Shelley's Heart

by Charles McCarry

  All this took no more than a minute. Despite the serenity Hammett radiated, his legs felt weak because in the wake of Horace’s testimony he remembered Gika’s most important lesson: a Maniáte trusts no one. There was a plot against him; he had known it instinctively ever since the séance at Macalaster’s when Zarah Christopher had played her Ouija-board mind games with him. He waited a moment longer on the bench for the strength to come back into his limbs. For the benefit of the cameras he inhaled deeply and lifted his eyes as if asking for guidance from above. Actually he was looking for Attenborough but what he saw was a black man in a dark suit standing in front of the Speaker’s usual front-row seat.

  The man moved aside. Hammett saw Attenborough hand him a cellular telephone and take his arm, pulling himself to his feet. He seemed barely able to manage this; Hammett assumed he was drunk. For once the Speaker was staring not at Hammett but at Sam Clark, who was looking up at him. Their eyes met and Hammett saw that he had been wrong about the Speaker’s condition. Attenborough was not drunk. He was triumphant.

  The Speaker nodded once, dismissively, then limped up the aisle on the black man’s arm. Hammett looked at Clark again. The Majority Leader’s eyes—pale suspicion-filled riffraff eyes, just like Attenborough’s—bored into Hammett’s for an instant. Then he turned his back, put an arm around Amzi Whipple’s shoulders, and whispered something into his ear. Ominous signs.

  15

  In the meeting of the Committee on the Impeachment, Amzi Whipple said, “This won’t take long. Senator Clark, my party will not object to a unanimous consent agreement in order to debate a motion for a mistrial in this impeachment.”

  “May I have a word about first principles here?” Busby said.

  “Not now,” Sam Clark replied. “But you can make whatever statement you want when you are called as a witness, sworn, and examined by the President’s counsel.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about,” Busby said. “I will gladly testify about every aspect of my own life and record until the cows come home, but I won’t consent to a witch-hunt involving blameless Americans, and that’s what that unscrupulous shyster Olmedo is stampeding us into here.”

  Clark said, “Senator, as chairman of this committee I won’t consent to your using the term ‘witch-hunt’ in connection with a constitutional procedure of the United States Senate. Furthermore, Senator, if you choose not to join in a unanimous-consent agreement, the Senate will adjourn the trial, go into regular session, and I personally will move for your censure by the entire Senate, as well as for an investigation by a Select Committee into the questions raised about the ethics and behavior of the Chief Justice and yourself in this trial.”

  Busby stared at Clark in disbelief. He was saying these things in the presence of the entire committee—Sam Clark, who never embarrassed a colleague by word or deed, even in private. Busby said, “Censure me on what grounds?”

  Clark said, “On grounds that you and Chief Justice Hammett are engaged in a conspiracy to thwart the will of the American people and to pervert the Constitution in order to give them a President they did not elect and would never elect in a million years.”

  “That’s laughable.”

  “Then well have a merry session,” Clark said. “Will you vote with your party on unanimous consent?”

  Busby said, “What exactly do you hope to accomplish by that?”

  “The short answer is, adopt new rules that will let the Senate run this trial. The Senate. Not the Chief Justice. Not the media.”

  “Who will preside?”

  “The Chief Justice will preside as provided by the Constitution. If he is called as a material witness, as I think probable, he will be sworn and will testify from the place where he sits.”

  “You’re talking about a circus, Senator. That word ‘circus’ is a censored version of what I really mean. You’ll never get away with this.”

  Clark said, “Maybe not. But I’m going to suspend this meeting of the committee for fifteen minutes while you consider your decision, Senator, and confer with anyone you wish.”

  The other members were mute. Busby was sure he could bring these people around if they would only listen to him. He said, “Sam, Amzi, gentlemen, let us reason together.”

  Clark said, “Fifteen minutes, Senator. Meeting adjourned.”

  16

  Feeling his way along back passages of the Capitol, Busby reached the Vice President’s office unobserved. He had to knock loudly, then even more loudly, at the back door in order to get in. After an inexplicable delay it was unlocked and opened by Hammett himself, still in his black robe. The Chief Justice was not pleased to see Busby. While still on the bench, after seeing the triumph and hatred in the eyes of Attenborough and Clark, he had realized that the prophecy made by Manal Macalaster’s Ouija board, the promise that Five-Five would betray Six-Nine, had come true today on the floor of the United States Senate before a worldwide television audience. Horace had betrayed him, though he knew it was no prophecy spoken out of “darkness” by an angry spirit called Susan—it was the culmination of a plot that had Zarah Christopher at its center. How she had managed this he did not know; but he was as certain as anyone could be that she had done so.

  “I don’t know why you’re here, Senator,” he said. “But please go away. We should not meet or have any contact of any kind.”

  “This will only take a moment,” Busby said.

  “This is not the moment,” Hammett replied, but Busby did not hear him. He was already talking at full throttle, a phenomenon Hammett had not previously observed, and despite the Chief Justice’s protests he advanced into the room, driving Hammett before him with a fusillade of words.

  “There’s no time to waste,” Busby said. “This is the last ticktock.”

  Hammett said, “The last what?”

  “The moment we friends of the Poet, friends of the Cause, have been waiting for and working for ever since the beginning, Six-Nine.”

  “ ‘Six-Nine’?” Hammett said. “After what is being said out there by that turncoat Hubbard and that imbecile St. Clair, you burst in here and address me as Six-Nine? Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’ve never experienced a saner moment,” Busby said. “Nor a happier one. Don’t you understand? This is the first day of the Year Zed. Don’t you see the opportunity here? We’re in control. If they come after us, they’ll destroy themselves, thanks to your brilliant work in there exposing their true motives. The media think this is a witch-hunt, the last desperate gasp of the old order, and they’re right.”

  “And that’s all it takes to make you happy?” Hammett said. “Media massages? They’re trying to impeach me and disgrace you. Don’t you see what’s developing?”

  “They’ll never get away with it. Olmedo is a flashy courtroom operator, all right. But he’s no politician. I haven’t told you—nobody has told you because it has been imperative that you be left out of this, imperative that the situation develop without your knowledge so that you would be clean as a hound’s tooth in every way.”

  Another man than Hammett might have laughed on hearing these words. Left out of it? The situation develop without his knowledge? He was the author of the situation! He had invented it! Busby, the fatuous ass, was his pawn! He had made everything happen—everything. Busby was right about one thing: Hammett was as clean as a hound’s tooth. He had managed the whole thing so beautifully, had been such an invisible man, that nobody could possibly prove that he had anything to do with the outcome.

  Hammett struggled to control the expression on his face. “I see I’ve taken you by surprise,” Busby said. “Sorry about that, but the time has come to reveal to you that there is a plan and you are the vital human element in it. And when I tell you the details, as now I must tell you because you must consent to play the role assigned to you before we can go a step further, you will see why we have proceeded as we have.”

  “ ‘We’?” Hammett said. “Who exactly is ‘we’?”


  “No names,” Busby said. “Not even”—he paused for a meaningful split second—”class numerals.”

  He then described the plan, repeating the important passages to drive their significance home. Hammett did not seem to be at all surprised by what he was hearing. Of course Busby could not read Hammett’s reaction too well because the Chief Justice retreated as the senator explained things to him, walking backward and keeping just beyond the short limit of Busby’s vision. Finally, however, Hammett backed into a wall and Busby pinned him there, momentarily spreading his arms in good-humored parody of the windmill guard he used to be.

  “Now, Mr. Chief Justice,” he said, “I must ask you. Will you accept the office of acting President of the United States if Congress in its wisdom selects you for that office under the Constitution?”

  “Senator,” Hammett said, “how can that possibly happen with the suggestion of conspiracy already hanging over both our heads? The minute you suggest it, the Old Guard will say it proves the charge.”

  “Let them. The media are on our side, and I have reason to think it will happen precisely because of the attacks on the two of us, especially the vicious onslaught against you. When I go back into that committee meeting down the hall, I will be asked if I will participate in throwing you to the wolves. I will refuse, indignantly. This will be on television moments after it happens. Sam Clark and Amzi Whipple will adjourn the trial and call the Senate into session. They will introduce a motion of censure against me. I will rise to answer, and when I do, I will describe their shameful plot to seize the presidency for themselves and then will again move—this time successfully—that the election be set aside as defective and null and void. I will then introduce a resolution to set aside the corrupt order of succession, and nominating you as the first acting President of the United States under the appropriate provisions of Article Two and the Twentieth Amendment of the Constitution.”

  Hammett did not say no to this. Instead he asked, “Will you have the votes?”

  “We’ve had them every time we needed them so far. We will have the media. The media will give us the people. The people will give us the party, and with it, the votes. They will demand a new beginning. Congress will understand that Mallory is the only other alternative. By the time it comes to a vote, we—or rather, Archimedes Hammett—will have the votes. Will you accept if called?”

  Hammett said, “Whose idea was this plan?”

  Busby said, “Quite simply, he is a friend of the Poet.” This was a magnificent moment in history; Busby felt this strongly. He said again, “Will you serve if you are called, Mr. Chief Justice?”

  Hammett, who had excellent eyesight, read every thought and sentiment that moved across Busby’s face. He had never seen a clearer example of an organism behaving in response to long-term systematic conditioning. To strengthen the behavior, he offered a precisely measured portion of positive reinforcement. “It would be improper for me to acknowledge that this question was even asked,” he said.

  “Wonderful! That’s all I need to know,” Busby said. “And now I must go.” He grinned down at Hammett, who was about to become the shortest U.S. President since James Madison. Of course the man they were keeping out of the presidency was Attenborough, who was shorter than any of them. Busby did not have time to share this amusing thought. “Now I must go,” Busby said, “but first, I’ve got to go, if I may.” Hammett’s back was against the wall beside the lavatory door. With schoolboy gaiety—Hammett was so solemn—Busby faked left, stepped right, reached past him, twisted the door handle, and flung it open.

  The light was already on. Slim Eve, who had brought Hammett his lunch and was hiding in the lavatory in order to avoid being seen by Busby, stood just inside the door. She wore a miniskirt: beautiful legs. She had been eavesdropping, of course, and the smile of deep-seated pleasure and amusement on her face was just beginning to change into one of surprise and consternation.

  “Oops! Sorry! Wrong door!” cried Busby, slamming it shut. He hurried across the spongy carpet, then slipped out the back door without another word.

  Of course he had not recognized Slim. During their previous meeting at the Womonkind Coalition, the innermost lair of the Anti-Sex League, he had not glimpsed the memorable legs, that had just been revealed to him, and her startled face had been a blur to him. All he perceived when he opened the door was an indistinct human form with feminine attributes— Hammett’s secretary probably, or one of his law clerks, trapped in there by Busby’s unannounced arrival and discreetly keeping out of sight till he went away. He wondered what, if anything, she had overheard. It didn’t matter, not anymore. He had his answer from Hammett; the die was cast. He looked at the big numerals on his wristwatch: his chat with Hammett must have taken longer than he thought. Sam and Amzi would be furious. But it was all in a good cause.

  As Busby strode purposefully toward the Senate Conference Room he did not see Tucker Attenborough in the midst of a knot of men and women, obviously security people of some kind, emerging from the unmarked door of the seldom-used President’s Room just down the corridor. Even if, in his hurry, he had spotted the little man, he would not have been interested enough to say hello. The Speaker was yesterday’s news.

  17

  When Busby reentered the Senate Conference Room he found it empty except for Sam Clark. Sensing victory, Busby grinned happily and said, “Sam, sorry to be late, but I’m glad we’re alone, if only for a moment, because I’m sure we can iron all this out and avoid the embarrassment of a really messy brouhaha if you’ll just hear me out before the others come back. What I’m going to propose will put everything to rights, Sam, providing a pragmatic, constitutional way out of this impasse. A new beginning in honor. I call it ‘the constitutional deliverance.’ Let me explain it to you briefly before the rest of the committee comes back—”

  Clark said, “Buzzer, they won’t be coming back. Where have you been?”

  “Fixing the last nail,” Busby said. “Now, first, about this idea of Amzi’s to declare a mistrial. That’s clearly a Malloryite trap. Don’t think I’m afraid to testify. I welcome it, but—”

  “You won’t have to testify,” Clark said. “Buzzer, listen to me.” Busby opened his mouth. Clark said, “Listen. The mistrial is a dead issue. The trial is over.”

  Busby halted in midbreath. “Over? How can it be over?”

  “Lockwood has resigned,” Clark said. “Tucker Attenborough was just sworn in as President of the United States.”

  Busby gasped. “Tucker Attenborough?” he said. “They can’t do that! This can’t happen in America.”

  “On the contrary,” Clark said. “It’s just about the only place on earth where it can happen. Now I have to call on the President.”

  “I thought you just said he resigned.”

  “I was referring to President Attenborough.”

  “President Attenborough?” Busby said. “You call that drunken dwarf the President?”

  “As of ten minutes ago, when he was sworn in by Albert Tyler in the President’s Room with the leadership of both houses of Congress as witnesses, that’s what he is.”

  Busby was staggered by the audacity of this maneuver by the Old Guard. “But how could something like this happen just like that, with no warning, out of the blue?”

  “Because we have a Constitution which delivers us from evil,” Clark replied. “Sorry you missed the ceremony, but nobody knew where you were and we couldn’t wait for you.”

  18

  Lockwood’s farewell to the nation was brief and to the point. In an all-networks broadcast from Camp David, in the time segment immediately preceding the evening news, he announced his withdrawal from the presidency.

  “On the basis of evidence and testimony before the United States Senate today, and its careful verification and analysis by my counsel and myself, it is now clear to me that I was not elected President of the United States last November. Furthermore, the American people now know beyond a reaso
nable doubt that the irregularities that took place, including the secret commission of a homicide of a foreign head of state that set off the sad chain of events in which our country has been entangled, were none of my doing. However, I was the responsible officer of the government at the time that these matters occurred, and even though they were concealed from me, I must and do accept full responsibility and offer a most heartfelt apology for the actions of persons in whom I mistakenly placed the sacred trust bestowed on me by the American people. I also ask the forgiveness of the Great Judge for failing to do that which I ought to have done to prevent these sorrowful events from happening at all. The Senate in its wisdom will, in due course, make known its judgment on the questions before it, and I am content, as a former man of the Senate, to abide by its judgment. I myself asked that the Congress discover the truth, and as I confidently expected, Congress has done so. Now that we are in possession of that truth, we must live by it. I cannot remain longer in an office which the people did not give to me, and therefore I hereby withdraw from it under the terms of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. The Speaker of the House, the Honorable R. Tucker Attenborough, Jr., has succeeded me as President, and in my last appeal to you, my fellow Americans, I ask you to give him your support, your prayers, and, yes, your trust. He is one of the most stouthearted and truthful men I have ever known, and as history will record, he is a great American patriot. I am going back with my beloved wife to the place where we came from. My last service to you—this search for the truth which has set things right with our democracy, preserved our Constitution, and renewed our freedom as a people—is the one over all the others in a long public life that I hope the Lord will let me be remembered for.