By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  “And the White House? The vice president?”

  “A sympathetic statement concerning Senator Calendiari’s death, otherwise silence. Everyone seems to be waiting for something, something soon. That’s among the many things the ambassador would like to talk to you about. I’ll have the back newspapers sent up, so you can catch up with the lack of news.” Thompson paused at the door. “You went on some about copies of videotapes and the like, having to do with the president’s shooting. We went all through the beach house and Madeleine’s car, but found nothing. Did someone get to them before us?”

  “No. I’m sure not. They wouldn’t have had time.” Charley was beginning to feel woozy again.

  “We looked everywhere. Inside the door paneling. Under the floorboards. Under the spare tire. Everywhere.”

  “It’s inside the spare tire. Just pry it off the rim.”

  Thompson grinned. “The ambassador will be delighted to hear.” He started out the door.

  “Mr. Thompson.”

  “Please, ‘Graham.’” The Britisher was in an obvious hurry now, probably to secure the tapes.

  “You’re a journalist?” Dresden said. “With British television?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been here nearly twenty years. I’ve known the Calendiaris for almost half that long.”

  “When Maddy told me about you, she used the word, spy.”

  “An indelicate term, though not altogether accurate. Let us just say that we in the British press tend to be far more supportive of our government than you American chaps. When we can be useful we are.”

  “I was a journalist myself, for a time. I was news director of a TV station in San Francisco.”

  “Jolly good. But now you’re quite something else, aren’t you? Cheery-bye, Charles. Keep on with the recovery.”

  It was three more days before they let Dresden see Maddy. He had to content himself with visits from the nurse, Dr. FitzGerald, Thompson, and a few very circumspect servants. FitzGerald rather surprised him, for he seemed an unusually young physician to have as consequential a charge as the British legation. He also bore a striking resemblance to D. H. Lawrence. Dresden mentioned this, and FitzGerald appeared flattered by the comparison, but was in no ways more helpful. Maddy was apparently in a very bad way. Dresden wondered where they were keeping her. If on the same floor, she could be just a few feet away.

  Bored with the repetitious lack of news on television and in the newspapers, Charley took to exercising his injured leg with pacings up and down the full length of the wide upstairs corridor. Twice he poked into some of the other rooms, on both occasions startling and irritating the servants. After that an embassy security guard, dressed in a somewhat ill-fitting black civilian suit, was stationed in the hallway by the main staircase. They gave the man a straight-backed chair to sit in, and also, apparently, instructions not to converse with Dresden. His only words were greetings and idle discourses on the odd winter weather. Dresden took to spending most of his time in the little study, reading. Most of the volumes there, curiously, were about American history. He was halfway through the second volume of Samuel Eliot Morrison’s Oxford History of the American People when Dr. FitzGerald finally summoned him to Maddy’s room.

  They had her seated in a chair, in nightgown, robe, and slippers, the latter peeking out from beneath a comforter. The chair was by a large window, and its bright light accentuated the paleness of her skin. She was quite drawn and thin, only her animated eyes reminding him of all the health and beauty with which she had greeted him at their first reunion that bright California afternoon a few weeks before. Her voice had a slight slur to it. He wondered how much medication they were giving her, and why.

  Looking up at him, she took his hand. He kissed hers. He waited for the doctor and nurse to leave. Then he pulled up a side chair from her fireplace.

  “You saved my life, Charley. I’m told you almost died yourself.”

  “I almost got you killed, Maddy, is what I did. I’ve no thanks coming. I deserve your everlasting condemnation for what I’ve done to your life.”

  “Please don’t say that, Charley,” she said, softly, weakly. “All I’ve had these last blurry days are thoughts of you and love for you.”

  He took both her hands, leaning closer. “The doctor says you’re regaining your strength. Your wound is healing. I hadn’t known about the trouble with your heart.”

  She shrugged, with a faint smile.

  “You had enough worries. And it’s not all that serious. Really.”

  He looked down. “Maddy, there’s something you have to know.”

  “You’re going to tell me that George is dead. I already know that. I could tell from their silence, their evasiveness when I asked about him. I knew that George was probably dead when those horrible men came after us in Rehoboth, that they would have come after him, too, probably before they did us.”

  “The official word is that George committed suicide, because of you and me. That can’t possibly be true.”

  “No.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Will there be a funeral, in the church?”

  “There’ll be some sort of service; I don’t know if it will be in a church. I suppose that’s between his family and the priests. Maddy, there’s no way we, you …”

  “I understand. No one is supposed to know where we are. George is dead and I’ll never see him again. Someday, I suppose, I can go to his grave, and look at that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I want to talk about it, Charley. It’s better than lying there just thinking about it, about everything.”

  “We’re all right, Maddy. We’re safe, as long as we stay here. The trouble is, they’re not giving us much choice.”

  “The ambassador’s out of the country. In the Caribbean or somewhere. I overheard them saying that. When he gets back our situation will change.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m tired, Charley. I just got out of bed and now I want to go to sleep again.”

  “No more Rehoboth midnight swims,” he said. She could barely smile in reply. Not bothering to summon the nurse, he lifted her and set her on her bed, gently arranging the covers around her. The room’s windows were admitting a bright winter’s sunlight, but she paid it no mind. She was already asleep.

  Stepping into the corridor, fully dressed to the extent of jacket and tie, he took his cane firmly in hand and, moving quietly down a turning of the hall that took him out of the security man’s view, found a servants’ back stairs and descended it two floors below. Moving along as though he belonged on that level and had some purpose, he found a door leading outside and made quick use of it. The air was cold despite the sunlight, with a brisk wind. The snow on the ground had melted and shallowed, but had refrozen now into a crust. He crunched over it, following the garden hedges around behind the immense house. Thompson had told him it had not been an old American mansion originally, like so many Washington diplomatic establishments, but had been constructed specifically as a British embassy. Moving on beside it, his cane making odd marks in the old snow, he wondered what the building contained. The ambassador’s residence itself was easily three times the size of the Soviet embassy on 16th Street, and there were adjoining Georgian brick outbuildings as well, not to speak of the gigantic modern office building that housed the chancery.

  Dresden moved on unmolested, following the succession of snow-covered lawns and gardens that separated the embassy from the high wall and fence behind it that were its protection against the outside world. He could find no sign of the gate or doorway through which Thompson must have brought them. Finally, passing along one side of a long parking lot bordering the chancery, he came to the end of the compound, standing at the wrought-iron bars of the fence. Like the prisoner he supposed he was, he gripped their coldness with his bare hands. There was a roadway just beyond, jammed with cars parked perpendicularly along its wide dirt shoulder. On the other side, a chain-link fence followed the circumference of a high wooded hil
l, an armed guard with a dog walking the perimeter. Though he had only seen it at night, the hill was quite familiar to Dresden, as was the high Victorian house on its summit. It was the residence of the vice president of the United States.

  A few days before that house had been their ultimate refuge, his ultimate goal in his effort to get the country to pay attention to his truth. Now it was nothing but mystery, holding perhaps the answer to all the mysteries. Dresden stared at its windows as he had at the darkened windows of the White House from the Willard Hotel, seeing menace, remembering the helicopter that had come out of the night at the beach.

  There was a crunching in the snow behind him. “Excuse me, sir.”

  It was a security man, wearing a macintosh, a cockney gentleman.

  “Excuse me. They’d like you to come back now, sir, and to stay inside if you would. This cold can’t do you much good, now can it, sir?”

  He led Charley to the nearest door of the huge residence. Dresden wondered if it would be spring before he experienced the out-of-doors again.

  Charley and Maddy finally got to meet Sir Guy Hyde-Milne a few days later. An immensely tall and imposing man, with dark, flashing eyes, bristling dark brows, and blackish hair gone to gray at the sides, he’d been ambassador to the United States for more than a year, having served previously as ambassador to Bonn. He had had two postings to the United States in lesser capacities in the 1970s. Given to typical diplomatic dress—dark blue striped suit, blue shirt with white collar, and the idiosyncrasy of a large bow tie—he was a cheery, bluff, impeccably upper-class man with a commanding presence and the air of having many important things on his mind.

  He greeted Dresden and Madeleine in the downstairs drawing room, ushering them to chairs with effusive friendliness and apologies for his long absence. A servant was instantly summoned and brought refreshments, a small sherry for Maddy, who was somewhat stronger now, and a whiskey for Charley, who was not, but felt the need of one nonetheless. The ambassador, who remained standing, had a whiskey as well.

  “I’m just this afternoon back from Bermuda, and Belize before that,” he said, “which accounts for my swarthy hue. Had to confer with some of our military gentlemen and they have this penchant for the out-of-doors.” He raised his glass. “To your health, dear lady.” He turned. “And to yours, sir. I’m so delighted you’re coming along so well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” said Maddy, in a quiet voice. She had known him slightly in the past, and seemed quite at home in this enormous establishment that still somewhat intimidated Charley.

  “Well now, it’s New Year’s Eve, a holiday this capital of yours treats with great exuberance. I’m afraid my wife and I have a number of parties to drop by as a consequence, but we intend to keep an early evening nevertheless. If it’s not an inconvenience, and you’re not too tired, I should appreciate our having a bit of a chat later tonight. There’s such an awfully lot about all this I don’t understand, and I should greatly like your help. I’ve asked Mr. Thompson, and a Mr. Llewellyn from, well, from our office. In the meantime, do make yourselves at home, and I don’t mean simply those confining quarters upstairs.”

  He paused, lifting his glass, but using it to gesture at the chamber around him. “This is the main drawing room. A bit larger than most, I daresay. It’s where we keep our Rembrandts and Turners. Do have a look at them before dinner. I’m afraid I must dash off now. In the event we’ve not returned before midnight, may I wish you a happy New Year.”

  They all raised their glasses. The ambassador emptied his decorously but thoroughly, set it down among a forest of framed photographs on a side table, and was gone, the room a much emptier place in his absence.

  “All very charming,” Dresden said.

  “Yes,” said Maddy. “The British are always very charming, especially this ambassador. But they always want something. I just wonder what he wants from us. Graham’s been a good friend, but the ambassador doesn’t owe us anything, certainly not all this.”

  “You’re making me feel vaguely unpatriotic.”

  “That’s all right. George felt very patriotic. Now George is dead.”

  Their meal was served in the main dining room, with Dresden and Maddy seated opposite each other at the middle of the long table, rather than at the distant ends. A fire burned in the hearth and the multitude of candles made the room quite cheery, though Maddy was not.

  “When I started down through the mesquite of that mountainside that last night in Tiburcio,” Charley said, “I never would have thought I’d end up here.”

  “We never know where we’re going to end up, do we? Our trouble, Charley, is that we haven’t yet ended up.”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Perhaps too soon.”

  The meal was of several courses, but she only picked and dabbled at each. Afterward, they returned to the drawing room.

  “I know coming to Graham Thompson was my idea,” she said. “But I’d like to leave this place. As soon as we can.”

  “Would you like to leave me, also?”

  Her voice was very weary. “No, Charley. I don’t suppose that’s ever going to be an option, is it? I’m just so tired, tired of what’s going on, tired of being used, tired of hiding and being hidden.”

  “Do you think I’ve used you, Maddy?”

  “Charley, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go upstairs and lie down for a while. I’m so very sleepy.”

  And sad, he thought. “Do you want me to awaken you, just before midnight?”

  “No, Charley. Let’s just let the new year happen all by itself, and hope it’s better than this one.”

  As it turned out, the ambassador was back before eleven-thirty P.M. His wife looked a woman quite full of her class, but spoke very pleasantly, excusing herself shortly after being introduced.

  “Mrs. Calendiari’s already gone to bed,” Charley said. “I’m afraid she hasn’t quite fully recovered yet.”

  “Terribly sorry to hear,” the ambassador said. “We’ll have Dr. FitzGerald take a more attentive look at her tomorrow. You’re the one I need most to talk to, if you’re not too tired yourself?”

  He spoke the last words while leading Dresden down the main downstairs hall, and eventually into his library. Graham Thompson was there, and a man with a clipped British military mustache and tweed suit introduced as Llewellyn. It didn’t take much imagination to guess in what branch of British government service he was employed.

  Thompson had had servants wheel in a television set with a videotape unit beneath. Llewellyn pulled up a chair close by, preparing to take notes. There was some brandy on the sideboard. The ambassador served it himself, a glass for everyone all around, then pulled up his own chair.

  “First, I want you to know that you and Mrs. Calendiari may count on our assistance from now henceforth,” he said, lowering his voice somewhat. “I’ve arranged for what amounts to political asylum status for you both, and can assure you of the Crown’s protection—or at least as much protection as the Crown can provide here in Washington.”

  “Why?” said Dresden. “Not that I’m not grateful, but what’s your interest in helping us this way?”

  The ambassador smiled, glancing down at his large hands. “We have a personal interest,” he said, raising his eyes to Charley’s again. “Graham Thompson and I do. You are two people who, acting with the most patriotic of intentions, have gotten themselves into dreadful trouble and great danger. You came to us for succor and sanctuary, and we shan’t deny it. Senator and Mrs. Calendiari were very good friends of the U.K. here in Washington and Graham and I aren’t going to let that be forgotten.”

  He cleared his throat. “There is, of course, a British interest in this,” he said. “As there is in most everything I do. Principally, it’s one of adding to the intelligence we’ve already gathered about this astounding and most appalling situation. It’s no exaggeration to say that the security of the Western alliance and perhaps the entire world is caught up in
this. The power of the United States is simply too immense for a crisis of this magnitude in its leadership not to carry great hazard.”

  The ambassador looked to Thompson, who nodded. “We think there is a possibility that His Majesty’s government may be able to help effect an early resolution of this crisis,” the diplomat continued. “We’re not quite sure how yet, but we think it’s likely you could be of considerable assistance to us—if you choose to be. We’ll take all that up later. For the moment, I’d like to deal with these videotapes and that other material of yours. I’ve had a cursory look at it all, but I’d appreciate it if we could go over everything you’ve brought together, very carefully. And I’d appreciate it very much, Mr. Dresden, if you’d explain in the greatest detail possible what we’re seeing every step of the way.”

  By the end, the ambassador had taken off his suit coat. He sat back, glancing at his colleagues.

  “Damn conclusive, wouldn’t you say, Graham? Incontrovertible.”

  “Certainly the videotapes, Sir Guy.”

  “Mr. Dresden, that footage of the shooting is most graphic. You say the president was definitely not wearing a protective vest?”

  “I don’t know that for certain. I only know that the director of the FBI—Copley—stated that in front of the vice president. He cited a report from the director of the Secret Service.”

  “So there we are. Henry Hampton is dead. Incontrovertible. It confirms what our own intelligence branch has only been able to guess.” He looked over to Llewellyn. “I shall want some hint of this communicated to the Foreign Office and 10 Downing by telex. Nothing coded or in the diplomatic pouch, mind. Just a few appropriately ambiguous lines in a routine telex. Within the hour. They’ll know what we’re about.”

  “Yes, Sir Guy.”

  “Now, Mr. Dresden.” The ambassador leaned forward in great earnest, his huge eyebrows bunching, his white cuffs and collar still perfectly crisp. “I’m rather curious as to Vice President Atherton’s response to your presentation of all this. Did he seem taken aback? Was he much surprised?”