Macalaster fell into step beside him. “Mr. Speaker, can we talk?” His tone was embarrassed.
“Sure,” Attenborough said, clapping him on the back. “What else would the two most popular boys in school do when they run into each other in the hall?”
Macalaster snorted. It was true that he too was being shunned, though for different reasons. Attenborough was quarantined out of fear that his disgrace might be infectious, Macalaster because he had made the mistake of causing his colleagues to envy him again. He had broken the biggest story of the constitutional crisis and then, in the next news period, been identified as the host of the most infamous dinner party of the year. Both he and Attenborough knew that this wretched excess of insiderism was too much for his more ideologically orthodox competitors to forgive.
Macalaster said, “I just want to tell you I’m sorry about all this grief you’re going through.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel responsible.”
“Well, you’re not,” Attenborough replied. “Although it has occurred to me, Ross, that I might’ve been better off sitting next to somebody else at your dinner table that night. Or ordering up a pizza and watching the Spice channel. But how were you to know?”
“That’s just it. I should have known.”
“Should’ve known what?” Attenborough said.
“That Slim was crazy. I did know it.”
“Then why did you invite her?”
“I didn’t,” Macalaster said. “She came with Hammett. He wanted to meet you and asked me to invite you.”
All of a sudden, having spotted these two outcasts together, the polyp floated toward them as if it smelled the possibility of Macalaster’s sneaking another scoop. Attenborough waved to the advancing organism, which was gesticulating and calling out his name in its many-tongued voice. To Macalaster he said, “You mean Hammett set the whole thing up?”
Macalaster nodded. Something dawned in his eyes.
“Interesting sidelight on history,” Attenborough said. “I hope you’re not planning to save it for your memoirs.” Then he turned to confront the clamoring reporters.
12
“Did you see that little runt up there, pretending to be asleep while the riot went on?” Lockwood said to Sam Clark over the speakerphone. “He thinks he’s going to sneak in the back door of the White House and sit in this chair. I knew it all along. The minute Willy Graves’s heart stopped beating, my everlasting friend Tucker Attenborough grabbed for the brass ring.”
If this was nonsense, Lockwood did not necessarily know it. Despite all his political experience, the disaster in the House of Representatives had knocked Lockwood off balance. Up to the morning of the session he had half-expected, on the basis of his own head counts of the House, not to be impeached. He had never seen so many votes change so fast and with so little notice. Now he was looking for someone to blame. Or so it seemed to Blackstone, who walked into the Oval Office with Olmedo in tow just as Lockwood began to speak. When he realized that Lockwood was on the phone, he made as if to leave, but the President motioned the two of them to sit down and listen.
Clark’s voice said, “I just don’t buy that theory, Mr. President.”
“No?” Lockwood said, “Yesterday the little son of a bitch was telling me it was all under control, everything running smooth as clockwork, all ducks in a row, every Indian on the reservation, nothing to worry about, Mr. President, no sirree, everybody gonna vote the straight Lockwood ticket, you’ll have this shit behind you in two weeks because you’re innocent and we gonna prove that.”
“Until yesterday Tucker believed that, Mr. President. He was trying to save the situation, and if that story hadn’t been in the papers he might have.”
“Well, everybody’s got his own way of being a good Samaritan. That part’s over. Now, Sam—”
“Mr. President, let’s not leave this subject just yet. Attenborough’s down. I’m not going to join any kicking party.”
“You mean like the one he just had on national TV in the House of Representatives with me as the football? Don’t tell me about Tucker. He was probably too drunk to know what was going on, or maybe he thought he’d just get crocked, take a little nap, and when he woke up Albert would be calling him Mr. President.”
The phone hummed emptily for a moment. “Frosty,” Sam Clark said, “I’m not going to argue with you about Tucker’s motives, but I think you’d better wake up to the fact that he’s just about the last real friend you’ve got on that side of the Capitol. You’re going to need all the friends you have. Tucker just had some bad luck at a bad time.”
“It was his own doing.”
“Spoken like an expert.”
Huge hands curled into a stranglehold, Lockwood stared at the instrument from which Clark’s dry voice had issued. “Thanks a lot, Sam,” he said.
“Sorry if that stung,” Clark’s voice replied, “but it’s the truth. You’ve let the country down, Mr. President. You’ve let the party down.”
“And miserable son of a bitch that I am, I’ve let you down worst of all. Isn’t that what you really mean, Sam?”
“I mean what I say, and that’s all that I mean.”
With an effort Lockwood collected himself. He said, “You think I did what they said I did?”
“Didn’t you?”
“All I did was happen to be President when a bunch of damn fools did what they did.”
“That’s not the issue anymore, and we both know it.”
Lockwood’s knuckles whitened. “So you’re going over the side on me like everybody else I ever befriended. Is that the message?”
“No. That’s your bad side talking, and you can’t afford it. You know damn well I’m with you to the end.”
Lockwood’s deep blue eyes, an instant before so darkened by anger, suddenly glistened; he was so moved by this expression of loyalty and affection from Clark that Blackstone thought he might actually weep.
“Thanks, Sam,” he said. “That means a hell of a lot to me.”
“A lot of things mean a lot, Frosty. Somebody in this town is doing you wrong, my friend, but it isn’t Tucker Attenborough. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. Then who the hell is behind all this crap?”
“I wish I knew. But you’d better find out, Mr. President. You’ve got to stop believing your own misconceptions and start using your head. I’ll go down the line with you whether anybody comes with me or not. There’s just one condition, and that’s why I’m calling.”
“Name it, Sam.”
“When that last minute comes,” Clark said, “just don’t make me choose between you and the country.”
13
Lockwood switched off the speakerphone and looked at his lawyers. In the space of a single breath, he had put the conversation with Clark and all the events of this terrible week behind him. He had not even mentioned the death of Vice President Graves. Blackstone marveled at his ability to take these staggering blows, pick himself up, and go on to the next thing.
“All right,” Lockwood said. “What now?”
“A holding action,” Olmedo said.
“After the worst has happened?”
“All that happened today was that you were charged with crimes you did not commit. The worst possible outcome would be conviction of an innocent President. That’s why we need time to investigate, time to prepare the defense. And Senator Clark is right—time to think.”
“Forget it,” Lockwood said. “The juggernaut is rolling. You can’t think and play catch-up at the same time. What we’ve got to do, Alfonso, is run like hell toward the nearest cliff, then step aside at the last minute and let the lynch mob go over the edge.”
“A wonderful image,” Olmedo said. “But this situation is not a game with certain rules, it is life—”
“Which is chaotic and unpredictable,” Lockwood said. “I know about life. Get to the point.”
“The point,” Olmedo said, “the point is that if Phil
indros’s testimony stands up under cross-examination, if it is corroborated, we’ve got a serious problem.”
“If Jack told the truth, we do.”
“Are you suggesting he didn’t, Mr. President? Because if he didn’t, then you did.”
Lockwood mimicked astonishment. “Good thinking,” he said. “You mean you’re ready to hear my plea? By golly, things are desperate.”
Grimly Olmedo said, “Did Philindros tell the truth?”
“Some of it,” Lockwood said. “Not enough of it.”
“What did he leave out? This is important, Mr. President.”
“He left out the reality, that’s all,” Lockwood said. “What happened was, he and Julian cooked the whole thing up and came down to the farm in the middle of the night. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever have to sign a death warrant, especially not in the first springtime of my presidency. But that was the deal they handed me. Philindros said that this nutcase was going to blow up millions of people the next day—at midnight. Those were his own words. Old Jack had it timed right down to the minute; that’s how sure he was of his facts. The bombs would be delivered at midnight to the Eye of Gaza, a bunch of maniacs I’d never even heard of at the time, though I got to know ‘em pretty well later on. They could set them off at any moment after that. It was like that old play where the guy stands up on the stage and tells the audience what everything means—one lantern for a gale, two for a hurricane, three for the end of the world. This was a three-lantern situation.”
“So you felt justified in assassinating Ibn Awad.”
Lockwood grunted, an angry sound. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t assassinate the son of a bitch! Horace Hubbard got Ibn Awad’s own kid to do it.”
Olmedo said, “Semantics, Mr. President. You gave the order.”
Lockwood slammed his fist down on his desk. “Do you want to hear the truth or not?”
“Sorry. Go on, Mr. President.”
Lockwood said, “They proposed the operation. That’s how they talk, changing words on you. I said, ‘You’re offering me a cup of poison.’ Exact words. Why weren’t those words in the newspaper? I said, ‘Get me to this Ibn Awad; let me talk to him.’ Exact words. Jack said, ‘You can’t do that in secret, Mr. President.’ I said, ‘Secret, hell! I’ll go on television and tell the world what’s going on and say what I’m trying to prevent.’ Exact words. Why weren’t they on the tape? Jack said, ‘You mean tell the truth to the world?’ He was shocked by the idea—his eyes rolled back in his head. I said, ‘What’s wrong with the truth?’ Exact words.”
Olmedo said, “What was Julian Hubbard saying all this time?”
“Keeping his mouth shut. He chimed in later, but not then. For the first half hour, Jack Philindros was doing all the talking, Julian was just standing there, nodding his head.”
“Nodding his head? Why?”
“Because he knew what Jack was going to say and agreed with it before he said a word to me.”
“You know that to be true?”
“It was always true. Julian never let anybody in to see me unless he knew in advance what was going to be said.”
Olmedo was startled—not by the practice but by what it meant. It meant that Julian knew everything while Lockwood knew only what Julian wanted him to know, and this was how the country had always been governed. He said, “Why was such a policy adopted?”
“Why? Because Julian was my chief of staff. That was always his job—to keep people from putting me in the wrong position.”
“The position of saying no, or of preventing you from hearing inconvenient facts?”
“You got it.” Lockwood went on, uninterested in such an obvious point. “So, getting back. After I asked Jack what was wrong with going on TV and telling the truth, he said, ‘The truth works slowly, Mr. President. If you go on television, you’ll be warning them, and you’ll be too late.’ ”
“ ‘Them’?”
“The Eye of Gaza, Ibn Awad. I said, ‘If I don’t do it, they’ll blow up the world, according to you.’ Exact words.”
Olmedo said, “Are these exact words?”
“Counselor, I’m maybe not the smartest guy that ever lived, but when I’m talking about something like this, I remember what I say. Okay if I go on?” Olmedo flicked a hand. Elaborately Lockwood bowed his thanks for permission to do what he was going to do anyway. “Now Julian began to talk. He thought I’d look real bad if I flew over there in Air Force One and my host blew up Tel Aviv or maybe New York City while we were having our tea party. Might even take me hostage. Then Philindros says, ‘Ibn Awad is a manic-depressive. We know this because our doctors examined him. Right now he’s in his manic cycle and that’s why he wants to blow up the world, but when he’s depressive he talks a lot about suicide. We think we can kill this crazy old man and make it look like suicide.’ ”
“Exact words?”
“No. Jack doesn’t come right out with it like that. But close enough. I said—are you listening, both of you?—I said, ‘There must be an alternative.’ Exact words. Jack said, ‘Perhaps. It’s up to you to decide.’ I said, ‘Kill a man? Assassinate somebody?’ Exact words. Up to that moment the thought of assassination had never crossed my mind. I thought we’d send in the Marines or the Green Berets, find the bombs, arrest Ibn Awad in the name of mankind, and lock him up in his own private loony bin with a bunch of blondes and the best prayer rugs money could buy. But then Jack said something else to me, psspsspss. Whispering Jack, they ought to call him. You can’t hear the son of a bitch if you’re inside a shoebox with him, and just like the paper says, we were outdoors with the crickets singing, the Secret Service talking into their radios, and the floodlights buzzing.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t hear him. I was thinking about something else.”
“You were thinking about something else, Mr. President? At a moment like that?”
Lockwood fixed Olmedo with a scornful eye. “That’s right. I suddenly thought: If a bomb goes off in Israel, the Israelis will nuke everything and everybody in the Middle East. All the Arabs will launch in return. Then so will everybody else who’s got a surplus Russian missile on a rocket made in China. This planet is going to be turned into a cinder.”
“Those were your thoughts while Philindros was speaking?”
“I just got through telling you they were. I also thought, If Jack Philindros is so damn smart, why hasn’t he thought of this?”
Olmedo said, “So you didn’t hear Philindros ask if you instructed him to bring about the violent death of Ibn Awad?”
“No. Not a word of it. First I ever heard of that was when I read it in the newspapers yesterday morning.”
“But it’s on the tape.”
“Then the tape is wrong.”
“Mr. President, consider carefully. You heard every other syllable he uttered.”
“That’s because I had my ear pushed up against his mouth until he started talking about assassination. Then I walked away from him.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you again: because I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. And I didn’t hear it because I had other things to think about. That’s my defense.”
“But according to the tape you said, ‘Yes.’ ”
Lockwood shrugged, vastly uninterested in this detail. “Prob’ly I did, but not in answer to that question,” he said. “I don’t know why I said it. I know it sounds implausible as hell, but the truth sometimes is. And by that time I was just trying to be polite—trying to get rid of him. I may not look it, but the truth is, I’m a sensitive son of a bitch. I didn’t want to embarrass Jack; I’d just turned him down when he had his heart set on saving the world from nuclear holocaust. At least that’s what I thought when I went to bed that night. However, the next thing I knew—the next day, Counselor—they were telling me, proud as punch, that the deed was done. They’d killed the poor old bastard.”
“And when you learned of this,
you didn’t express surprise, didn’t voice disapproval?”
“What was the point? It was over. I told Julian to keep Philindros out of my life from that point onward. I put the whole damn thing out of my mind and went on to something else.”
“And did Julian keep Philindros out of your life?”
“Sure he did, until the assassination was about to come out four years later, just like I always knew it would. As soon as I got the word I called Jack in and reminded him I’d told him to do no such thing. You never saw such a look of surprise in your life. He said, ‘No, sir, Mr. President, that’s just not so.’ And in these exact words he said, ‘Julian made it plain it was my task to carry out your order without making small talk to you about it. It’s not a pleasant thing to be made a party to murder. I detested receiving that order as much as you detested giving it. I detest the memory of it still.’ Detested it? He invented it. Sanctimonious little shit.”
Olmedo exhaled.
“Well,” Lockwood said, “what do you think of that story?”
“I agree it’s implausible, but if it’s the truth we will defend it as the truth,” Olmedo said, rising to his feet. “I think we’d better have Mr. McGraw look into this matter of the tape.”
“Good idea.”
“And with your permission, Mr. President, I’ll go away now and let you get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” Lockwood said. “No problem whatsoever, with this airtight alibi I’ve got.”
1
The peculiar thing about the impeachment situation, Horace Hubbard thought, was the way in which all parties were isolated from one another. He had not even seen Julian since their meeting with Busby at the Harbor, and the odd Washington protocol seemed to preclude Lockwood from having any sort of contact with any of the other players except through the news media, which seemed to function in America as a gigantic code room to which everyone had a key, though not necessarily a deciphering pad. Horace’s only communication with the outside world was through the Shelleyan network, and of course that was of little or no use when it came to getting in touch with people like Alfonso Olmedo C.
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