'He said to tell you that when things calm down, he'll drive to Mesa Verde and call me here and give me a number where you can reach him.'
'I'll check back with you.'
'Now then, Mr. Superman, is it true what everyone's saying? Did you really do all those things in Oman or wherever it is?'
'Only a few of them. They left out a lot of people who should have been included. Someone's trying to make me out to be something I'm not. How are you handling things?'
'The standard “No comment” and “Our boss is out of town”,' answered O'Reilly.
'Good. Glad to hear it.'
'No, Congressman, it's not good because some things can't be handled standard-wise. We can control the loonies and the press and even your peers, but we can't control Sixteen Hundred.'
'The White House?'
'The obnoxious chief of staff himself. We can't say “No comment” to the President's mouthpiece.'
'What did he say?'
'He gave me a telephone number you're to call. It's his private line, and he made sure I understood that less than ten people in Washington had it—’
'I wonder if the President's one of them,' interrupted Kendrick only half facetiously.
'He claimed he is, and in point of fact he said it's a direct presidential order that you call his chief of staff immediately.'
'A direct what?'
'Presidential order.'
'Will somebody please read those clowns the Constitution. The legislative branch of this government does not take direct orders from the executive, presidential or otherwise.'
'His choice of words was stupid, I grant you,' went on Ann O'Reilly quickly, 'but if you'll let me finish telling you what he said, you might be more amenable.'
'Goon.'
'He said they understood why you were keeping out of sight, and that they'd arrange an unmarked pick-up for you wherever you say… Now, may I speak as your elder here in Funny Town, sir?'
'Please.'
'You can't keep on running, Evan. Sooner or later you'll have to show up, and it's better that you know what's on their minds over there before you do. Like it or not, they're on your case. Why not find out how they're coming down? It could avoid a disaster.' 'What's the number?'
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 22
Herbert Dennison, White House chief of staff, closed the door of his private bathroom and reached for the bottle of Maalox which he kept in the right-hand corner of the marble counter. In precise sequence, he ingested four swallows of the chalklike liquid, knowing from experience that it would eliminate the hot flashes in his upper chest. Years ago in New York, when the attacks had begun, he had been so frightened that he could barely eat or sleep, so convinced was he that after surviving the hell of Korea he was going to die in the street of cardiac arrest. His then wife—the first of three—had also been beside herself, unable to decide whether to get him first to a hospital or to their insurance agent for an expanded policy. Without his knowing about it she accomplished the latter, and a week later Herbert bit the bullet and admitted himself to the Cornell Medical Center for a thorough examination.
Relief came when the doctors pronounced his heart as strong as a young bull's, explaining to him that the sporadic fits of discomfort were brought about by periodic spasms of excess acid produced, no doubt, by anxiety and tension. From that day forward, in bedrooms, offices, cars and briefcases, bottles of the white pacifying liquid were always available to him. Tension was a part of his life.
The doctors' diagnosis had been so accurate that over the years he could reasonably predict when, give or take an hour or two, the acid attacks would grip him. During his days on Wall Street they invariably came with wild fluctuations in the bond market or when he fought with peers who were continually trying to thwart him in his drive for both wealth and position. They were all pukey shits, thought Dennison. Fancy boys from fancy fraternities who belonged to fancy clubs that wouldn't spit on him, much less consider him for membership. Who gave a nun's fart? Those same clubs let in yids and niggers and even spies these days! All they had to do was speak like fairy actors and buy their clothes from Paul Stuart or some French faggot. Well, he had spat on them! He broke them! He had the gut instincts of a street fighter in the market and he had cornered so much, made so much that the fucking firm had to make him president or he would have walked out, taking millions with him. And he had shaped up that corporation until it was the sharpest, most aggressive firm on the Street. He had done so by getting rid of the whining deadwood and that stupid corps of so-called trainees who ate up money and wasted everybody's time. He had two maxims that became corporate holy writ: The first was: Beat last year's figures or beat feet out of here. The second was equally succinct: You don't get trained here, you get here trained.
Herb Dennison never gave a damn whether he was liked or disliked; the theory that the end justified the means suited him splendidly, thank you. He had learned in Korea that soft-nosed officers were often rewarded with GI caskets for their lack of harsh discipline and harsher authority in the field. He had been aware that his troops hated his proverbial guts to the point where he never dropped his guard against being fragmented by a US grenade, and whatever the losses, he was convinced they would have been far greater had the loosey-goosies been in charge.
Like the crybabies on Wall Street: 'We want to build trust, Herb, continuity…" Or: 'The youngster of today is the corporate officer of tomorrow—a loyal one.' Crap! You didn't make profits on trust or continuity or loyalty. You made profits by making other people money, that was all the trust and continuity and loyalty they looked for! And he had been proved right, swelling the client lists until the computers were ready to burst, pirating talent from other firms, making damn sure he got what he paid for or the new boys, too, were out on their backsides.
Sure, he was tough, perhaps even ruthless, as many called him both to his face and in print, and, yes, he had lost a few good people along the way, but the main thing was that in general he was right. He had proved it in both military and civilian life… and yet in the end, in both, the creeps had dumped him. In Korea the regimental CO had damned near promised him the rank of full colonel upon discharge; it never happened. In New York—Christ, if possible it was worse!—his name had been floated around as the newest member of the Board of Directors for Wellington-Midlantic Industries, the most prestigious board in international finance. It never happened. In both cases the old-school-tie fraternities had shot him down at the moment of escalation. So he took his millions and said Screw all of you!
Again, he had been right, for he found a man who needed both his money and his considerable talents: a senator from Idaho who had begun to raise his startlingly sonorous, impassioned voice, saying things Herb Dennison fervently believed in, yet a politician who could laugh and amuse his growing audiences while at the same time instructing them.
The man from Idaho was tall and attractive, with a smile that had not been seen since Eisenhower and Shirley Temple, full of anecdotes and homilies that espoused the old values of strength, courage, self-reliance and, above all—for Dennison—freedom of choice. Herb had flown down to Washington and a pact was made with that senator. For three years Dennison threw in all his energies and several million—plus additional millions from numerous anonymous men for whom he had made fortunes—until they had a war chest that could buy the papacy if it were more obviously on the market.
Herb Dennison belched; the chalky-white liquid pacifier was working, but not rapidly enough; he had to be ready for the man who would walk into his office in a matter of minutes. He took two more swallows and looked at himself in the mirror, unhappy at the sight of his progressively thinning grey hair that he combed straight back on both sides, the sharply defined parting on the left, the top of his head consistent with his no-nonsense image. Peering into the glass, he wished his grey-green eyes were larger; he opened them as wide as he could; they were still too narrow. And the slight wattle under his chin r
einforced the hint of jowls, reminding him that he must get some exercise or eat less, neither of which appealed to him. And why, with all the goddamned money he paid for his suits, didn't he look more like the men in the ads his British tailors sent him? Still, there was about him an imposing air of strength, emphasized by his rigid posture and the thrust of his jaw, both of which he had perfected over the years.
He belched again and swallowed another mouthful of his personal elixir. Goddamn Kendrick, son of a bitch! he swore to himself. That nobody-suddenly-somebody was the cause of his anger and discomfort… Well, if he was to be honest with himself, and he always tried to be honest with himself, if not always with others, it was not the nobody/somebody by himself, it was the bastard's effect on Langford Jennings, President of the United States. Shit, piss, and vinegar! What did Langford have in mind? (In his thoughts Herb had actually pulled himself short, substituting 'the President' for 'Lang-ford', and that made him angrier still; it was part of the tension, part of the distance that White House authority demanded and Dennison hated it… After the inauguration and three years of calling him by his first name, Jennings had spoken quietly to his chief of staff during one of the inaugural balls, spoken to him in that soft, jocular voice that dripped with self-deprecation and good humour. 'You know I don't give a damn, Herb, but I think the office—not me, but the office—sort of calls for you to address me as “Mr. President”, don't you think so, too?' Damn! That had been that!)
What did Jennings have in mind? The President had casually agreed with everything Herb had proposed concerning the Kendrick freak, but the responses had been too casual, bordering on disinterest, and that bothered the chief of staff. Jennings's mellifluous voice sounded unconcerned, but his eyes did not convey any lack of concern at all. Every now and then Langford Jennings surprised the whole goddamned bunch of them at the White House. Dennison hoped this was not one of those frequently awkward times.
The bathroom telephone rang, its proximity causing the chief of staff to spill Maalox over his Savile Row jacket. Awkwardly he grabbed the phone off the wall with his right hand while turning on the hot water tap with his left and dousing a washcloth under the stream. As he answered he frantically rubbed the wet cloth over the white spots, grateful that they disappeared into the dark fabric.
'Yes?'
'Congressman Kendrick has arrived at the East Gate, sir. The strip search is in progress.'
The what?
'They're checking him for weapons and explosives—’
'Jesus, I never said he was a terrorist! He's in a government car with two Secret Service personnel!'
'Sir, you did indicate a strong degree of apprehension and displeasure—’
'Send him up here at once!'
'He may have to get dressed, sir.'
'Shit!'
Six minutes later a quietly furious Evan Kendrick was ushered through the door by an apprehensive secretary. Rather than thanking the woman, Evan's expression conveyed another message, more like Get out of here, lady, I want this man to myself. She left quickly as the chief of staff approached, his hand extended. Kendrick ignored it. 'I've heard about your fun and games over here, Dennison,' said Evan, his voice a low, icelike monotone, 'but when you presume to search a member of the House who's here at your invitation—that's what it had better be, you fucker; you don't give orders to me—you've gone too far.'
'A complete foul-up of instructions, Congressman! My God, how can you think anything else?'
'With you, very easily. Too many of my colleagues have had too many run-ins with you. The horror stories are rampant, including the one in which you threw a punch at the member from Kansas who, I understand, flattened you on the floor.'
'That's a lie! He disregarded White House procedures for which I'm responsible. I may have touched him, merely to keep him in place, but that's all. And that's when he took me by surprise.'
'I don't think so. I heard he called you a “two-bit major” and you went up.'
'Distortion. Complete distortion!' Dennison winced; the acid was erupting. 'Look, I apologize for the strip search—'
'Don't. It didn't happen. I accepted removing the jacket, figuring that was standard, but when the guard mentioned my shirt and trousers, my far brighter escorts moved in.'
'Then what the hell are you so uptight about?'
'That you even considered it, and if you didn't, that you've created a mentality here that would.'
'I could defend that accusation, but I won't bother. Now we're going into the Oval Office and, for Christ's sake, don't confuse the man with all that pro-Arab bullshit. Remember, he doesn't know what happened and it won't do any good trying to explain. I'll clarify everything for him later.'
'How do I know you're capable of that?'
'What?'
'You heard me. How do I know you're either capable or reliable?'
'What are you talking about?'
'I think you'd clarify whatever you want to clarify, telling him whatever you want him to hear.'
'Who the hell are you to talk to me this way?'
'Someone probably as rich as you are. Also someone who's getting out of this town, as I'm sure Swann told you, so your political benediction is meaningless to me—I wouldn't accept it in any event. You know something, Dennison? I think you're a bona fide rat. Not the cute Mickey Mouse variety, but the original animal. An ugly, scavenging, long-tailed rodent, who spreads a lousy disease. It's called nonaccountability.'
'You don't spare words, do you, Congressman?'
'I don't have to. I'm leaving.'
'But he isn't! And I want him strong, persuasive. He's taking us into a new era. We're standing tall again and it's about time. We're telling the crumbs of this world to shit or get off the pot!'
'Your expressions are as banal as you are.'
'What are you? Some fucking Ivy Leaguer with a degree in English? Get with it, Congressman. We're playing hardball here; this is if! People in this administration move their bowels or they're out. Got that?'
‘I’ll try to remember.'
'While you're at it, remember he doesn't like dissent. Everything's cool, got that? No waves at all; everybody's happy, got that?'
'You repeat yourself, don't you?'
'I get things done, Kendrick. That's the name of the hardball game.'
'You're a lean, mean machine, you are.'
'So we don't like each other. So what? It's no big deal—’
I've got that,' agreed Evan.
'Let's go.'
'Not so fast,' said Kendrick firmly, turning away from Dennison and walking to a window as if the office were his, not that of the President's man. 'What's the scenario? That is the term, isn't it?'
'What do you mean?'
'What do you want from me?' asked Kendrick, looking out at the White House lawn. 'Since you're doing the thinking, why am I here?'
'Because ignoring you would be counterproductive.'
'Really?' Kendrick turned again to face the White House's chief of staff. 'Counterproductive?'
'You've got to be acknowledged, is that clear enough? He can't sit on his ass and pretend you don't exist, right?'
'Oh, I see. Say that during one of his entertaining although not terribly enlightening press conferences, someone brings up my name, which is inevitable now. He can't very well say that he's not sure whether I play for the Jets or the Giants, can he?'
'You got it. Let's go. I'll shape the conversation.'
'You mean control it, don't you?'
'Call it what you like, Congressman. He's the greatest President of the twentieth century, and don't you forget it. My job is to maintain the status quo.'
'It's not my job.'
'The hell it isn't! It's all our jobs. I was in combat, young fella, and I watched men die defending our freedoms, our way of life. I tell you, it was a goddamned holy thing to see! And this man, this President, has brought those values back, those sacrifices we prize so much. He's moved this country in the right direction
by the sheer force of his will, his personality', if you like. He's the best!'
'But not necessarily the brightest,' interrupted Kendrick.
'That doesn't mean shit. Galileo would have made a lousy Pope and a worse Caesar.'
'I suppose you've got a point.'
'I certainly do. Now the scenario—the explanation—is simple and all too damned familiar. Some son of a bitch leaked the Oman story and you want it forgotten as soon as possible.'
'I do?'
Dennison paused, studying Evan's face as if it were decidedly unattractive. 'That's based directly on what that jerk Swann told the chairman of the Joint Chiefs—’
'Why is Swann a jerk? He didn't leak the story. He tried to throw off the man who came to see him.'
'He let it happen. He was the CO of that operation and he let it happen and I'll see him hung.'
'Wrong past tense.'
'What?'
'Never mind. But just to make sure we're both using the same scenario, why do I want everything forgotten as soon as possible?'
'Because there could be reprisals against your lousy Arab friends over there. That's what you told Swann and that's what he told his superiors. You want to change it?'
'No, of course not,' said Kendrick softly. 'The scenario's the same.'
'Good. We'll schedule a short ceremony showing him thanking you on behalf of the whole damn country. No questions, just a restricted photo session and then you fade.' Dennison gestured to the door; both men started towards it. 'You know something, Congressman?' remarked the chief of staff, his hand on the knob. 'Your showing up like this has ruined one of the best whispering campaigns any administration could ask for—public relations-wise, that is.'
'A whispering campaign?'
'Yeah. The longer we kept quiet, deflecting questions on the basis of national security, the more people thought the President forced the Oman settlement all by himself.'
'He certainly conveyed that,' said Evan, smiling not unkindly, as if he admired a talent he did not necessarily approve of.
The Icarus Agenda Page 38