Shelley's Heart

by Charles McCarry

  She shivered—not from the cold, from a sudden chill of jealousy. Julian and Archimedes Hammett must be having the conversation that was the real reason for this weekend at the Harbor. She pictured them standing close together in the snow, with the frosted hemlocks and the skeletal maples all around them, talking politics. Even in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, Julian had left the damn thing running in case anyone tried to overhear. Who would the eavesdroppers be out here in the middle of nowhere—the ghosts of the Mahicans from whom the Hubbards had bought these woods almost exactly four centuries ago for a barrel of ale, a keg of nails, five hatchets, and £15? What could he and Archimedes have to say to each other that made them so conspiratorial? Or was it just male behavior that meant nothing at all, like most of the things men did?

  Speaking to herself again, she said, “I’m tired of waiting.” Although there was a strict rule, laid down by the Hubbard males, against skiing alone, she put on her skis and started off, following the track of the snowmobile with a rhythmic sliding stride that became easy as soon as she broke a sweat and the exercise loosened the muscles that had been drawn tight by a life without lovemaking.

  4

  After switching off the snowmobile’s engine, Julian said, “Listen.”

  “To what?” Hammett asked.

  “Just listen.”

  Wind soughed among the treetops, a haunting, premusical sound. A narrow brook, rising from a spring a little higher up the rocky mountainside, rushed downhill beneath the brittle crust of ice that covered its surface. In the remote distance a dog barked; the mountain caught the sound and threw it back to the animal. The dog barked back at itself. The wind-billowed snow was marked by the tracks of rabbits and birds and the dimples made by snow blown from the trees, and Julian knew that they would not have to go far from this path before finding the imprint of wing feathers in the snow where an owl had made a kill. Above all, it was clean and virginal.

  “This should be antiseptic enough even for you,” Julian said.

  “Antiseptic? I don’t get it.” Hammett was pretending not to understand what Julian meant, as he usually did when reference was made to his eccentricities.

  Throwing back his head, Julian read the Lucite thermometer that dangled from the zipper of his parka. “It’s four below zero without the wind-chill factor,” he said. “Germs can’t live in cold like this.”

  Hammett pounced on this boast. “That’s what you think. Four below zero means nothing to a virus. They live on asteroids at absolute zero.”

  “There goes another family story,” Julian said. “Way before the American Revolution, the Mahicans caught smallpox. One of my female ancestors set up a quarantine camp for them right near where we’re standing. They died like flies until the ground froze, then the disease went away.”

  “The weather had nothing to do with it.”

  “Thanks to you, I know that now, Archimedes. My cousin and I found the smallpox burial ground when I was a kid, in a sort of rock chamber under the roots of a maple. Skulls and bones. We’re standing on it right now.”

  “What cousin was that?”

  “Paul Christopher,” said Julian, naming a first cousin once removed who had been an American intelligence agent during the Cold War. He had spent years in prison after turning up in Communist China under mysterious circumstances.

  “Ah, yes,” Hammett said in instantaneous recognition; he kept a mental directory of all enemies of the Cause, past, present, and potential, and Christopher’s name had been in the newspapers. “The poet-spy, the prisoner of Mao. Someone told me he had a daughter who’s just like him.”

  Coming from anyone else, this observation might have been nothing more than small talk. Hammett, however, had no small talk; if he asked this question, it was because he had some political reason to be interested in Christopher’s daughter. Julian, who fiercely protected his family from all outsiders, even other Shelleyans, did not wish to supply information about the Christophers.

  “Is there a daughter?” Hammett insisted. “What’s her name?”

  “Zarah, with a Z.”

  It was clear even to Hammett that there was no point in asking further questions about Zarah Christopher; besides, the subject did not really interest him. After a brief pause he asked a question whose answer did interest him. “So, Julian,” he said. “How much of Mallory’s case against you people is factual?”

  Julian said, “All of it, essentially.”

  There was no need to swear Hammett to secrecy; everything they had ever said to each other had been said in secrecy.

  “How did this happen?”

  “Five-Five and his girlfriend used the FIS computers to steal the election.”

  Hammett pursed his lips, then nodded. He said, “Under whose orders was this operation carried out?”

  “There were no orders. They acted on my suggestion after Five-Five told me it was possible.”

  “Lockwood wasn’t aware of what was going on?”

  “I told him nothing. Nobody else involved had the access to tell him anything. My assumption is that he knows nothing for certain even now. Believe it or not, he sincerely believed he’d won a squeaker until Mallory showed up with his evidence last week.”

  “That’s in character,” Hammett said. “Anyone else involved?”

  “Philindros may have acquiesced, but I’m not sure of that.”

  “Philindros? He is Mallory’s man. Why would he acquiesce?”

  “We didn’t do what we did just to win the election,” Julian said. “More was at stake. It was the Ibn Awad matter that triggered everything.”

  Hammett blinked. This was something he had not known. He said,

  “Explain that, please.”

  “Lockwood ordered Philindros to assassinate Ibn Awad.”

  “You mean he winked at Philindros and Philindros pulled the trigger.”

  “No, that’s not the way it’s done anymore. Lockwood uttered an unequivocal verbal order in my presence. Philindros insisted on it.”

  “You were the only witness?”

  “Yes. But Philindros has the conversation on tape.”

  “You let that happen?”

  “We didn’t frisk him to see if he was wired. Let me finish. According to our intelligence, which we have no reason to question, Mallory has a copy of the tape in his possession.”

  “Philindros gave it to him?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. Mallory has a lot of sympathizers in the FIS.”

  “And you figured Mallory would use this tape to send all of you to prison if he was elected.”

  Julian said, “That’s what he promised to do on the Patrick Graham show three days before Election Day. But it was more than that. If he had that tape, Mallory had the means to destroy the Cause in this country. Forever. Do you disagree?”

  Hammett said, “No, I don’t disagree. You did the right thing. Getting caught was the mistake. So what do you want me to do? Defend Lockwood?”

  “I thought of that,” Julian said. “But no; he has to be acquitted, and that’s not your specialty. I want the President to appoint you Chief Justice of the United States.”

  Hammett stepped back a pace and gazed for a long moment at the track the snowmobile had left behind it through the woods. This time his surprise was genuine. Julian started to speak again, but Hammett held up a mittened hand to cut him off. “Don’t tell me why,” he said. “I understand the reason, but I don’t want to hear it from you.”

  “All right,” Julian said. “But will you do it?”

  “On what basis are you asking that question?”

  “In the name of the Poet.”

  Hammett said, “Then I’m in no position to refuse.” He looked down the trail again. “Here comes your wife,” he said.

  Hammett had keen eyesight. Even on so crystalline a morning, Julian had to squint to see Emily, who was far down the trail among the trees. He waved. Emily saw the movement, paused, took off her bright red hat, and waved back. He heard
her laugh.

  To Hammett he said, “I’ll speak to the President on Monday.”

  Hammett nodded, then cleared his throat several times before deciding not to speak. Julian realized that his friend was in the grip of an emotion. He smiled down on him benevolently, then waved again at Emily, who was coming up the trail like a champion.

  5

  On Monday morning, in the Oval Office, Lockwood said, “Archimedes Hammett? For Chief Justice of the United States? What the hell’s the matter with you, Julian?”

  “Nothing as far as I know, Mr. President.”

  “Forget it. Next subject.”

  Julian held Lockwood’s eyes. “Whatever you wish,” he said. “But can I explain my reasoning first? It won’t take long.”

  With a wave of the hand, Lockwood gave him permission to continue.

  Julian said, “In the paragraph on impeachment trials, the Constitution says—these are the exact words—’When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall preside.’ It says nothing about a substitute. Ergo, if there is no Chief Justice, there can be no trial.”

  Lockwood was suddenly alert. “Where does that ‘ergo’ come from?”

  “From the Constitution.”

  “Right. I heard that the first time. But who says no Chief Justice, no trial? What legal authority are you quoting on that?”

  “Hammett believes it’s a defensible legal position.”

  “Hammett’s a propagandist. He’s never won a case in court in his life.”

  “Blackstone agrees we could make a case.”

  “Blackstone! Jesus, boy, Carlisle wants to hand the country over to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Those twelfth-century minds Mallory put on the Supreme Court will knock this idea in the head without blinking a goddamn eye.”

  “I don’t see how. They’re supposed to interpret the Constitution literally. This is as literal as you can get.”

  “They won’t give a hoot about that when the presidency is in the balance,” Lockwood said. “They’re not serious about that crap. We’ll have Bobby Poole presiding over the impeachment trial. Son of a bitch will sit up there tying himself a royal coachman or a gray hackle while the rest of the fishing expedition fries me up in bacon grease.”

  “Not while the nomination process is going on.”

  Lockwood’s intercom buzzed. He ignored it. It sounded again, insistently. In his irritation with Julian, he turned on the speakerphone and shouted, “Damnit, Jeannie, stop buzzing me!”

  Jean McHenry’s calm voice replied, “It’s Senator Clark, Mr. President. He says it’s urgent. On line one.”

  Lockwood said, “I just spent the weekend on the phone with him.”

  Jean repeated, “He says it’s urgent.”

  Lockwood uttered a wordless roar of exasperation, closed his eyes for a moment, then pressed another button. “Sam,” he said in a normal tone. “What can I do for you?”

  Clark’s rasping voice came through the speaker. “The Speaker of the House just called,” he said. “According to him, Mallory’s whips have got somewhere around a hundred and fifty members of the House to agree to sign a letter asking you to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment and step aside until the question of who was elected is decided.”

  “That ain’t exactly a majority of the House.”

  “You’re right. But it’s a serious number. And as you know, nobody’s got a majority in the Senate.”

  “We have, as long as the Vice President presides.”

  “And as long as we can get our fifty people together the way Franklin Mallory will hold his together. And he will, because if they win this one they’ll have their Vice President in the chair. Mr. President, this is pretty serious.”

  “It’s chicken scratch for the goddamn media.”

  “They’re talking about delivering the letter to the White House en masse. All two hundred and fifty of them.”

  “Let ‘em come,” Lockwood said. “There’s courage in numbers. How come that yellow son of a bitch Attenborough doesn’t call me himself about something like this instead of going through you? Is he the Speaker or isn’t he?”

  “He’s the Speaker, all right,” Clark said. “But he may be the President pretty soon. If you go, Willy Graves will have to go, and under the law he’s next in line.”

  “Is that what the little back-stabber says? If he wasn’t sniffing the ass end of blind ambition, there wouldn’t be any damn maneuvers. Tell him I said that. Is he in the same party as me or not?”

  Clark said, “You know he is, Mr. President.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I’m keeping an open mind. Are you with me, Sam?”

  “Always have been, my friend, always will be. But you’d better find a way to slow this juggernaut down.”

  “I’m trying, goddamnit.”

  Lockwood switched off the phone and returned his attention to Julian. “Enrico, you were saying?”

  Julian took up where he had left off. “I was saying, Mr. President, that announcing the appointment of Archimedes Hammett as Chief Justice of the United States would slow down the impeachment process.”

  “How?”

  “It would divert the attention of the Congress and the whole lobbying apparatus. It would stop the media dead in their tracks.”

  “True,” Lockwood said. “But there are just a few little problems. Hammett isn’t qualified, half the country thinks he’s the reincarnation of Judas Iscariot, and he’s got about as much chance of being confirmed as my dog Rover.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, sir. He’s regarded as one of the most brilliant and innovative legal minds in the country. He’s a professor of law at Yale. The other half of the country, the one that counts in Washington, thinks he’s the reincarnation of Plato.”

  “Those people aren’t half the country.”

  Julian said, “They’ve got more than half the brains and ninety percent of the media. Every lawyer in America who isn’t on Mallory’s payroll thinks Hammett walks on water. He’s got a network of disciples and admirers in the media, in the law, in the universities, in the pressure groups, that will put heat on the Senate to do the right thing and confirm him. His ex-students and their friends control the Bar Association, and he’s the only figure in American law who has no traditional party affiliation. He may be a little odd by some standards, but the universal perception is that he’s an honest and independent man. He’s as clean as a whistle. I don’t think he’s ever kissed a girl or taken a drink.”

  “That’s some recommendation,” Lockwood said. “Ought to make him compassionate as hell. Besides, he has no judicial experience.”

  “Neither did Felix Frankfurter or Earl Warren.”

  “They didn’t have his enemies.”

  “Hammett’s enemies may be his biggest asset. They’ll be so pissed off at the idea of him on the Court that they’re bound to make a mistake. If they go too far, he’s in. You’d have to make a deal with the Senate on future appointments, but you’ll have to do that no matter whose name you send to the Hill. After all, everybody will know you’re appointing your own judge in case of impeachment.”

  Lockwood uttered an explosive laugh. “‘In case of doesn’t come into it; it’s going to happen,” he said. “Julian, I’m not even sure if this guy is an American in his heart. He’s totally unpredictable.”

  Julian said, “Unpredictable? Who do you think Archimedes Hammett, whatever is in his heart, would rather have sitting where you’re sitting—you or Mallory?”

  Lockwood did not reply.

  “The unpredictability is the most important part of the equation,” Julian said. “Hammett is perceived as being incorruptible, committed to principle, the enemy of power and privilege. Not a bad guy to have in your corner.”

  “You’re sure that’s where he’d be—in my corner?”

  “He’d have nowhere else to go. I’ve known him as well as I’ve ever known anyone, for more than thirty years. We roomed together for a semester in colleg
e.”

  “Oh,” Lockwood said. “How come I didn’t know that before now?”

  Julian said, “It was never relevant before now.”

  Lockwood fell into a silence. Julian watched impassively as the President considered the advantages and disadvantages of appointing a man he believed to be an enemy of democracy as Chief Justice of the United States.

  With a grimace of distaste, Lockwood made his decision. “All right,” he said. “Ask around. Test the waters.”

  “Yes, sir,” Julian said. “But we’ll have to be quick. This isn’t something that will keep, Mr. President. Surprise is our best friend.”

  “I know that, damnit. If it looks like it’ll go, we can announce it tomorrow, before I put the fire hoses to Attenborough’s crowd. I assume you’ve already talked to Hammett.”

  “Yes, sir. He’ll accept the nomination if it’s offered.”

  “I’ll bet he will,” Lockwood said. “But I want you to know, Enrico, that if I do nominate this guy, it’ll be because I don’t think he can be confirmed. It’ll just be a way to gain time.”

  “Good plan,” Julian said. He nodded, as if yielding to superior wisdom, gathered up his papers, and went down the hall to start lining up support for a nomination that was designed to fail.

  6

  When Ross Macalaster’s doorbell rang at 6:05 on Tuesday morning, he assumed that Wiggins and Lucy had come to call. Instead he found Julian Hubbard standing on the steps. A pair of Zeiss binoculars dangled from his neck. Like everything else Julian owned, the glasses were near-antiques, so much used that four fingerprints of shiny steel were worn through the black paint on the barrels.

  “I was birding along the canal,” Julian said. “Thought I’d drop by.”

  “ ‘Birding’?” Macalaster said. “Spot any owls?”

  Julian, smiling genially, shook his head. The C&O Canal ran through a wood, the haunt of violent criminals, about a quarter of a mile below Macalaster’s house. Macalaster looked through the open door and saw only impenetrable darkness; there had been no visible moon the night before and the sun would not rise for another hour and a half.