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

by Allen Drury

  “Well, now,” Jawbone said hastily, as an ominous rumble began on floor and galleries “before we get into personalities, and I say we all sympathize most deeply, most dreadfully with my dear young friend from Illinois, before we say anything we’ll all regret later, I suggest this House stand adjourned for two hours, and do I hear any dissent,” he banged the gavel hastily, “it is so ordered!”

  “I suppose,” Cullee Hamilton said with a terrible bitterness five minutes later to Fred Van Ackerman when the news reached the Senate, “that this is your doing.”

  “I think we should follow the example of the House,” Roger P. Croy cried hastily even as Fred’s voice began to rise in an angry yell, “and take a brief recess to assess this development. Without objection, the Senate stands adjourned for two hours!”

  SURVEY SHOWS POLITICAL KIDNAPPINGS COMMON FOR YEARS IN OTHER LANDS, the Times said in a special front-page article in its early edition, BUT BIZARRE KNOX EPISODE IS NEW FOR AMERICA. The article was written by one of the paper’s youngest and brightest new members. Its tone was calm, chatty, informative, reasonable, matter-of-fact—even, it might almost be said, cheery. A fatherly air of this-happens-every-day-so-don’t-you-silly-readers-get-yourselves-all-worked-up-now ran through it from beginning to end. It was not a mood that could be found elsewhere in America that night, not even among those who really counted on the Times.

  “My God!” Walter Dobius said in a tone so charged with rage and impatience that his colleagues on the Picturephone link-up were a little taken aback, agitated though they were themselves. “Is there no limit to the insanities of this insane age? And how much longer are we going to sit by and let them go along without our condemnation?”

  “We’re all condemning them,” the editorial director of the Times said with a sharpness increased by worry. “You’ve seen an advance copy of our editorial—”

  “Patty-cakes!” Walter snapped. “Patty-cakes! Polite deplorings, signifying nothing. I mean give them hell. Because we must, I tell you. We must.”

  “I agree with Walter,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication said gently. “I do agree with Walter. Today Beth Knox, tomorrow the world, so to speak. Or anyway,” he said, his fine old face looking tired and wan, “tomorrow us.”

  “Exactly,” Walter said. “Exactly. And it’s all so damned pointless, that’s what gets me. The Congress is going to pass the bill anyway, God help us.”

  “But they need the Knoxes to make it respectable,” the general director of the Post suggested.

  “More than that,” Walter Dobius said somberly. “They need something to shock and cow the public. They need schrecklichkeit, as Mr. Hitler used to say—frightfulness. I am worried to death for Beth, I will tell you frankly. I don’t think she’s coming out of this alive.”

  “Oh, now,” the Times said. “There’s no need to get melodramatic. What could they possibly gain from her death?”

  “Just what Walter says,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication told him. “Public shock. Much can be done, you know, with public shock.”

  “It defeats itself,” the Post said shortly.

  “As long as insanity is not in control of things,” the executive chairman of the G.P. agreed. “When it is, then shock serves exactly the purpose Walter says—it cows people.”

  “Do you think her son will give in?” the Times inquired.

  “She wouldn’t want him to,” Walter said, “but who knows what anybody will do, under such pressure? How come they didn’t take his wife as well? That would have really done it.”

  “Apparently they didn’t realize she was sleeping upstairs,” the Post said, “and apparently they were so swift and silent with Beth that they didn’t wake Crystal. It was a good half hour, you know, before the White House got really alarmed and began looking for Beth.”

  “And what is he doing, that great, brooding, silent figure?” Walter inquired bitterly. “Why is there nothing from him? Why doesn’t he speak?”

  “Our man at the White House just got through to the press secretary,” the Post said, “wait a minute—” they could see him reach across his desk, take a piece of paper from a spindle—“I am shocked, horrified and saddened by the kidnapping of Mrs. Knox. Such acts of political terrorism have no place in free America. No pursuit can be too ruthless, no punishment too severe for those who have perpetrated it. I have given orders to the FBI and all other law-enforcement arms of the government to join in the search for Mrs. Knox and the apprehension and punishment of her abductors. I trust the Congress’ judgment on the measure now pending before it will in no way be affected by this cruel episode, which will be handled in the most effective way possible by your government.’”

  “Well,” Walter said with a savage dryness, “so he is alive.”

  “If he wrote it,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication suggested, “it may have been the staff, trying to protect him.”

  “No,” Walter said, “I think he wrote it, all right. I’ll give him that. But it comes damned late in the day for one who has given silence and tacit assent to the rise of elements that could do a thing like this. And I repeat: we must all condemn them without any ifs, ands or buts. They are despicable—utterly despicable. And so is this bill. Is it not?” And with a sudden challenging air he searched their faces, filled with varying degrees of apprehension and concern.

  “It is monstrous,” the executive chairman of the G.P. agreed quietly.

  “Absolutely inexcusable,” the Times said.

  “But not necessarily as bad as young Knox and Abbott and the rest seem to believe,” the Post commented. “Now, is it really? Isn’t it necessary to have some public quiet and stability if we are to come through this international situation all right?”

  “Quiet and stability for what?” Walter Dobius demanded. “So insane fanatics can kidnap Beth Knox?”

  “It isn’t necessary to get hysterical about it,” the Post replied mildly. “We can see plenty of dangers in this bill if it is poorly administered. But who says for sure it will be?”

  “With George Wattersill in charge of the Special Branch?” Walter inquired.

  “And God knows who at the head of the Domestic Tranquility Agency,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication agreed.

  “Maybe Fred Van Ackerman?” the Times tossed in with an almost dreamy air. “Run that one up the Washington Monument and see how it grabs you.”

  “We still have some faith in the good sense of the President of the United States,” the Post said sharply.

  Walter Dobius snorted.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” the Post said angrily, “we happen to believe that he is sincerely trying to work out a peaceful solution for this crisis and we happen to believe that he is going to do it. And we believe we have the obligation to continue to support him—actively—until events prove us wrong. That’s why!”

  “With the opportunities there are in that bill for control of the press,” Walter said slowly, “and with the kidnapping of Beth Knox to disclose to you the state of mind of those who are behind it, you still think that? I admire your courage. Or deplore your stupidity.”

  “Walter,” the Post said sharply, “you and I are old and good friends, but I will not take that kind of language from you or anybody. How do we know ‘the people behind this bill’ had anything to do with Beth Knox? How do we know this isn’t just a diversionary tactic by the lunatic fringe to try to horn in on the situation, embarrass the President and make the search for peace even more difficult? How do we know his friends are behind this? What about his enemies?”

  “Are you trying to tell me,” Walter asked softly, “that this is a conservative, reactionary, right-wing plot? Oh, come now! Oh, for Christ’s sake, come now!”

  “Well,” the Post said stoutly, “stranger things have happened.”

  “Not in our lifetime,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication said quietly. “No, I’m afraid it wo
n’t wash, and I should hate to see the idea appear in any of our pages.”

  “Of course, it is true,” the Times said thoughtfully, “that we may be prejudging this a little too fast. I could see where—yes, I could see the logic. What better way to kill the bill, hurt the President, sabotage peace? Just out-radical the radicals, but keep your tracks well-hidden, and—yes, I can see where some mind sufficiently devious could think of it.”

  “Obviously,” Walter remarked coldly, “such minds do exist.… Well, you do as your consciences tell you, but I tell you this: this crime against the Knoxes is all part of the same picture. It is carefully devised, not to hurt the bill, but to terrify the country, stampede the Congress, and give the government terrible powers over us—terrible powers. I have covered this town for almost twenty-six years, now, and I have never seen a piece of legislation or a mood in the Congress as dangerous to the freedoms of the country. You mark my words: if this bill passes, and if the President doesn’t somehow retrieve the country from the perilous international situation we are in—though how in God’s name he is going to do it, I can’t see—then we will be next. Because they have to control the media, you know—that’s the one element they have to have. And this bill and this crisis can be used to give it to them.”

  “Well, now,” the Times said comfortably, “I’m concerned, Walter, I grant you that, but I’m not that concerned. This is a tough situation about Beth Knox, all right, and the bill does have dangers if it’s wrongly administered, and things are tough all over, and all that. But there’s some common sense left in the country, after all. And we still have a President who’s sworn to preserve and protect the Constitution, and we’ve still got to rely on him, because there isn’t anybody else. So I’m inclined to agree with the Post. It’s rough, and you know from our editorial that we’re already expressing alarm about it, but there are limits to alarm, you know. You’ve got to be reasonable. You can’t be hysterical, or nobody will listen.”

  “Very well,” Walter said, “you be reasonable. I shall be as concerned and as strong as I know how. You weren’t so bland during the campaign when NAWAC was acting up. Things are a lot worse now. Why are you getting calm about it, all of a sudden?”

  “We aren’t getting calm about it, Walter,” the Post said reasonably. “But, after all. We can’t sound as though the end of the world is coming. We’d be laughed right out of town.”

  “Oh, I think not,” the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication said gently. “I think not, in this case. I think we agree with Walter. Of course, it may just be—” his eyes narrowed thoughtfully—“it may just be that the degrees of our concern are not really going to matter. It may just be that we will all receive a quite impartial treatment, if Mrs. Knox is not recovered, and if this bill is passed.”

  “Well,” the Times said shortly, “we will be strong, but reasonably strong. We’re as concerned as the next man, after all.”

  “You’ve got to be concerned in your gut,” Walter Dobius said, and for the first time in all his years as a national columnist they got the feeling that, wisely or foolishly, he really was. “Otherwise, it’s all chaff. All chaff.”

  “Well, Walter,” the Times said comfortably, while the Post nodded quiet, almost amused agreement, “you do it your way and we’ll do it ours.”

  “And don’t be surprised,” Walter Dobius said harshly as he reached over to snap off his machine, “if we all wind up in the same jail together.”

  But this was too much, and their scornful though not unfriendly laughter followed him as their faces dissolved from the screen; only the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication giving him an understanding and encouraging look.

  He had made his conference call from a booth in the House Press Gallery. He was about to go to a typewriter to begin work on tomorrow’s column when the head of the gallery staff called, “Walter, incoming call in booth 6,” and he obediently went to take it. The craggy, concerned visage of the ex-President appeared on the screen.

  “We’re over in Warren Strickland’s office with Hal Knox,” he said. “Why don’t you come down?”

  “Yes,” he said, becoming more committed every second to the only course he thought consistent with America as he had always conceived it, “thank you, Mr. President. I shall be right down.”

  “Now, Mrs. Knox,” the voice that appeared to be in command said pleasantly after it had finished reading her the contents of the note, “you see you really have nothing to fear from us.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, “but if it does something for your consciences to pretend with me, go right ahead. Why don’t you untie my hands and take off this blindfold so that I can see you? What are you afraid of, one tired old woman against three strong young men? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. What are you afraid of?”

  “Mrs. Knox,” the voice said, a little tighter but maintaining the pleasantness, “you may be a tired old woman but you are also a brave one. Whether you are a wise one remains to be seen. I have always thought so. Therefore I know you understand me when I say that you have nothing to fear from us. It is your son you have to fear now, Mrs. Knox. Your son and the Congress.”

  “The Congress is going to pass the bill anyway,” she said. “And why do you need my son? Suppose he did give in to your blackmail. The world will know why. It will be under duress. It will be obvious that it isn’t genuine.”

  “Exactly,” the voice said. “That is exactly what the world will know—that he can be forced to do things under duress. That Knox principles are as weak as those of other men. That even the Knoxes have been forced to bow. And that will destroy the Knoxes as a political power in this country. And that’s one of the things we have to do: destroy the Knoxes.”

  “But millions of people who believe in the name—who believed in my husband—who believe in me and my son—will continue to support us anyway,” she said, making her voice reasonable and matter-of-fact despite her inward terror. “The very fact that this is all public, that Hal would be openly bowing to threats against my life—everybody knows this. They would simply understand it and dismiss it. So what do you gain?”

  “We think the gain is sufficient to warrant the gamble,” the voice said calmly.

  “But what is the gain?” she repeated. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Mrs. Knox,” the voice said, “if you were not an intelligent woman, I certainly should not be wasting time arguing with you about it. The gain is, one, to demonstrate that the Knox name means nothing any more, that its inheritor can be cowed like other men; and secondly, to emphasize to all who believe in him—and—” the voice grew grim—“to everyone else—that no one is safe in his home anymore and that we will not hesitate to do anything necessary to achieve what we want.”

  “Which is what?” she demanded, her voice suitably scornful and, she was pleased to find, strong and free from the tremors she was feeling inside. “Turn Ted Jason into a dictator? He may not want to be, you know. He may not be as evil a man as you apparently consider him.”

  “A clever thought,” the voice said appreciatively, “but not pertinent. What we want will develop as we go along. No need to telegraph it in advance.”

  “What’s happening to me isn’t telegraphing anything?” she asked, still scornful. “Do you have any concept of the public horror and revulsion that are sweeping the country right now as a result of this? You don’t seem to know Americans very well. Maybe you aren’t one. That could explain it.”

  “Mrs. Knox,” the voice said patiently, “does my English sound like a foreigner’s? I think not. Anyway, that’s so much quibble. I know horror and revulsion are sweeping the country. But something else is sweeping it too: fear. And it’s growing even faster than the horror and revulsion, because the average citizen, I think, has been quite well-conditioned in these recent years of terrorism and bombings and kidnappings and assassination all over the globe to understand that horror and revulsion are quite powerless. Sure, people get
horrified—even Presidents get horrified. But what good does that do? It hasn’t stopped a million things and it won’t stop a million more. And people know this. And so the fear grows stronger.

  “Much can be done with fear, Mrs. Knox. Give people the certainty that nothing is really safe—that nothing save blind luck really holds their world together—that anybody who really wants to can invade and destroy it if he has sufficient ruthlessness and determination—and they become quite reasonable, Mrs. Knox. They forget many fine old democratic loyalties and traditions very fast. They lose their nerve and they become very weak. The foundation crumbles, the certainties go, the safe world collapses. And the strong, the ruthless and the determined take power and lead them.

  “But it is for their own good, Mrs. Knox, you must believe that. It is in the cause of peace and world stability and an end to all these frightful wars. So much agony and so much pain! You are going to help us put an end to that, Mrs. Knox. It is not so bad a destiny.”

  “Then I take it,” she said, still managing by sheer strength of character to sound quite fearless, “that I am going to die at your hands, and that you have no place in your plans for the President, either. Because you contemplate things that I honestly don’t believe him to be capable of, and you also refer to the strong, the ruthless and the determined. And that is not the President as we know him in this moment.”

  “Mrs. Knox,” the voice said with some sharpness, “there is no point in being so dramatic about your own future. I said you only have your own son and the Congress to fear, didn’t I? And as for the President—well …” the voice became amused—“I grant you he is not noticeably dynamic at the moment. But he is, after all, the President. He has a place in the scheme of things.”