my call. He had all the facts at his fingertips.”

  “Looks like you appointed the right man director, Franklin,” Lockwood said.

  Mallory, who had been blessed with almost unbelievable luck in making important appointments, had nominated Philindros to be the first director of FIS. The Senate had confirmed his appointment to a statutory ten-year term. Under a new national security statute, his agency was modeled on the Federal Reserve Board—governed by trustees, independent of the President, and outside the political process. As one of the safeguards of its integrity, the director could neither succeed himself nor be removed except by a unanimous vote of the Foreign Intelligence Board. The FIS had replaced the Central Intelligence Agency after it collapsed under the weight of the failures and scandals resulting from its misuse by twentieth-century Presidents.

  Lockwood turned back to Blackstone. “Then these characters were on candid camera the whole time they were allegedly stealing the election?”

  “That’s the imputation. Philindros says these ZIWatchdog people out in the desert just came upon the material as a matter of routine.”

  “When?”

  “Over Christmas. They were working overtime because they were a couple of months behind. They’re outnumbered by the people using the computers and they have a tough time keeping up.”

  “Who handed this information over to Mallory instead of giving it to the duly constituted authority? Did Mr. Philindros have that fact at his fingertips?”

  “No, sir. He couldn’t explain how that happened.”

  “I’ll bet he couldn’t,” Lockwood said.

  “It may be relevant that the satellite was built under government contract by Universal Energy,” Julian said in a significant tone. The head of Universal Energy, an enormous multinational corporation, was Mallory’s close friend and adviser.

  “Hell, that was just Franklin helping out his old pal,” Lockwood said. “Nothing sinister in that. All right, Carlisle, what’s your advice?”

  Blackstone glanced at Mallory. Did Lockwood really want him to speak freely in the presence of the enemy?

  “Never mind him,” Lockwood said. “You’re not likely to think of anything Franklin hasn’t already figured out with the help of every lawyer in America except you. What do we do about this?”

  “That depends on what Mr. Mallory is going to do,” Blackstone said. “On the face of it, taking Philindros’s corroborating testimony into account, the information in the file could conceivably constitute grounds for a federal judge, even a Supreme Court justice, to issue an injunction against your taking the presidential oath at noon tomorrow. Of course there’s no precedent for such an action, but there are plenty of right-wing judges who would love to reverse the results of the election. That includes at least four Mallory appointed to the Supreme Court.”

  During his single term as President, Mallory had appointed four justices besides the dead Chief Justice who shared his philosophy. This happened in a single year after two members of the Supreme Court retired, one died of natural causes, and two were assassinated by terrorists.

  Lockwood said, “Suppose some half-ass judge does issue an injunction. Then what?”

  “Then you’d have to fight it out in the courts, for starters,” Blackstone answered. “But the presidency would be vacant.”

  “What happens to the Vice President?”

  “If you weren’t legally elected, then neither was your running mate. Both offices would be unfilled.”

  “Then the Speaker of the House succeeds. You can’t tell me the Lord God wanted R. Tucker Attenborough to be President of the United States.”

  “In these circumstances, I’m not sure the Speaker would, in fact, succeed. The Constitution implies he can only replace a duly qualified President. If you weren’t legally elected, you’re not qualified. I don’t want to exaggerate, but this opens constitutional questions that have never before been contemplated. In any other country, the military would have to take over in a situation like this.”

  “The military?” Lockwood said. “Get a grip on yourself, Carlisle.” He turned to Mallory. “Is that what you’re going to do, Franklin—go for an injunction?”

  “That’s one possibility,” Mallory replied in a reasonable, friendly tone of voice, as if he were as much on Lockwood’s side as his lawyer. “But I hope we can work things out in a way that does less damage to the country. Watergate has been mentioned. Remember what that was like. Truth and decency went up the chimney, everyone went crazy, and a lot of people on both sides have stayed that way up to the present day. If you make the wrong move, it will happen again. You won’t be able to govern, and you’ll go the way of Nixon. Only worse; this time there’ll be no Jerry Ford.”

  “Are you offering me a pardon?”

  “No,” Mallory said. “I’m offering you a way out that serves justice and the good of the country. The key is to get this situation behind us quickly, using constitutional means. The Twentieth and Twenty-fifth amendments give you the power to control events yourself, instead of turning your fate over to others.”

  Lockwood’s eyes had narrowed to mere slits; the color had left his face. “Go on,” he said.

  Mallory said, “Under the Twentieth Amendment, you become President for a second term tomorrow at noon, whether you take the oath or not, and Willy Graves becomes Vice President. Under the Twenty-fifth Amendment, you have the power to appoint a Vice President, with the approval of Congress, in case that office is vacant.”

  “I’m not sure I agree that anyone can become President without taking the oath,” Blackstone said.

  Lockwood said, “Shut up, Carlisle. Let him finish.”

  “It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Mallory said. “This is what I propose to you. Take the oath if you want to—Graves, too. Then, on the podium, Graves resigns as Vice President. You immediately appoint me Vice President, explaining that you have learned at the eleventh hour that the election was stolen and you refuse to benefit from such a violation of the people’s trust. Then you withdraw on the spot and I become acting President until Congress certifies my election on the basis of a recount.”

  “And if it finds for me?”

  “Then I’m out of there and you’re President again. But that won’t happen.”

  Lockwood laughed, one single hillbilly whoop. “Breathtaking,” he said. “Breathtaking, Franklin, by God.”

  “You’d go out with honor,” Mallory said. “So much honor, in fact, that you could run again four years from now, more of an hone
st American than ever. I can’t run again, so you might win fair and square next time—you’ve done it before. It’s just that you just didn’t quite make it this time, Frosty.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says the evidence. Frosty, we’ve known each other a long time. Do you really think I’d invent something like this?”

  Lockwood did not answer the question. “And if I don’t hand you the presidency,” he said. “Then What?”

  “Then I’ll call a press conference on the grounds of the Capitol while you’re getting ready to take the presidential oath under false pretenses and make everything in the file, and maybe a little more besides, public.”

  “ ‘Maybe a little bit more’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means,” Mallory said. “Ibn Awad.”

  “If I don’t step down, you’ll throw me out and then try me for the murder of a lunatic who wanted to blow up all the Jews in Israel and New York. Is that what you’re threatening me with?”

  “I’m not threatening you with anything. Once the process starts, it will be impossible to keep anything off the public record.”

  “I’m not afraid of the truth. Never have been. Never needed to be.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because the truth as I understand it is pretty ugly. That’s why I let the Awad business alone last fall until you brought it up. I don’t want to go into it now, but if it’s the reason why your boys stole the election—and I don’t know what other reason there could be, even for a bunch of idealists like them—the truth will come out. Nobody can prevent it. We both know that.”

  Lockwood made no response. Even more tousled than before and clearly exhausted, he sat for a long moment with his head resting on the back of the chair. Then he got to his feet. His shirttail was out.

  “Franklin,” he said, “you dirty, rotten son of a bitch, you’re one of a kind.” There was admiration in his voice.

  “So are you,” Mallory replied. “And you’ll never have a better chance to prove that to the world, and to make sure of your place in history, than the opportunity I’m offering you. I promise you I won’t move against you before eleven o’clock in the morning. The whole thing is up to you. You have a chance to be remembered as the greatest of all American patriots. I hope you’ll have sense enough to grab it.”

  “I know you do. But Mrs. Lockwood didn’t raise no idiot sons. Now go on home, Franklin. Go on.”

  Mallory rose to his feet. “If I don’t hear from you personally by eleven this morning,” he said, “I’ll know we’ve got a fight on our hands.”

  Lockwood waved a hand. “Mind the steps on the way out,” he said.

  Julian Hubbard got to his feet, inviting Mallory to go ahead of him through the door.

  “That’s all right, Julian, I can find my own way out,” Mallory said. “I’m sure the President needs you.”

  * * *

  The President’s men waited to speak until the whine of the elevator ceased. In the ensuing hush, the grandfather clock, said by the Smithsonian’s curator of timepieces to have belonged to Andrew Jackson, ticked loudly. Several seconds passed before Julian Hubbard broke the silence. He said, “You’ve got to fight the bastard, Mr. President.”

  “Sure I do,” Lockwood said. “But how do I do it?”

  “Claim the presidency tomorrow. By the law of the land and every precedent in American history, it’s yours. Then preempt his press conference with a statement of your own. Throw the onus on Mallory. Get the whole thing out in the open in your inaugural speech. Remember, half the country hates Mallory, and everybody knows Jack Philindros is his man. When people hear that the FIS is involved in this, they’re going to scream bloody murder. From day one, people have got to see this for what it is—an attempt on Mallory’s part to steal the presidency. So go on the offensive. Investigate his report, find the holes in it, discredit it. Sue Mallory for libel. Haul him onto the witness stand, under oath. Destroy the son of a bitch once and for all. Go to the country. Go to your friends. Go for the jugular. Have no mercy.”

  “Suppose what he says turns out to be the truth?”

  “When did Mallory ever tell the truth? You can never admit the possibility that this is anything but a conspiracy to overthrow the government. If you give him the slightest benefit of the doubt, he wins.”

  Lockwood listened carefully. Then he said, “How about you, Julian? We heard Horace’s name mentioned tonight. Do you admit the possibility?”

  “I am not my brother’s keeper,” Julian said. “But there is a higher duty to democracy than abiding by election returns that would destroy it. We learned that in Germany in 1932.”

  Andrew Jackson’s noisy clock struck five. “Interesting point,” Lockwood said. “You two go on home and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

  4

  After leaving the White House, Mallory went directly to a house on Capitol Hill where he had lived with his wife when he was in the Senate. Between his election to the presidency and his inauguration, while she was still a young woman, Marilyn Mallory had died in her sleep of an embolism, in the same bed in which her widower now spent the few hours remaining before sunrise. In the ,eight years since her death, he had kept the place exactly as she left it. Tucked away in a row of identical Palladian-style houses, it was tall and narrow; the reception rooms were furnished with Hepplewhite and Sheraton furniture (English reproductions, but old enough to qualify as antiques), while the sitting room, library, and bedroom on the fourth floor were decorated as morning rooms, with comfortable chairs covered in chintz and many vases of fresh flowers.

  When Mallory came out into the sitting room after his shower at eight in the morning, he found his breakfast, a dozen fresh strawberries with yogurt and a cup of espresso coffee, on the low table between two sofas. Half a dozen morning newspapers, their pages pressed with a hot iron to dry the ink, lay on the table. All the front pages carried the same stories in the same positions under headlines that said the same things; he ignored them. The house was deeply quiet. The servants, a couple from El Salvador whom his wife had hired many years before, stayed discreetly out of sight. Though he usually rose at dawn, Mallory made it a rule to see no one before ten o’clock in the morning; he did not even take telephone calls before that hour, and normally devoted the time to reading, writing, and thought. He lived by a rigid schedule because he believed that routine set him free. Spontaneity was chaos.

  He gazed at the Capitol dome through the triptych Serliana windows of the sitting room. The morning was bright and cold. Swarms of police surrounded the Capitol itself. Military units, high school bands from all over the United States, floats, and other elements of the inaugural parade were forming up in the surrounding streets, and the breath of these hundreds of people had condensed into a man-made cirrus cloud that shimmered above their heads in the horizontal light. The soldiers, sailors, and Marines wore overcoats, and some of the teenage musicians were wrapped in blankets, boys and girls bundling up together. Meanwhile the bigwigs arrived on the other side of the Capitol and took their reserved seats. Being wrapped up in a blanket with a drum majorette, Mallory knew, was a hell of a lot more enjoyable than spending the morning making small talk with the sort of people who were able to get tickets to an inauguration.

  Mallory’s staff had already delivered copies of the file he had given to Lockwood, together with a letter from Mallory announcing his intention’ of challenging the election, to every member of his own party in Congress, and to reactionary members of Lockwood’s party. At precisely 11:20 A.M., the same package, with a slightly different statement in the form of a press release, would be handed to the broadcasting networks and the Washington press corps and faxed to every newspaper and radio and television station in the country. At 11:30, as Lockwood was taking his seat on the podium on the west front of the Capitol, Mallory would hold a press conference on the steps of the east front. He knew that this choice of place and time would enrage Lockwood’s people and torment the
news media, which would be forced to think about two things at once, a feat normally beyond their capacity.

  Mallory had never imagined that Lockwood would call him at eleven o’clock and offer to hand over the presidency. The advice he had given Lockwood the night before was excellent, and following it would certainly be in the best interests of the country and of Lockwood himself. But Lockwood was a politician to the depths of his being, and his office was all he had. Like most political figures of his generation who embraced progressive convictions, Lockwood had never in his adult life been anything but a politician. The only life he knew was public life. Unlike his heroes, Jefferson, Jackson, and Lincoln, he had never taken a mistress, fought a duel, or stood up for an unpopular cause. Every idea he had ever espoused was politically correct and brought him praise and approval among the opinion makers. The only money he had ever earned was government money: he had gone through a state college on an athletic scholarship, served for a while in the Army, where he played football and basketball instead of leading a platoon of rifles in Korea like many of his classmates now dead. Back home, after marrying a rich girl from the Bluegrass whose family had influence in rural politics, he started running for office on the basis of his lovable personality, his humble childhood (he came from the hollows of the eastern Kentucky mountains), and his celebrity as an athlete. He had nothing to go back to, no other life to lead.

  This was not true of Mallory, to whom the presidency had been a way station. With the help of his wife, he had made a huge fortune in business before he was forty, and then began to run for office. By saying things about the nature of American life that middle-class voters regarded as home truths but the intelligentsia could not bear to hear, he made enemies. But as the desperate effort to deprive him of power by stealing the election had shown, a plurality of Americans wanted him to run the country. Having sought election, he had no choice but to do as they wished.

  Mallory finished his coffee and went into the library at the back of the house, closing the door behind him; the room, whose windows faced east, was filled with morning sunlight. He selected a book at random from among the thousands on the shelves. The one that came to hand happened to be Lord Macaulay’s History of England. He had heard that Adolf Hitler, with whom Mallory was often compared by his detractors in academia and the more literary press, used to read only the last chapters of books. Mallory read them all from front to back, then returned them to the shelf, sometimes for years, before taking them down to reread the passages that he remembered.