By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  Kreski said nothing. He began to walk slowly away from the cannons, in the direction they were aimed.

  “I think the Chicago action wasn’t much different,” Copley said. “Our suspects are just illegals. Kitchen workers. Like thousands of others. That La Puño material was a plant too. It all came so easily. And I went for it.”

  “So did I. So did the entire country.”

  “Well, I think we were wrong, unless I’m proved otherwise, and I don’t see that happening. We assumed this La Puño, if there really is a La Puño, was part of the leftist guerrilla movement, the Communist underground, a Sandinista proxy. But Huerta was, or so it appears, a right-winger. Did I tell you about the report I got from Admiral Elmore?”

  “I didn’t know you had talked to him. I didn’t realize he had stirred himself to become interested in this case.”

  “He produced a file on Huerta. Late this morning. The man was Honduran, all right. He was a lieutenant in the national guard. He owned a one-hundred-sixty-acre farm. Got burned out—his family wiped out—by the Communists. If there was a plot—and I think that ten thousand dollars says there was a plot—it was a right-wing one.”

  As they strolled over the hard ground and spongy grass their pace picked up. It was as though they had someplace to go.

  “Did I show you the inventory on Huerta’s place in Philadelphia?” Copley said.

  “You haven’t mentioned it.”

  “It’s in my car. In my briefcase.”

  “I’ll look at it.”

  “The place was clean. No ammo, no brasso. Just some La Puño stuff that may or may not have been planted later. And something else.”

  “An autographed portrait of General Leonard Wood,” said Kreski.

  “Who?”

  “General Leonard Wood. A compatriot of Teddy Roosevelt’s. He used to confiscate the Cuban treasury whenever we were displeased with their fiscal policies. He also made visits to Nicaragua.”

  “He was a Republican?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so. His was a Republican era.”

  “My much-vaunted Princeton education didn’t include General Leonard Wood. Where did you go to school, Walt?”

  “Isn’t it in a file? The University of Toledo and Columbia Law.”

  “You were a New York street cop.”

  “Of a sort. For a while. What did you find in Huerta’s apartment?”

  “Room. Bathroom down the hall. Really squalid digs.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Back copies of Mercenary Magazine. More than a year’s worth. He was only in that room for a few weeks.”

  “I suppose that’s not illogical. Not implausible. Was there anything else?”

  “A lot of newspapers. Philadelphia Inquirer. Washington Post. The New York Times. Top-drawer publications full of Central American news. Señor Huerta was not your ordinary wetback. He even went for a high grade of sex magazine—Penthouse.”

  “You said he was there several weeks.”

  “We also found a copy of The Isle of Pines: A Conservative Manifesto.”

  “A book?”

  “Of a sort. Mostly a polemic.”

  “I don’t recall seeing it on the New York Times best-seller list.”

  “It’s by Peter Ashley Brookes. He published it himself. It’s about his great-uncle. The man ran a plantation on Cuba’s Isle of Pines in the nineteen-twenties and -thirties and Brookes saw it as a utopian model for the rest of Latin America. The place was run almost along Communist lines, as far as the workers were concerned, except instead of slaving for the state and the common good of the proletariat, they did it for the plantation. An owe-my-soul-to-the-company-store sort of operation, although I gather it was pretty fairly run. Free medical care and all that. Otherwise, the plantation was strictly free-market capitalism, a law unto itself that tolerated no interference from the Cuban government.”

  “Are you sure you never heard of General Leonard Wood?”

  “This great-uncle was quite an inspiration to Peter Ashley Brookes. Are you familiar with Brookes?”

  “We had to assign a detail to him during the inaugural. President Hampton gave him some sort of official post on the committee. He owns a lot of mines out west. And I guess he’s a big friend of the president’s.”

  “Supporter, not friend. There’s a difference. Brookes is one of the richest men in Colorado. Richer than Joe Coors or any of those fellows James Watt used to work for. Walt, he not only wrote this Isle of Pines book, he’s the principal bankroller of Mercenary Magazine.”

  “I thought that was published by that ex-Army Ranger, Phil Marey. We’ve had to check out some of his people. Quite a few loose screws.”

  “Peter Ashley Brookes is the principal bankroller of Mercenary, and three or four other magazines. He’s the principal bankroller of the Yorktown Foundation and about six other right-wing groups here and in the West. He’s put up the money for Marcy’s ‘humanitarian aid’ expeditions to Honduras. Most of this isn’t even his own money. After his mother died he seized control of her foundation from his cousin. When she was alive the organization supported wildlife conservation. Now he’s got it promoting strip mines. It’s amazing how much influence a few million or even a few hundred thousand can have if you put it in the right places—magazines, foundations, lobbying outfits, direct mail campaigns.”

  They were almost across the field, nearing the line of dark woods.

  “And Huerta had both Brookes’s book and magazine in his hideaway. Of that you’re making much.”

  “Listen,” Copley said. “Brookes is a Princeton man. I’m not taking this lightly. But his various outfits have been strongly opposing the president on Central America. They say Hampton’s lost the stomach for continuing the war. They don’t like it.”

  “Enter Manuel Huerta? Foreign policy by the bullet?”

  “I’m not talking to you officially, Walt. I’m just thinking out loud. But I’m getting tired of the way things are going. Every time we take a step we stumble over something new and get sent off in a different direction. I’m beginning to feel like a mouse in a maze and I don’t like it. I want to be back in control of this investigation. We’re being led around, Walt. And we don’t even know by whom.”

  “Although you’re making a very strong suggestion.”

  They were at the woods. Kreski turned and began walking back, his hands in his pockets. Copley half scampered to catch up.

  “I’m just thinking aloud, Walt. But what seems to be happening is a very elaborate undertaking. It requires some resources. A lot of resources.”

  “Well, Steven. I’d be very careful where you did that thinking aloud.”

  “I am. Anyway, let’s see what the evidence technicians come up with. And your banknote experts.”

  “At the moment, I’m inclined to put Mr. Brookes’s book and magazine in the same category as those La Puño flags.”

  “I’d like to talk with him.”

  “You haven’t grounds. Not legally.”

  “I’m going to mention him to the vice president, and Bushy Ambrose.”

  “And the president, of course. He probably knows more about Mr. Brookes than all of us.”

  “And the president.”

  Atherton met with the Nicaraguan ambassador in the Roosevelt Room. It was directly off the West Wing’s main lobby, should he wish to suggest the ambassador’s swift departure, and had another door which exited in the general direction of his own sanctuary, should he wish to make his own. There were no windows, assuring discretion. Yet it was a very formal room, imparting prestige and the power of the American government. It had long been a favorite of presidents for awing and cowing visiting newspaper editors and other potentially hostile groups. If nothing else, they always left impressed and subdued.

  The vice president and the Sandinista took facing seats at one end of the room’s long conference table. The ambassador had arrived at the Northwest Gate completely unannounced, an affrontery, and gi
ven the terror that all Latinos now struck in White House guards and sentries, reckless as well. Official diplomatic car or no.

  Atherton had tried frantically to reach Merriman Crosby. The secretary of state had gone off on some supposedly urgent business and was not readily available except by car phone, from which there was no response. Instead, the vice-president hastily summoned the deputy secretary and the assistant secretary for Latin American affairs. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was available, but Atherton sensed his presence would not be helpful, though he ordered him to stand by. He also summoned the staff director of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, an old acquaintance who knew everything there was to know about the Sandinistas. Until this succor arrived he had to hold off the Nicaraguan as best he could with the help of Richard Shawcross and Mrs. Hildebrand, without great success.

  “Given the present tensions, the state of uncertainty,” said the ambassador, a small, expensively dressed man with a razor haircut, “these incidents, these provocations, are worse than ill timed. They are very dangerous. As your secretary of state would say, we are extremely concerned.”

  “And as I have been trying to make clear to you, Mr. Ambassador, I know little about them. All I have, essentially, are cables from our embassy and your government’s protests, which have been forwarded all day. In any event, it seems to be a matter of only one as yet unidentified helicopter.”

  “No helicopter operating against my government need be considered unidentified, Mr. Vice President,” said the ambassador, whose name was a memorable Miguel de la Tanchez Sanchez. “And it was not just that one crater bomb. There has been a general escalation of violence all through the region—when we are trying to do our best to keep hostilities to a minimum! And all this talk in your news media of this terrorist group ‘La Puño.’ We know nothing of such an organization!”

  “Señor Tanchez Sanchez. I do not run the American news media. I do not run the Honduran government. I certainly do not run this one. Our president is incapacitated. All I can suggest—what I would most strongly urge on your part—is patience. The same kind of patience we are urging upon ourselves in this building every day.”

  Mrs. Hildebrand, who had left the room, returned, looking somewhat agitated.

  “Mr. Vice President,” she said. “Deputy Secretary Derwin and Ambassador Bell are here.”

  “Well, send them in.”

  She glanced meaningfully at the still open door to the lobby.

  “There’s another matter …”

  Atherton excused himself, closing the door behind him. Derwin and Bell were waiting in an alcove. The former was a very large man and the latter quite the opposite. Both wished to whisper, and it was difficult for Atherton to follow them without bobbing his head.

  “Sanchez is in there?” Derwin said.

  “Yes,” said Atherton. “Raising holy hell about that black job helicopter.”

  “Castro is on Havana television with a harangue about our trying to expand the war,” said Bell. “He says if that’s what we want, we’ll get it.”

  “Where the hell is Crosby?” whispered Atherton. The Secret Service agent at the entrance desk was watching them.

  “At the Soviet Embassy,” said Derwin.

  “Why is the secretary of state at the Soviet Embassy? The Soviet ambassador comes to us. That’s why we gave him back his parking place in the State Department basement.”

  “Because that’s where Crosby is taking a telephone call from Moscow, from the Soviet foreign minister.”

  “Why didn’t he call here?”

  “I guess they’re not sure of what’s going on here,” said Derwin. “They’re sure of what’s going on at their embassy.”

  “Why didn’t Crosby tell me?”

  “I was to tell you. The secretary didn’t want to speak to you himself until he knew what was on their minds.”

  “And Castro’s threatening war?”

  The diminutive Bell shrugged. “At the least, it’s a profound escalation of rhetoric.”

  Geoffery Beck, director of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, arrived. Though he was a frequent visitor to the White House, the Secret Service took a long time with his credentials.

  “What’s up, Larry?” he said, when permitted to join the others. The two State Department men nodded to him with much deference. “My secretary said ‘Nicaragua.’”

  “I have Tanchez Sanchez in the Roosevelt Room.”

  “This afternoon I threw him out of my office.”

  “That probably accounts for his disposition,” said Atherton. “It is not agreeable.”

  “Castro’s threatening war,” Bell said.

  Neil Howard appeared. He’d been running down the corridor.

  “Crosby’s on the phone. Your office. Hot stuff. The Russians.”

  Atherton started to walk away with him.

  “How do we respond to Castro?” Bell asked.

  “Issue the same kind of statement we did last time he said something outrageous.”

  “Deeply concerned,” said Bell. “What do we say to Tanchez Sanchez?”

  “What was that General McAuliffe said to the Germans at Bastogne?”

  “‘Nuts,’” said Bell.

  “Actually, it was something less printable than that,” said Derwin, something of a historian. “They used ‘nuts’ for the newspapers.”

  “Don’t say anything less printable,” Atherton said. “But say something like nuts. I’m getting tired of the goddamn Nicaraguans.”

  Atherton waved his blessing, then moved quickly down the corridor, Howard scurrying after.

  “They did it, by the way,” Howard said. “Meathead Dubarry won president pro tem in the caucus fifty-three to two. There’s no way that can be overturned when the new Congress meets for the formal vote in January.”

  They rounded a corner, startling a secretary, who scuttled out of the way.

  “What about Mose Goode?” Atherton asked.

  “Not quite so decisive—thirty-nine, twelve, three.”

  “That could come unglued. Then everything would come unglued.”

  He swept into his office, where Mrs. Hildebrand, who had somehow preceded him using another corridor, was by his desk, holding the phone for him.

  “Secretary Crosby, Mr. Vice President.”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “There’s something else,” Howard said. “One of the networks on the evening news said there was a report that the assassination attempt may have been a right-wing plot—an American right-wing plot.”

  “What?” said Atherton.

  “An American right plot. On the networks. One of them. I didn’t catch which one. Let me run back.”

  “Run back,” said Atherton, taking the telephone and dropping wearily into his chair. “Merriman, what’s going on?”

  “I should say to you at the outset, Mr. Vice President,” said the secretary of state, “that this is not a secure telephone line.”

  “As you are speaking from the Russian Embassy,” Atherton said, evidencing even more weariness, “I would assume that to be the case.”

  “The Soviet premier has agreed not to suspend our talks in Geneva. He is, in fact, prepared to make an offer. The withdrawal within six months of all Soviet intermediate range missiles now deployed in Eastern Europe.”

  “What?”

  “I should discuss the entirety of his proposal of it with you in person,” Crosby said. “I’ll be there shortly. I said we’d make a response by noon tomorrow Moscow time.”

  “As that will be five A.M. our time, you’d best get here shortly indeed,” Atherton said. “Please.”

  He lowered the telephone receiver to its cradle gently, staring at it strangely, then looked up. Mrs. Hildebrand was again at his side.

  “What?” he snapped, then added, “Excuse me. What is it now, Mrs. Hildebrand?”

  “I canceled your luncheon speech at the homebuilders convention tomorrow. Was that all right?”

&n
bsp; “Precisely the thing to do, as always. Cancel everything else tomorrow. Clear decks.”

  Another phone rang on his desk. It was his wife. She was tired of Williamsburg.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, baby. But it’s going to be a few days. Just hang on, please. No. Don’t hang on. My war room phone is flashing. Hang up. I love you. Good night, baby.”

  In the war room, speaking coldly and matter-of-factly, as always, was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “I’m sorry to find you working so late,” said Atherton.

  “Lately, sir, I seem to be working around the clock,” said the general. “But of course, that’s why the Congress keeps voting for our generous retirement benefits.”

  “Is this about Nicaragua?” Atherton asked. “I’ve got something more important. A new Russian arms offer.”

  “I have something different, sir. In Korea. Some firing on the DMZ. Casualties.”

  “American?”

  “Two enlisted men wounded. One critical. Three ROK enlisted men killed. Twelve ROK wounded, including a major.”

  “What’s the situation now?”

  “Quiet. Stable. They claim we started it.”

  “General. Colonel Ambrose has made it very clear that Camp David is to handle all national security matters.”

  “Affirmative. The Eighth Army is on Def Con Four by order of the president—through Mr. Ambrose.” Atherton had never heard a Pentagon military man call Ambrose “colonel.” “It was Mr. Ambrose, sir, who advised you be informed.”

  “How nice. Thank you, General. Please keep me advised.”

  He hung up, and buried his face in his arms. Someone new came into his office. It was Shawcross.

  “What?” said Atherton.

  Shawcross hesitated. “I think it can wait until tomorrow,” he said.

  “Good,” said Atherton. “You have just spared yourself from a firing squad. We have a Nicaraguan diplomat being extremely unpleasant to us in the Roosevelt Room. Castro is threatening war. The Soviets are offering to pull their missiles out of Europe. The North Koreans started shooting on the DMZ. What in the hell is going on?”

  “They’re taking advantage,” Shawcross said. “They’re trying to screw things up.”