"You paint an attractive picture, Senator. And a plausible one."
And who would lead that global empire? Saul knew the answer—and he felt the lure in his bones.
"With you as leader." Sarah Mander was reading his mind. She wore the inviting smile of a Siren. "President Saul Steinmetz. First President of—may I say it?—the United States of the World."
President Steinmetz. And, as a reward for their initiative and support, positions of global power and influence for Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez. After that, presumably, a voice in the succession.
"I'm not sure I'd look good on a gold coin." Saul, deliberately, moved the level of intensity down a couple of notches. He tapped his nose. "I'm very fond of this, but it's a bit too Semitic, don't you think? Remember, I'm the man who goes to temple and gets pointed out as 'that Jewish-looking guy over there.' Maybe in full face, rather than profile?"
He felt the relaxation. Since he did not reject their suggestion out of hand, they assumed he was thinking it over. They would not expect him to buy the idea at once—it was far too radical. And some of Lopez's words raised other questions that really needed thought. Our military has overwhelming superiority. Had Lopez seen the rough airborne beasts slouching toward Andrews AFB and National Airport? What was the basis for such an assertion?
"If anything is to be done we must go beyond generalities," Saul said at last. "We need a specific plan. Staffing levels, resources, schedules, approaches. Of course, we can't do anything concrete until our own crisis eases. And I will need full congressional approval."
The exchange of glances came and went in the flicker of an eye.
"Of course." Lopez stood up. "This meeting was no more than a preliminary discussion of principles. An enormous amount of work remains to be done. However, we think we can guarantee you the overwhelming support of both Houses."
In other words, we did our homework. But Saul could have guessed that. There had to have been the usual backroom quid pro quos, although he did not know the details and the stakes were bigger than usual. You have my support, provided that my wife's family has control of Congo copper production? Or maybe, Offshore oil leases in Argentina, in exchange for three locked-in votes.
Saul stood up, too. "Our surveillance systems will give us a more accurate world picture within a week. We'll know better then what has to be done. Why don't we meet again in five days?"
The usual handshakes—firm and brisk from Nick Lopez, while Sarah Mander clasped Saul's hand warmly in both of hers—and they were gone.
He smiled until they left, then sat and seethed. The witless bastards. A President had to be ambitious, sure, otherwise it would be the worst job in the world. He was certainly no exception. But every President also had an eye on posterity. What would people remember about you, a hundred or two hundred years from now?
Not, you hoped, that you had waited until the rest of the world was at a low point, then made a cheap power grab. Mander and Lopez were living in the wrong century. What they were proposing was some form of a Pax Americana. There was no way that such an entity could survive for very long, unless you were willing to grind the people of other countries into absolute servitude.
And probably not even then. It had been tried. You ran the risk of plagues of frogs and locusts and pools of blood, and the loss of your firstborn child.
Almost always, the moral high road was the right road, even if it was seldom the popular way.
Saul glanced at the portraits that lined the office wall.
He divided them into two groups: wrong but romantic, or right but repulsive. Sarah Mander would have told him in an instant the name of the book from which he had stolen the two categories. Nick Lopez might know, but he would deny the knowledge.
They both had a special interest in politics. How was a President usually remembered by the general public?
By trivia, some of them false.
You chopped down a cherry tree. You charged on horseback up a useless piece of real estate called San Juan Hill. You used a wheelchair. You were so fat you got stuck in the White House bathtub. You were as stingy with words as a miser with his gold. You recorded your own crimes—and kept the recordings. You rented bedrooms for one-nighters at the White House. You were shot in a motorcade, and set off the biggest conspiracy theory in history.
And Saul Steinmetz?
The first Jewish President, but the hell with that as a claim for immortality. Kennedy was the first Catholic President, Reagan the first divorced President. Who remembered them that way? No one.
Jewishness was merely an obstacle, a fence that he had already cleared on the way to the White House. What he needed was something as memorable as ending slavery, as important as bringing the nation out of the Depression. Suppose he put the country back on its feet now, and made it stronger and better than it had ever been? That might do it. His recent meeting would not make that job any easier.
He glanced toward the empty corner of the office where the Persona had once maintained its hologram, then he slid open a drawer of his desk and looked inside. A handsome face with long hair pushed Byronically back from the brow stared straight at him from the old painting. The Presidents on the wall were your predecessors, Saul; but I am your spiritual Papa.
Benjamin Disraeli had fought every one of Saul's battles, and won, to become the Prime Minister of the biggest empire the world had ever known. And he had done it in a century where jew was a verb.
If Disraeli were here, what would he be doing now?
He would be asking his universal question. What if?
What if Saul had given Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez a flat and immediate no?
They must have come prepared for such an answer. They would have alternate strategies able to neutralize or bypass Saul. For that to be possible, they needed a high-level insider within the White House itself. Preferably someone with detailed information on military strength and disposition.
The same question was in his head again: What did Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez know about the condition of the country's military machine that Saul didn't?
By definition, he could not answer that. Yet.
If Presidents had one common weakness, it was the disguised fondness for introspection. Saul roused himself and hit the intercom. When Auden Travis appeared—with his usual speed, and carrying a yellow folder—Saul asked, "Are we able to use hidden personnel tracers yet?"
"No, sir. Security says it may take months. We first need to build a factory to make the microchips."
"I was afraid of that. Is General Mackay here today?"
"I think so, sir. Would you like to see her?"
"No, I want you to make sure that she receives a piece of information, through as indirect a route as possible. I want her to be told that she is under surveillance."
"Yes, sir." Travis hesitated. "Do you want me to try to arrange for surveillance?"
"No. I'm not planning that at the moment."
"Very well, sir." Auden Travis, quite reasonably in Saul's opinion, looked baffled. When it was clear that Saul was going to say no more, Travis proffered the folder. "This is the list of calls, sir, reorganized in a suggested order of priority for action. Cases where the staff could not make a decision are marked with a star."
"Fine." Saul took the yellow folder, but still Auden Travis hesitated. "Is there something else I need to know?"
"I think so, sir. Thirty-four of the calls were from the same person."
"I suppose that's good. That many less to answer."
"Yes, sir. All those calls are from Mrs. Patricia Goldsmith. She said you know her as Tricia."
His face asked the question. Auden was a relative newcomer to his White House job, and it proved he knew less about Saul than he imagined. He must have looked for Patricia Goldsmith in Saul's contact file, and found her identified as a wealthy local resident and prominent socialite.
Saul opened the folder. "Did you speak with her yourself?"
"Yes, sir. On her thirty-fourt
h call. I thought I ought to find out what she wanted. But she refused to tell me any more than she told anyone else."
"What did you tell her?"
"That you have been terribly busy with numerous crises. That you are flooded with calls."
"What did she say?"
Auden Travis's face flushed a bright pink. "Something I prefer not to repeat."
"It's all right. I know how Tricia can be. Remember, quoting someone isn't the same thing as saying it yourself."
"I told her that I would pass on her message, but you were in an important meeting and could not be interrupted. She asked my name, and I gave it to her. She asked me how old I was. I said I didn't think that was relevant. Then she said that she had heard of me, but if I wanted to go anywhere in this job I must not block access to the President by his old friends. Sir, I don't do that."
"I know. I'm sorry, Auden. Think of it as the habits of the very rich. They are not used to being frustrated."
"Yes, sir. I try to treat this sort of thing as part of my job."
"It is, but it ought not to be. Don't worry, I'll take it from here."
As Travis left, Saul examined the ranked list of callers. Eight foreign heads of state, thirty-three congressional representatives, nine state governors, fourteen heads of government departments, eighteen heads of industry and major party contributors. They all needed to speak with him "urgently and immediately." And that was just the first page.
He flipped through the list, sheet after sheet. Everyone was looking to Washington. Judging from the message summaries, every caller had outstretched hands. Nick Lopez and Sarah Mander were right. A country with food and weapons and a working infrastructure had never been so powerful.
He came to the final page. There they were, Tricia's calls, right at the end, with her number and his staff's priority assignment. She had been assigned the lowest level. No one knew why she was calling. Nor, for that matter, did he.
Automatic call routing had died with Supernova Alpha's gamma-ray pulse. Saul went to his private line, one that could not be monitored by Auden Travis or anyone else, and entered the sequence by hand. He was half hoping there would be no reply, but it was answered immediately.
"Hello?" Tricia's voice was clear and high-pitched, a little faint over the noisy line but easily recognized.
"Hi." He felt breathless. "This is Saul."
"Saul! Mr. President! It's been ages."
Strictly speaking, that was not true. She and Saul had been at the same reception, just before Christmas. They had eyed each other from across the room. Very slim and taller than Saul even without heels, she stood out above the crowd. Her black hair was as sleek and stylish as ever, setting off a pale, flawless complexion and fine cheekbones. She was not with her new husband, Joseph Goldsmith, but even so she and Saul had kept their distance.
He said nothing now, and after a few moments she added, "Saul, are you there? How are things?"
"It's a mess—a mess all over the country. All over the world. We've been hit hard, but we are better off than most."
He had interpreted her question impersonally. With Tricia he should have known better. She laughed, the insider's laugh he knew so well.
"Now you stop that. You know what I mean. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Tricia. One thing about being President, people do coddle you. A better question is, how are you managing out at Highgates?"
As he spoke he glanced at an expanded metsat view of the local area. Highgates lay fifty miles to the west and slightly south, in Virginia horse country. Like the rest of the region, the four square miles of estate surrounding the forty-room mansion of Highgates was blanketed with snow.
"Well, it's hard to go anywhere." Tricia's voice was resolutely upbeat. "So for the past week I haven't tried. We have our own generators and our own wells and plenty of food. I'm learning to enjoy solitude. I can't complain. And you know me, I never do."
She was right. Tricia took misfortune in her stride, chin up and head held high. It was one of her best points. She complained about nothing—or about only one thing, which Saul was not going to mention.
"You are wise to stay home," he said. "I'm trying to bring services and systems back, but it's slow going. Staying at Highgates makes good sense."
"Oh, don't say that." There was a joking pout in her voice. He could visualize her dark-eyed face, as clearly as if they had a videophone connection.
"I'm planning a trip into Washington tomorrow or the day after," she went on. "I was really hoping I could stop by and say hello. You tell me you're fine, but I'd like to see for myself and make sure. You drive yourself too hard, you know. You're too busy with others to take care of your own health."
Getting from Highgates to Washington would be difficult, but Saul knew better than to suggest that to Tricia as an obstacle to their meeting. She would find a way.
"Tomorrow would be good. How about dinner? Here?" The words seemed to emerge from his mouth without the involvement of his forebrain.
"That will be perfect."
He regained some self-control. "It won't be just the two of us, I'm afraid. There have to be some other people present, and we'll be talking business."
Saul could do what he liked with his calendar. Tomorrow had nothing that could not be moved. He was testing, searching for information.
"That's all right," she said at once. "So long as we can both be there. About six? I know you like to eat early."
"That will be good."
"Wonderful. You know, I'm really looking forward to seeing you. Bye, Saul."
Before he could add anything, the line went dead. Saul leaned back in the padded chair, specially designed for his predecessor, and breathed deep. It had been two years and more since they had spoken to each other, but his heart was racing. He had not known what Tricia wanted when he placed the call to her, and he had no better idea now.
The list of callers was still sitting in front of him, open to the last sheet. He didn't even want to think about them, until he noticed Yasmin Silvers's name at the top of the page. How had he overlooked that earlier?
He knew. He had been focused totally on Tricia. The initials next to Yasmin's name showed that she had spoken with Auden Travis, but there was no message summary.
Saul touched the intercom. "Auden? I see Yasmin Silvers called. You spoke with her."
"Yes, sir. Should I come in?"
"No need for that." Saul detected a curiously cold tone to Travis's voice. Had the two of them been arguing?
"What did Yasmin want?"
"It was an information call only, sir, that's why her message shows low priority. She had been heading south. She said that you had authorized her trip—to the Q-5 Syncope Facility at Maryland Point?"
"Quite right." Saul ignored the implied question, why? "I did. She ought to be there by now."
"She isn't. She was not able to travel, yesterday or today. She says the roads to the south are closed because of high snowdrifts."
"Where is she?"
"She is staying at a place called Indian Head. It's about forty kilometers south of here."
"What is it? The name is familiar."
"It is an old Navy weapons center—very old, I gather."
"Does she need help?"
"She did not ask for it, sir. It would also be difficult to provide it, because the roads from here are close to impassable."
"Very good. Thank you, Auden." Logically, that was the end of that subject. Yasmin Silvers was in a known location, and she was safe. Saul ought to get back to other matters, like the high-priority items on the list. But at some hidden level his brain was at work, linking Yasmin and Indian Head with the words and agenda of Nick Lopez. Whatever Mander and Lopez might be, they were not fools.
He walked over to the bureau in the corner of the office and pulled out a volume of large-scale maps of the local region. Finding a selected location in the atlas was harder work than the Query-and-Display system, with its instant map information for any
point coded into the worldwide digital data base. But the Q-and-D was down, and would be until a version could be pipelined in from the intact Prospero-rated intelligence data center at Boiling Air Force Base. Maybe three more days, according to Grace Mackay. Meanwhile . . .
Saul found Indian Head. Naturally, the old Navy base was on the river. It stood at the point where the Potomac turned, broadened, and began a long sweep due south. It was easy to see how Yasmin had become stuck there. From Indian Head all the way to the deliberately isolated outpost of Maryland Point and the Facility for Extended Syncope, the only roads were second- or third-class highways.
And Auden Travis was right, too. With few plows available, the roads down to Indian Head would still be deep in drifts.
It would be difficult for Saul to drive there until the drifts were cleared. But other avenues lay open—if you were President.
He glanced over to the stately grandfather clock, imported a week and a half ago into the office. Three-thirty. There would be time enough.
He touched the intercom unit that sat on the bureau. "Auden? Please call Yasmin Silvers and tell her I would like to have dinner with her this evening at Indian Head. I have some matters that I need to discuss with her personally. And call General Mackay. I want a vessel ready and waiting to carry me downriver to Indian Head. I will leave here one and a half hours from now."
He broke off the connection without waiting for a reply from Auden Travis. No matter how much the aide misread Saul's motives and disapproved of them, he wouldn't dare to say it. And it was just possible that he was not totally wrong.
An hour and a half. Saul walked back to his desk. The list of callers still sat there, staring at him accusingly. Eighteen hundred calls, an hour and a half to make them. Three seconds for each.
Saul closed the folder.
As one of his more easygoing predecessors was apt to say, before retiring for a couple of martinis and an evening of relaxation, "We have to be sure to leave some work for tomorrow."
Aftermath Page 16
