Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

And so, not even his wife knows what he will say when he stands before the enormous crowd at the Monument Grounds to commit himself beyond retrieving to the cause of Orrin Knox and the difficult and dangerous road Orrin thinks will lead to national stability and world peace.

  So the hour of acceptance comes, bright and hot and clear, and from all the corners of Washington’s two cities—the one shining with legend and hope, the other dark with blasted promise and harsh reality—from all the corners of the nation, all the corners of the earth, the great throng gathers on the Monument Grounds around the stark white obelisk honoring the fatherly first President.

  Krishna Khaleel, Ambassador of India; Vasily Tashikov, Ambassador of Soviet Russia, and his “agricultural attaché,” who is really the head of the KGB intelligence apparatus for eastern United States; the British Ambassador and his wife, Lord and Lady Maudulayne; the French Ambassador and his, Raoul and Celestine Barre; and almost all their colleagues of the diplomatic corps, are there.

  Somewhere in the enormous multitude that laughs and yells and chatters, shoves and pushes and jostles in amiable contest for position, are LeGage Shelby, Rufus Kleinfert and most of their fellow members of NAWAC. (Only Senator Van Ackerman is missing. Whispering now, he is in his fourteenth hour of filibuster against the Administration-backed Bill to Further Curb Acts Against the Public Order and Welfare.) The Chief Justice is there, his wife already upset because she can tell from the way Mr. Associate Justice Thomas Buckmaster Davis is bustling about near the platform that he must have some preferred assignment she doesn’t know about. Senate Majority Leader Robert Durham Munson of Michigan and his wife, Dolly, are there, along with Stanley Danta of Connecticut, the Majority Whip and Crystal Knox’s father, and more than half the Senate. From the House, Representative J. B. “Jawbone” Swarthman, chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee and a possible strong contender for the Speakership next year, and his wife, “Miss Bitty-Bug,” are rubbing elbows not too comfortably with California’s giant young Negro Congressman Cullee Hamilton and his soon-to-be wife, Sarah Johnson. More than two hundred of their fellow House members are also on hand. All members of the National Committee have already taken their seats on the platform.

  Television crews are everywhere, and through the crowd there are many television sets in place to bring the ceremonies to the farthest reaches. Police with walkie-talkies are also everywhere, moving constantly, efficiently, yet amicably, their presence giving rise to a few catcalls but otherwise no indication of hostility. At regularly spaced intervals groups of four soldiers stand back-to-back facing their countrymen, guns, bayonets and gas canisters ready. Around the flag-decked platform and the dignitaries’ circle at the foot of the Monument, a tight cordon of Marines stands guard. Overhead the ubiquitous helicopters whir and hover.

  Yet somehow, despite these precautions, there seems to be something in the air that indicates they will not be needed. Press and police estimate more than four hundred thousand present on this day that belongs to Orrin Knox and Edward Jason, yet with no visible exceptions they seem almost to be on picnic, so happy and relaxed do they look and sound. Even NAWACs banners are good-natured, and this seems to put the final touches on it:

  ORRIN AND TED: THE UNBEATABLES … HEY, HEY, GREAT DAY! BAD TIMES, GO AWAY! … TED AND ORRIN HAVE GOT US ROARIN’ … WE’LL HAVE PEACE TOMORROW AND NO MORE SORROW.…

  Presently from far off there comes the sound of sirens, hailed with a great roar of greeting and approval. The sleek black limousine from Orrin’s house in Spring Valley comes along Constitution Avenue in the center of its police motorcycle escort, turns into the Monument Grounds and proceeds slowly to the foot of the obelisk. Two minutes later, more sirens, another great roar. The sleek black limousine from Patsy’s house in Dumbarton Oaks, in the center of its police motorcycle escort, comes along Constitution Avenue, turns into the Monument Grounds, proceeds slowly to the foot of the obelisk.

  Out of their cars step the nominee for President and the nominee for Vice President, and their wives, and for a moment in the midst of a wave of sound that seems to blot out the world, they stare at one another with a questioning, uncertain, hesitant yet friendly look. Then Orrin steps forward and holds out his hand, and as the picture flashes on all the television sets, a silence falls.

  “Ted,” he says, and his words thunder over the Monument Grounds, the nation, the world, “Beth and I are glad to see you.”

  “Orrin,” the Governor replies, “our pleasure.”

  Impulsively and with a completely natural friendliness, Ceil steps forward and kisses Beth and then Orrin. Beth gives her a warm hug and then turns to embrace Ted. The television cameras zoom in, the still photographers push and shout and scramble. A shout of happiness and approval goes up from all the vast concourse.

  Orrin links his arm informally through Ted’s and leads the way to the platform, through the dignitaries’ circle where friends and colleagues, opponents and supporters, greet them with an eagerly smiling, unanimous cordiality.

  “It seems to be a happy day,” Orrin says quietly, words no longer overheard as the police hold back the press. “I’m glad.”

  “So am I,” Ted says. “I think we have a great responsibility.”

  “We do,” Orrin agrees. “I’m going to make a conciliatory speech.”

  “I too,” Ted says. “I had thought of sending it over for your approval this morning, but—”

  “Oh, no,” Orrin says quickly. He smiles. “I trust you.” The smile fades, he looks for a moment profoundly, almost sadly, serious. “We’ve got to trust each other, from now on.”

  “Yes,” Ted says gravely. “We must. I think we can.”

  Orrin gives him a shrewd sidelong glance as they reach the steps of the platform.

  “I have no doubts,” he says quietly.

  “They’re going to need our help,” Beth says to Ceil as they, too, reach the steps and start up after their husbands.

  Ceil smiles, a sunny, happy smile.

  “I think,” she says with a little laugh, “that you and I can manage.”

  The wild, ecstatic roar breaks out again as they appear together on the platform, standing side by side, arms raised in greeting, framed by the flags and the backdrop of the gleaming white needle soaring against the hot, bright sky.

  “Mr. Secretary and Mrs. Knox! Governor and Mrs. Jason! Look this way, please! Can you look over here, please? Mr. Secretary—Governor—Mrs. Jason—Mrs. Knox—this way, please! Can you smile and wave again, please?”

  Finally Orrin calls,

  “Haven’t you got enough?”

  And from somewhere in the jostling tumult below them, of heads, hands, flailing arms, contorted bodies and cameras held high, there comes a plea of such anguished supplication that they all laugh.

  “Please, just once more, Mr. President! All together again, please!”

  “The things we do for our country,” Orrin says with a mock despair as they all link arms and step forward once more.

  “Yes,” Ceil says happily. “It sometimes seems as though—”

  But what it sometimes seems to Ceil at this moment will never be known, for they are interrupted.

  No one in the crowd hears anything, no one sees anything. For several moments the full import of the sudden confusion on the platform does not penetrate.

  It is so bright and hot and sunny.

  It is such a happy day.

  They cannot quite comprehend, in this bright, hot, sunny, awful instant, the dreadful thing that has occurred so swiftly and so silently before their eyes.

  It is not clear now, nor perhaps will it ever be, exactly what those who have planned this intended. But whatever they intended, by some perhaps inadvertent and unintentional miscalculation they have accomplished even more.

  A husband and wife—but they are not the same husband and wife—stare at one another for a terrible moment suspended in time and history. Then she begins to scream and he begins to utter a strange animal howl of ag
ony and regret.

  Their puny ululations are soon lost in the great rush of sound that engulfs the platform slippery with blood, the Monument Grounds sweltering under the steaming sky, the two cities, the nation, the horrified, watching, avid world.

  ORRIN KNOX, CEIL JASON SLAIN … PRESIDENTIAL NOMINEE, RUNNING MATE’S WIFE ASSASSINATED IN WASHINGTON … GOVERNOR JASON, MRS. KNOX WOUNDED, NARROWLY ESCAPE DEATH IN MELEE AT MONUMENT GROUNDS … POLICE HOLD FAKE PHOTOGRAPHER SUSPECT … NATION’S LEADERS JOIN IN MOURNING SECRETARY OF STATE AND MRS. JASON … PARTY THROWN INTO CONFUSION BY LOSS OF NOMINEE … CONGRESS IN RECESS … WORLD APPALLED BY NEW VIOLENCE IN U.S …

  And the second day:

  KNOX, MRS. JASON LIE IN STATE AT CAPITOL … STATE FUNERAL FOR BOTH TO BE HELD TOMORROW … GOVERNOR, MRS. KNOX “IMPROVING,” REMAIN IN SECLUSION … PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION SCENE CLOUDED … PARTY HEADS CONFER ON NEW STANDARD-BEARER … PRESIDENT ABBOTT RECONVENES NATIONAL COMMITTEE FOR DAY AFTER TOMORROW.…

  And the third day:

  ORRIN KNOX, MRS. JASON INTERRED AT ARLINGTON IN SOMBER STATE FUNERAL … GOVERNOR, MRS. KNOX UNABLE TO ATTEND … PRESIDENT SAYS GOVERNOR “ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN” TO BE NOMINEE … WORLD STILL STUNNED BY HORROR OF DOUBLE ASSASSINATION.…

  And the fourth:

  JASON UNANIMOUS CHOICE OF NATIONAL COMMITTEE … FIFTEEN-MINUTE MEETING CONFIRMS “INEVITABLE DECISION” PRESIDENT ABBOTT PREDICTS “OVERWHELMING” JASON VICTORY … PARTY HEADS TO MEET TONIGHT WITH GOVERNOR, STILL IN SECLUSION AT SISTER’S HOME … RUNNING MATE IN DOUBT …

  And life and history, as they must, move on.

  “Bob,” the President said with a heavy sigh as the long black limousine swung out of the West Gate of the White House promptly at 6:30 p.m. and began its swift motorcycle-escorted glide through the black-draped streets, “sometimes I feel mighty old.”

  “Yes,” Senator Munson agreed with an equal heaviness, “and this is the worst time of all. What’s going to happen to this country, anyway, Bill?”

  The President sighed again and shook his head.

  “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Except that I do know one thing: you and I and all of us who have the responsibility are going to have to be a damned sight better than we have ever been, if we’re going to bring her through.”

  “Will he be better than he’s ever been?” Bob Munson inquired gloomily and answered his question with others. “How can he be, after this? It’s enough to shatter any man. Are you sure the Committee did the right thing yesterday? What kind of a nominee have we got now? And what can he do to pull us through?”

  “He’ll get over it,” the President said bluntly, not as unkind as he sounded for a moment: just practical and pragmatic, as he had always been when he was Speaker of the House, and still was in the White House. “Events knock a man down and events stand him up again, in life and politics. He’ll get over it. Things are moving so fast for him that he’ll have to get over it or he’ll go under. And crushed as he is, I can’t see Ted Jason going under. As for the Committee, what else could we do? For the sake of public stability we had to act immediately—there was only one logical claim we had to satisfy—we couldn’t possibly have passed him by at such a time, the country just wouldn’t have stood for it—and who else was there? We didn’t have room to maneuver. It was inevitable.”

  “You could have taken the nomination,” Senator Munson said. But the President only snorted.

  “Oh, yes. Sure I could. Me and who else? They would have given it to me last week if I’d wanted it, but after this horror and all the sympathy it’s created for Ted, they would have run me out of town on a rail if I’d dared to ask. And anyway, Bob, you know I mean what I say: I don’t want it. I’m going to get re-elected to the House from Colorado and then I’m going to be Speaker again and then I’ll see what I can do from up there on the Hill to help this fellow.” He sighed again. “He’s going to need it.”

  “Yes,” Bob Munson said grimly. “That he is.”

  “How will things go on your side?” the President asked. Bob Munson, who had been Majority Leader of the United States Senate for twelve years, looked thoughtful as he contemplated his ninety-nine fellow egotists with all their faults and foibles, their good points and their bad.

  “Probably quite easily, to begin with. The tragedy will help him a great deal at first—we’ll go along with pretty much anything he wants. Then the checks and balances will reassert themselves and he’ll be in trouble again. But I imagine he’ll do all right until we get over the hump.”

  “Same way with the House,” the President said. “With one big if: if he doesn’t go too fast and too far in the direction he seemed to be going before this happened.”

  “That’s our personal reaction, Bill,” Senator Munson said. “We didn’t like what we thought he was doing, playing along with the violent at home and apparently favoring a new appeasement abroad. But we’re a little old-fashioned, you know. We’re not really in the trend of things. We still believe in America acting like we think America ought to act. A lot of our fellow citizens don’t agree any more. Ted speaks for them, you know, not for us. How sure are you that Congress won’t follow him, even down that road? I can think of quite a few on my side who will.”

  “My side too,” the President conceded. “But I’m not going to let them get away with it.”

  Senator Munson gave a wry little laugh as the car and its outriders left Pennsylvania Avenue and started up Wisconsin.

  “We think we aren’t, my friend, but the days when you and I could pass miracles on the Hill are pretty well over, I think. It’s going to be a hard fight from now on, particularly if we have a President who’s pulling the other way.”

  “Then we’ll just have to keep him from it,” the President said firmly. But again his companion uttered a wry little laugh.

  “Mmhmm,” he agreed. “We’ll try, Bill, there’s no doubt of that. But I have a feeling we won’t get much help from him or his staff.”

  “That’s why we’ve got to fight like hell to see he doesn’t get himself surrounded with the wrong crowd,” the President said. “This Vice-Presidential nomination is the first step.”

  “Yes,” Bob Munson said, “and who’s going to be at this little huddle about it? Who has he called in to advise him?”

  “Who has Patsy called in, you mean,” the President suggested dryly. “I got the call from her, not from him.”

  “But presumably—”

  “Presumably,” the President agreed. “But maybe he really is too shattered to take a hand.”

  “Well,” Senator Munson said tartly, “if Patsy Jason Labaiya is going to be the new powder-room President of the United States, then I’ll lead the revolution myself. Anyway, he knew we had to come and see him as soon as possible. It couldn’t be delayed.”

  It was the President’s turn to say, “Mmmhmm.”

  “I can understand his calling in Roger P. Croy,” he said, grimacing slightly as he thought of Oregon’s silver-haired, demagogic former Governor who had led the Jason forces in convention and in the National Committee. “And Tom August. And even Jawbone Swarthman. But George Wattersill? And Walter Dobius? And LeGage Shelby? And Rufus Kleinfert? And Fred Van Ackerman? My God, man!”

  “That’s all right,” Bob Munson said. “We have Bob Leffingwell and Stanley Danta and Cullee Hamilton and Lafe Smith. And maybe one or two more. And that’s not too bad a company.”

  “Outnumbered,” the President noted. “But prepared to put up a gallant battle, no doubt. Who do we want for Vice President, Robert? Do you have any ideas?”

  “Let me startle you,” the Majority Leader offered, not entirely in jest. “Since you don’t want it, how about me, just as a practical matter of party harmony?”

  “You don’t shock me at all,” the President said, “I’m way ahead of you. But we have to convince Ted, you know. And there’ll be plenty of other voices there tonight saying No.”

  “And who will they propose?” Senator Munson inquired sarcastic
ally. “Fred Van Ackerman?”

  “I won’t be a bit surprised if the name is mentioned,” the President said. His companion looked genuinely shocked.

  “That would be insanity. Utter, rabid insanity.”

  “We live in an utterly rabid age in which insane things happen,” the President pointed out. “I have the feeling we aren’t more than a hairline away from something like it. These next few days and weeks are going to be critical.”

  “These next few hours are going to be critical,” Bob Munson said. A sudden profound sorrow touched his face.

  “Ah, hell. I wish Orrin were here.”

  “I don’t let myself think about that too much,” the President said. “Or anyway, I try not to. Don’t succeed very well, I’m afraid. It’s too awful.”

  “I have no words for it,” Senator Munson said simply. “It’s almost beyond comprehension, still. Do you think that guy they’re holding did it?”

  “It looks like it,” the President said. “The FBI tells me there’s a pretty strong presumptive link between this and Harley. His plane crashes, I move in, Orrin’s nominated, Orrin’s killed, Ted moves in. You could make a strong case that somebody is out to arrange the American succession to suit himself. Or themselves.”

  “Who is it? The Communists?”

  “Now right there,” the President said with a return of a little of his customary wryness, “you’re sounding like the same old reactionary bastard you always sound like. How can you be so conservative and crude?” His expression changed and became somber as their little cavalcade turned off Wisconsin and started west on Massachusetts Avenue, rolling swiftly past the few startled citizens who were on the streets to see its hurried passage. “Could be that bunch in NAWAC. Could be ’Gage Shelby’s friends, or Van Ackerman’s friends, or Kleinfert’s friends. Could be somebody working behind or through them. Could be somebody they’ve never even heard of. Could be Tashikov and the Russians. Could be the Chinese. We intend to find out.”

  “And when you find out,” Bob Munson said with a sudden bitterness, “what good will it do you? If it involves the Communists, you can’t convince anybody, the media won’t let you. Walter Dobius will write columns and the rest of his crowd will go wild. You can state it until you’re blue in the face and all they’ll do is pour on the ridicule until they bury you under it. Even now, I suspect, Walter and his friends will still maintain that no outside power could possibly have any interest in the American Presidency or could possibly intervene in any way that would affect it. Particularly so kind and friendly a power as the Communists. Even now. It surpasses belief. But there it is.”