“Er . . . it would be undiplomatic of me to make any comments that might be construed as an attempt to influence the current election campaign in the Soviet Union.”
On and on it went, nonanswers to every question, and all the while, Wolfowitz’s eyes darted back and forth frantically, his lips working nervously, his hands kneading the edge of the lectern.
Wolfowitz looked like a man who had bet the farm on an inside straight only to see the card he needed to fill it turn faceup on the sixth deal in someone else’s hand. And he sounded like a man who had just learned some horrifying secret, something awful enough to turn him into a stammering mealy-mouthed politico.
It reminded Bobby of a book he had read in Paris as a kid, called The Curse of the Oval Office. In it, Timothy Leary, the acid guru of the 1960s, had hypothesized that there was some kind of curse on the Presidential office that drove otherwise sane men mad upon occupying it. Leary had pointed to Lyndon Johnson and the Vietnam War, Richard Nixon and Watergate. Bobby had thought it pretty humorous then.
It didn’t seem so funny now.
“Mr. President, are you in contact with the government of the Republic of the Ukraine?”
“Uh . . . no comment. . . .”
“Mr. President, do you plan to discuss this crisis directly with President Gorchenko?”
“Uh . . . I’m ready to talk to anyone about anything that might get us out of this mess. . . .”
Jesus, what a disaster! Bobby thought. What’s wrong with the man? Wolfowitz had started glancing back over his shoulder down the corridor behind the podium after every question, as if hoping that someone would appear to yank him off the stage.
Long tradition had it that these press conferences were ended not by the President, but by the senior White House correspondent, with a firm “Thank you, Mr. President.” But neither that worthy nor the rest of the press corps seemed in any mood to end the embarrassing agony anytime soon. The faces of the reporters were getting more and more surly, waves of dismayed murmurs swept around the crowded room after every answer, some of the reporters were even cursing under their breath.
Bobby had long since given up any idea of trying to ask a question himself, since the only one that came to mind was “What the fuck’s wrong with you, Nat?” Instead, he started snaking his way through the crowd toward the podium, not so difficult with everyone else jumping up and down and waving their arms. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, but he wasn’t going to leave without at least trying to get a word with Nathan Wolfowitz somehow.
“Mr. President, don’t you think you at least owe the American people some kind of coherent statement of what policy you intend to follow to prevent a nuclear holocaust? I mean, frankly, Mr. President, you really haven’t said a damned thing!”
There was a collective gasp and then a sudden silence at that one. Something of the old Nathan Wolfowitz finally seemed to flare up in the eyes of the distracted figure behind the lectern bearing the Presidential Seal.
“What the hell do you expect me to say?” Wolfowitz snapped. “The world is on the brink of a catastrophe, and I’ve just inherited the policies of the maniac responsible! You really expect me to shoot my mouth off like an idiot before I’ve even had time to think? Well, like it or not, I’m not Harry Carson. Don’t you think there’s been enough irresponsible bullshit out of here already?”
The words of the President utterly stunned even the veterans of the White House press corps. No President had ever called his immediate predecessor an idiot and a maniac in public before the body was even cold. No President had ever said “bullshit” on national television. And no President had ever actually admitted he needed time to think.
For a long moment, no one moved, no one made a sound.
Then, finally, the voice of the senior White House correspondent mercifully shouted out the magic words “Thank you, Mr. President,” and pandemonium broke loose.
Everyone started shouting at once. Reporters broke for the exits. Other reporters surged forward and started trying to shout more questions at President Wolfowitz over the tumult as he stood there uncertainly on the podium, looking stunned, and distracted, and not knowing quite what to do.
Three Secret Service men emerged from the corridor behind the President. One of them took him lightly by the elbow, another said something to him, and they started leading him away.
Without thinking, Bobby shoved his way through the melee, and burst around the podium, screaming “Nat! Nat!” as Wolfowitz, his back to the room now, was about to disappear down the corridor with his escort.
Everything happened at once.
Arms grabbed him from behind. The President whirled around at the commotion. For a moment, their eyes locked.
“Nat! Nat! Please! I’ve got to talk to you!” Bobby pleaded at the top of his lungs as they started to drag him away.
Was that a ghost of recognition in the President’s eyes? “Little Moscow! Berkeley! Bobby Reed!” Bobby shouted desperately. “Now is the time for a futile gesture, remember, Nat?”
“You’re telling me!” the President groaned enigmatically, and he almost seemed to smile.
Two Secret Service goons had Bobby’s arms pinned behind him in a double hammerlock. The President’s escorts stepped in front of him, shielding him with their bodies.
“Nat! Please! I need your help!”
President Wolfowitz shoved himself between two of his Secret Service guards. “Stop!” he shouted. “I want to talk to that man!”
“Mr. President—”
“Do it!” Nathan Wolfowitz shouted. “You!” he ordered, pointing at the men restraining Bobby. “Bring that man here!”
No one moved for a moment. One of the President’s guards tried to step in front of him again. Wolfowitz shoved him back angrily. “I’m the fucking President, ain’t I?” he snapped. “You do as I say, or you can kiss your pensions good-bye!”
Bobby was shoved forward, with his arms still pinned behind his back. The President’s escorts had their hands inside their jackets. Wolfowitz turned on his heel, led the procession about ten feet down the corridor, turned, looked at Bobby, grinned strangely.
“That was crazy,” the President said. He studied Bobby narrowly. “I do know you, don’t I?” he said slowly. “Little Moscow . . . ? Berkeley? The Flag Riot . . . ? You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“The kid from Paris, remember, Nat?” Bobby said. “The Congressional campaign? The—”
“Bobby!” the President said, grinning. “I never forget a mark! You’re Bobby . . . Bobby. . .”
“Reed.”
“Right, Bobby Reed,” the President said. And he actually laughed. “Well, kiddo,” Nathan Wolfowitz said, “what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”
Bobby heaved an enormous sigh of relief. He almost started laughing himself. This was the real Nathan Wolfowitz, the man who had once been his friend.
“I’m desperate, Nat,” Bobby babbled. “My father’s dying in Paris, and I can’t get an exit visa, and you’re my only hope. Can I talk to you, Nat, just five minutes of your time, please, please. . . .”
“Let him go,” the President said.
The Secret Service men made no move to release Bobby.
“I said let . . . the . . . man . . . go,” the President said slowly and distinctly, as if talking to a small child. “I’m getting sick and tired of having to tell you people everything twice.”
Finally, reluctantly, the Secret Service men released Bobby’s arms.
“Okay, Bobby,” Nathan Wolfowitz said, “five minutes.”
“Mr. President, you have to—”
“What I have to do is take a piss!” the President said. “Where’s the nearest john?”
“Mr. President . . . ?”
“The toilet, goddamnit! We both have to take a piss, don’t we, Bobby?”
“My bladder’s bursting, Mr. President,” Bobby drawled.
The Secret Service men escorted them down
the corridor, turned a corner, led them up another corridor to a men’s room door. One of them opened the door for the President, who gestured for Bobby to precede him. Bobby walked into the toilet, with the President following behind. As Wolfowitz started to close the door behind himself, one of the Secret Service men stepped halfway through the doorway, blocking him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the President demanded.
“We’re not supposed to leave you alone with—”
“I think I can manage to hold my own prick, thank you,” the President snapped. “Now get the hell out of here and let us pee in peace!”
“Jesus, I’ve hated thugs like that all my life,” Nathan Wolfowitz said when they were alone in the toilet, “and now they’re all over me like flies on horseshit!”
He loped over to a urinal, unsealing his fly as he went. “I really do have to take a leak,” he said. “So tell me your sad story, Bobby. I only wish I could tell you mine.”
And so there, in a White House men’s room, Bobby unburdened himself to the President of the United States while the President unburdened himself into the urinal.
“Let me get this straight,” Nathan Wolfowitz said as he resealed his fly. “Your father is dying in Paris, you’ve got to get there to convince your mother to help him get his last wish by bullshitting her into believing that some funeral home in Palo Alto can revive him after they polymerize his brain, and the Central Security Agency won’t give you an exit visa. . . .”
“I know it sounds pretty crazy, Nat, but—”
“Crazy!” the President exclaimed. “You think that’s crazy?” His eyes seemed to unfocus, as if he were staring off into somewhere else, as if he were seeing something that made him shudder, made his shoulders slump. “I could tell you real crazy, Bobby,” he muttered. “But I can’t . . . I just can’t. . . .”
“Will you help me, Nat?”
President Wolfowitz seemed to snap himself back into focus by an act of will. He gave Bobby a sickly smile. He waved his hands like a stage magician.
“Consider it done,” he said. “I’ll get you a diplomatic exit visa to Montreal, you can catch a plane to Paris from there, I’ll make one of those Secret Service gorillas deliver the papers personally, yeah, I’d enjoy that. . . .” He smiled strangely. “How am I doing?” he said. “Is that Presidential enough for you?”
“Oh God, thank you, Nat,” was all that Bobby could manage to say.
“Mr. President! You’re already late for the Cabinet meeting!”
“Jesus Christ, can’t you guys even learn to knock?”
A Secret Service man had entered the toilet unbidden and stood there tapping his right foot nervously. “Mr. President . . . ?”
“Coming, Mother,” Nathan Wolfowitz drawled. He shrugged, turned, walked toward the door. He paused, looked over his shoulder at Bobby.
“By the way,” he said, “you might be interested to know that they’ve actually polymerized Carson’s brain,” he said. “Not that it hasn’t been dead for years anyway. I’m thinking of using it as the guidance system on the first missile we fire at Moscow, serve the bugger right. Though come to think of it, knowing Carson, the bastard would probably enjoy it.”
And with that exit line, he was gone.
SOVIETS CHARGE CLANDESTINE SHIPMENT OF AMERICAN ARMS TO UKRAINE
—Reuters
KRONKOL DEMANDS RESTATEMENT OF CARSON PROMISE
—Agence France-Presse
AMERICAN AIRPORTS SEALED BY PENTAGON
—Le Monde
CONGRESS OF PEOPLES VOTES SUPPORT OF UKRAINIANS
—Libération
AMERICAN EMBASSY SACKED IN BUDAPEST
—The Times (London)
UKRAINIAN MILITIA SEIZES RUSSIAN OFFICERS
—Die Welt
Bobby had never been on a Concordski before, and it was all a bit temporally disorienting. It had taken him five hours to fly from New York to California and two days to get to Montreal, with all flights out of the United States still grounded, and now here he was, less than three hours later, after having breezed through customs at De Gaulle, riding the RER into a Paris he had not seen since he was a teenager.
Things went from bad to worse after President Wolfowitz’s disastrous press conference. The jingo press came out with a story that he had tried to fire the secretaries of State and Defense and the Attorney General, only to be told by the Congressional leaders of both parties that if he did, impeachment proceedings would begin immediately. There were leaked demands from the Pentagon that he declare an emergency under the National Security Act and place the country under martial law.
Vadim Kronkol publicly demanded a policy statement from Washington on the “imminent Soviet invasion of the Ukraine.” Some maniac in Tbilisi declared Georgia an independent republic at an illegal rally in a restaurant, and a wild mass demonstration rampaged through the streets. Riot troops broke it up in a few hours, and hundreds of people were arrested, but not before the “Republic of Georgia” had been formally recognized by the “Republic of the Ukraine.”
Nevertheless, less than two days after the press conference, Bobby learned, somewhat to his amazement, that a President staggering through a nightmare had not been too distracted to keep a promise to an old friend.
He and Sara were having dinner when a Secret Service agent showed up at their apartment with a sour expression and an envelope bearing the Presidential Seal.
In it was Bobby’s two-week diplomatic exit visa to Montreal. There was none for Sara. There was also a handwritten note on a plain piece of paper.
Sorry. Best I could do with the mess I’ve been dealt. Believe me, this hole card no one wants to pay to see. I just hope the guy across the table is no better at reading a bluff than you were.
Nat
Sara’s whole attitude had changed when she read it. “I guess this means you’re going, huh, Bobby?” she said quietly.
“I have to, Sara. I’ve got no excuses left.”
“I wish I could go with you. . . .”
“I know. . . .”
And she sighed, and smiled wanly, and reached out across the table to take his hand. “It’s okay, Bobby,” she said softly. “I do understand.”
“You do? But I thought . . .”
“That was when Carson was President. If you’d gotten out then, they would have never let you back in, but now . . . we can trust Nat Wolfowitz, there’s going to be an end to all that fascist shit now. . . .”
“If there isn’t an end to everything first,” Bobby blurted, and was instantly sorry, as Sara’s face darkened. “I mean . . . if I go, we might never . . .”
“Don’t say it, Bobby! We’ll get through it. You’ll go to Paris for a couple of weeks, and by the time you get back, it’ll all be over.” Sara gasped and squeezed his hand. “I mean . . . I mean I trust Wolfowitz to see the whole thing through. . . .”
“After that press conference, you can still say that?”
“Come on, Bobby, you know that Nat Wolfowitz will never start pushing the red buttons, no matter what.”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed sincerely, “but if Gorchenko does, the Pentagon’s liable to yank them out of his hands.”
“Gorchenko won’t do it either. Why should he? The Red Army certainly doesn’t need nuclear weapons to walk all over the Ukrainians!”
“True enough,” Bobby said. “But if they do invade, we’re committed to—”
“We’re not committed to do anything now!” Sara declared forcefully. “That crazy bastard Carson’s dead, remember! Wolfowitz isn’t committed to anything.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Bobby had said, and he really had felt better about leaving her alone. “But . . . but you weren’t there, Sara, he was so . . . he seemed so trapped, so off center, so . . . so terrified himself. . . .”
“Who wouldn’t be? Only an asshole like Harry Carson.” And Sara had smiled a brave little smile that went straight to his heart. “There’s something to be said for a Pr
esident who’s willing to stand up there freaked-out like any sane person would be and tell the American people in words of one syllable that it’s time for the bullshit to stop, now isn’t there?” she had said.
They had both managed to laugh at that, and Sara had been a rock to the end. She didn’t even cry when she saw him off at Grand Central Station. She smiled, and she kissed him, and she waved good-bye from the platform with the same fixed smile on her face as the train pulled out.
And Bobby had ridden the train to Montreal and the Concordski to De Gaulle with hope in his heart. Sara, after all, was right. It was Harry Carson who had brought the world to the brink in the first place, and Carson was dead. Wolfowitz had just been in a state of shock at the press conference, that’s all. He had been the old Nat Wolfowitz in the toilet, more or less, hadn’t he?
It was a whole new hand of cards now, and who better to have playing them than the old poker master himself?
But now, sitting in the RER, glancing at the haggard faces of his fellow passengers, and reading the European version of the situation in Le Monde, Libération, and Europe Today, Bobby found that hope beginning to evaporate again.
Things looked much darker from this perspective. The Europeans were not under the umbrella of Battlestar America. If American missiles fell on the Soviet Union, Europeans were going to catch the fallout.
And even if a war was somehow averted, enormous political damage had already been done to Common Europe. If Gorchenko did not suppress the Ukrainian secession, the Soviet Union would disintegrate, and every ethnic minority in Europe would start declaring independence from the stable nation-states.
Libé had a story about clandestine American arms shipments through Odessa, yet at the same time quixotically supported Ukrainian independence in the name of popular democracy. Le Monde actually supported a Soviet invasion of the Ukraine as necessary to maintain European stability.
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