Spencerville

by Nelson DeMille

  Should I tell him I voted for him?

  The appointments man regarded him a moment, then glanced at the appointment schedule in his hand as if to reassure himself that this guy was on the list.

  The door opened, and a young female aide showed him in. They walked the length of the oval-shaped office together, over the royal- blue carpet, and detoured around the Great Seal, then back toward the president's desk, which sat in front of the big south-facing windows. Keith noticed it was still raining.

  The president came around the desk to greet him, smiling, and extended his hand, which Keith took. The president said, I'm delighted to see you again, Colonel.

  Thank you, Mr. President.

  We've missed you around here.

  Yes, sir.

  Are you all settled in?

  Not yet, sir.

  Mr. Yadzinski will see that you are. He's a tough boss, but a fair one.

  Yes, sir.

  These are difficult times, Colonel, and we value a man of your experience and honesty.

  Thank you, Mr. President.

  Is there anything you'd like to ask me?

  This was the traditional question, asked by presidents, generals, and others in positions of high authority. A long time ago, probably before Keith was born, this was a real question. These days, with everyone running a bit late, the question was rhetorical, and the answer was always, No, sir. But Keith asked, Why me?

  The president seemed momentarily thrown off balance, and the aide cleared her throat. The president said, Excuse me?

  Why did you ask specifically for me, sir?

  Oh, I see. Well, I remember you as a man who impressed me with your knowledge and good insight. I'm delighted to have you here. He put out his hand and said, Welcome to the White House, Colonel.

  Keith shook hands with the president and said, Thank you for inviting me, sir.

  The aide tapped Keith on the shoulder, they both turned and walked the length of the oval, avoiding the Great Seal on the floor, and a man opened the door as they reached it.

  Keith found himself in the hallway, minus the aide. The appointments man said, Thank you for coming, Colonel. Please meet Mr. Adair in the lobby.

  Keith went to the lobby where Adair was standing, looking, Keith thought, a bit anxious. Adair asked, How did it go?

  Sixty-seven seconds, counting the detours around the Great Seal.

  They were shown out of the West Wing, and their driver hurried over to them with an umbrella. On the way to the car, Adair asked, What did he say?

  Nothing.

  Does he think you accepted the job?

  He does.

  What are you going to do?

  I'll think it over.

  Good. I've made a reservation for lunch.

  They got into the car, and Adair said to the driver, Ritz-Carlton.

  They left the grounds of the White House, and the car made its way through the rain-splashed streets heavy with lunch hour traffic. Adair said, You showed just the right amount of reserve and reticence. They don't like people who seem too eager or too self-promoting.

  Charlie, this was not a job interview. It was a draft notice.

  Whatever.

  Would you take that job?

  In a heartbeat.

  You should take some time off to evaluate your life, my friend.

  I have no life. I'm a federal employee.

  You worry me.

  You worry me. You in love?

  That's irrelevant. I don't want to return to Washington.

  Even if there were no Annie Baxter?

  This subject is closed.

  They rode in silence, and Keith watched the city go by outside his window. He'd had some good times here, he admitted, but the extremely rigid structure and pecking order of official Washington went against his democratic instincts, which was one of the paradoxes of the place.

  Each administration that he'd served had started out with its own unique style, its own vision, energy, optimism, and idealism. But within a year, the entrenched bureaucracy reexerted its suffocating influence, and about a year after that, the new administration began getting pessimistic, isolated, and divided with internal conflicts and squabbles. The man in the Oval Office aged quickly, and the Ship of State chugged on, unsinkable and unsteerable, with no known destination.

  Keith Landry had jumped ship, or more precisely been thrown overboard and washed ashore in Spencerville. A lady on the beach had been very good to him, but now his shipmates beckoned him to return. The lady could go with him if he wished, but he was reluctant to show her the real nature of this gleaming white ship, or introduce her to his crewmates for fear she'd wonder what type of man he really was. The ship would not wait much longer, and the native chief of the island, the lady's husband, just ordered him off the island. He said to Charlie, Sometimes you get into one of those situations where, even if you wanted to take the easy way out, there isn't one.

  Right. But you, Keith, have always had a unique knack for finding just that situation.

  Keith smiled and replied, You mean I do these things on purpose?

  The evidence seems to point that way. And you usually do it all by yourself. Even when other people put you in tough situations, you find ways to make it tougher. And when people offer to help you out of a bad situation, you turn them down.

  Is that so?

  Yes.

  Maybe it's my background of self-reliant farming.

  Maybe. Maybe you're just a contrary, stubborn, and ornery prick.

  There's that possibility. Can I call you on the phone now and then when I need more analysis?

  You never call anyone. I'll call you.

  Was I difficult to work with?

  Don't get me started. He added, But I'd take you back in a second.

  Why?

  You never let anyone down. Not ever. I guess that's the situation you find yourself in now. But your loyalties have changed.

  Yeah . . . somewhere on the road between Washington and Spencerville, I had a conversion.

  Try to take shorter drives. Speaking of which, here we are.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  They entered the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and walked into the Jockey Club, where the maitre d' welcomed Mr. Adair by name. As he showed them to a table for two near the far wall, everyone else checked them out.

  This was one of the power restaurants in Washington, Keith knew, and had been for over thirty years since it opened and Jackie Kennedy was one of the first customers.

  It was a masculine, clublike place, but the women seemed to like the food and the attention, he recalled. Washington, in fact, was a masculine town despite being the foremost equal opportunity employer, the spiritual home of politically correct and nonsexist language and laws. Some women here had power, to be sure, but it was a town whose fundamental attitudes toward females had lagged far behind the public utterances. For one thing, Keith knew, young, good-looking women outnumbered their male counterparts by some unhealthy ratio. For another thing, power was an aphrodisiac, and the men had it. The women who came to Washington from the hinterlands to work as government secretaries and aides were often the type who were content to bask in reflected power. In other words, the women in official Washington were furniture and happy to be polished and sat on once in a while. Everyone denied this, of course, and in Washington that meant it was true.

  There were changes in the air, to be sure, but aside from a handful of rich and powerful old Washington dowagers, there weren't many women dining with other women in the Jockey Club.

  Keith hadn't come here often, but when he did, he'd noticed that the place was fairly nonpartisan in regard to politics. Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan were as likely to be at the corner table as were black civil rights leaders Vernon Jordan and Jesse Jackson. The place was heavy with media stars as well, and on this afternoon, Keith spotted Mike Wallace and George Will at separate tables. People seemed to be taking mental notes of who was dining with whom. Keith asked Charlie, Wil
l anyone important be joining us? We're disappointing these people.

  Charlie lit a cigarette. You could be here in a few weeks, wearing the uniform of a general.

  Generals are a dime a dozen in this town, colonels are office boys, and I don't wear my uniform anyway.

  Right. But you could have your secretary call and say, This is the White House. I'd like to make a reservation for General Landry.'

  Hey, that's almost as important as actually doing the job.

  Well, then, think about this—with a promotion and thirty years' service, your retirement pay will be nearly double, and you can live comfortably. You'd still be a young man when you retire.

  What's it to you, Charlie?

  I'd like to have you around again.

  I won't be around you. I'll be across the street.

  I'd like to have a friend in the White House.

  Ah. The motive.

  I'm also thinking of your best interests.

  That's two of us. He added, I appreciate that.

  The waiter came, and Keith ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. Charlie had his usual vodka with a twist.

  Charlie said, I've booked you at the Four Seasons tomorrow. I figured you'd want to be in Georgetown.

  Who's paying for all this?

  White House.

  Including tomorrow night with my married girlfriend?

  Anyway, if you take the two-fifteen out of Toledo tomorrow, you should be in your room by five. I'll call you, and we'll all have dinner in Georgetown.

  Fine.

  We'll do a nice tour of the city on Monday, and by Tuesday, you'll have talked it over with her and come to a decision.

  In other words, I don't have to be at work on Monday morning?

  I'll take care of that. We'll get you a residency hotel until you find something. I'll get that approved.

  Thank you.

  Keith studied the menu.

  Charlie said, With a promotion, you can afford a town house in Georgetown.

  I doubt it.

  What's a brigadier general make these days? About eighty-five thousand?

  I guess. I'll give it my full consideration.

  But how are you leaning?

  Forward. I'm trying to read the menu. This conversation is closed.

  The drinks came, and Charlie proposed a toast. To all of us who serve, past, present, and future.

  Cheers.

  The waiter took their order.

  Charlie asked, Did you speak to your lady last night?

  She lives with her husband.

  Oh, right. He chuckled and said, Ted almost dropped his dentures when you said that. That was pretty funny. I didn't know you were going to say that. He added, Why did you say that?

  I felt like it.

  They reminisced about old times, talked about the post-Cold War world, guessed about the future. The food came, and they ate. In truth, Keith was enjoying himself. He liked Charlie Adair, he liked to discuss the real issues, he liked his Scotch, and he liked his steak. He could not imagine living here again, but he could imagine getting back into intelligence work, out of the country, maybe someplace where he could actually do some good, but he couldn't think of where at could be. The irony, however, was that he was too far up the ladder to do the fieldwork any longer, and if you said no to the president, you didn't ask for another job. And even if he could wangle a job overseas, it wouldn't be fair to Annie. She had two kids in college in Ohio, and a family in Spencerville. He had to start thinking like a private citizen with private responsibilities and commitments. He said to Charlie, Why do we still think we have to police the world?

  Charlie replied without hesitation, Because we still have millions of people on staff and millions of square feet of office space and billions of dollars allocated by Congress. It has nothing to do with idealism, it has to do with office space. If we withdrew from the world stage, this would be a ghost town, and the Jockey Club would close.

  That's a little cynical. People could work in domestic programs. The heartland is dying.

  That's not for people like us. Do you want a job with the Department of the Interior, or Health and Human Services?

  No.

  There you go. Even if they offered me more money and a higher position at HHS, I'd say no. The glamour jobs have to do with helping foreigners or fucking foreigners. Charlie lit another cigarette and exhaled. You remember the peace dividend? They fired you so we could have more peace dividend. We were going to rebuild America with that money. It's not happening. We're still trying to run the world. We want to run the world.

  The world can do fine without us.

  Maybe. He looked at Keith and asked, If the Soviets were still a threat, would you come back?

  If they were a threat, I wouldn't have been fired.

  Answer the question.

  Yes, I would.

  Charlie nodded. You see, Keith, secretly you're unhappy because the Cold War is over—

  No.

  Listen to me. You dedicated your life to fighting godless commies, and a lot of people shared your sense of mission. You were a product of the times you grew up in and a product of small-town USA. To you, this was like a holy war, and you were on the side of God and the angels. You were one of the angels. Now Satan and his legions are defeated, we've invaded hell itself and freed the imprisoned souls. Then . . . what? What? Nothing. Your country doesn't need you to protect it from the forces of evil. You were happier when the devil was alive and the White House was ground zero on a Soviet missile map. You woke up each day in Washington knowing you were on the front lines and were protecting the weak and frightened. You should have seen yourself stride into the office every morning, you should have seen the fire in your eyes when I told you you were going overseas on assignment. Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and said, The last few years, you looked like a knight who killed the last dragon, sitting around with a bad attitude, refusing to kill the rats in the cellar because it was beneath your manly dignity to do so. You were born and raised for the Battle of Armageddon. It's over now. It was a good war, a lousy victory, and nobody gives a shit anymore. Find something else to excite you.

  Keith stayed silent a moment, then replied, Everything you say is right. Even if I don't want to hear it.

  I'm not telling you anything you don't know. Hey, we should form a government-funded support group called Men Without a Mission.

  Keith smiled. Real men don't join support groups. They keep their problems to themselves.

  My wife wouldn't agree with that. He thought a moment and added, Sometimes I really think we do need post—Cold War counseling. Like the Vietnam guys. Where's our parade?

  Keith said, I call your attention to the Cold Warrior's Monument in the Mall.

  There is no Cold Warrior's Monument in the Mall.

  Which is why I call your attention to it.

  Right. Charlie seemed to be thinking, then said, It's a letdown. But we have to deal with it. Hey, you know what knights did between battles? They perfected the concept of romantic and courtly love. It's not unmanly to be in love, to be chivalrous, to court a woman. •

  I know that.

  Does she excite you?

  Yes.

  Then go for it.

  Keith looked at Charlie a moment, then asked, And the job?

  Forget it. You have dragons painted on your shield. Don't kill rats in the cellar. That's what they'll remember you for.

  Thanks, Charlie.

  They had another drink. Keith asked, How long does it take an important person like yourself to secure a passport for another party?

  Charlie stirred his fourth or fifth vodka, and replied, Oh, maybe a few hours if everything's in order. I'll call a friend at the State Department and get it banged through. This is for your lady friend?

  Yes.

  Where are you going?

  Don't know. Probably Europe.

  If you're going anyplace strange that needs a visa, let me know. I can get those processed within
a day.

  Thanks.

  They ordered coffee, brandy, and dessert. It was almost three P.M., but half the tables were still full. It was amazing, Keith thought, how much of the nation's business was done at lunch, cocktails, and dinner. He hoped everyone's head was a lot more clear than his and Charlie's.

  Charlie swirled his brandy and said, I would have resigned for the same reasons, but I have a wife, kids in college, a mortgage, and an expensive restaurant habit. Eventually, though, we'll all be gone, the guys with the hard-gained knowledge of the world will be gone, and the domestic weebs and wonks can move into the NSC offices and run a prenatal-care program for drug-dependent immigrants from Eastern Europe.

  That's better than empty office space.

  Right. Charlie drank his brandy and ordered another.

  They finished their meal and Keith said, I'll take a taxi back to the Hay-Adams.

  No, take the car, and tell the driver to meet me back here at five. I feel like drinking. Can you take a taxi to the airport?

  Sure. Keith stood. I'll see you and Katherine tomorrow. I enjoy her company. Yours too, sometimes.

  Charlie stood unsteadily and said, Looking forward to meeting Annie. He added, The Four Seasons is still on us. Go through the motions, don't feel obligated, and by midweek write Mr. Yadzinski a nice letter of refusal, and you're off to Europe.

  That's the plan.

  They shook hands, and Keith left. It was raining harder now, and the doorman went out with his umbrella and found the car and driver around the corner. The driver opened the door and said to Keith, loud enough for the doorman to hear, Back to the White House, sir?

  No, the president is meeting me at the Hay-Adams.

  Yes, sir.

  Keith got in, and the car pulled away. This town was nuts, he thought. Nuts.

  Sir?

  Mr. Adair would like you to go back for him at five.

  Yes, sir.

  Keith sat back and watched the windshield wipers. Charlie, of course, was trying some reverse psychology on him. The thing was that Charlie was so convincing with the dragon and rat analogy that Keith was firmly convinced he was making the right decision for the right reasons. Right.