Chief of Staff Lance Burton gave Wesley a gloomy look. So at least Wesley wasn’t the only one who was shocked by this bit of information. He tried to catch Donald Beglaubter’s eye, but he was staring into space, expressionless.
Vice President Thomas Sunderland continued. “Naturally, we’re in the process of preparing for a flood of protests from foreign diplomats. We don’t want them getting their information from their own news media, do we?” There was a slight twitching in the corner of his mouth that Wesley hadn’t seen before, a restlessness in this otherwise carefully composed face. Was Sunderland finally beginning to realize that things had gotten out of their control? Was the throne shaking beneath them all?
“In that connection,” Sunderland went on, “you should also know that we’ve put our foreign embassies and consulates under guard, and our diplomats are awaiting further instructions.”
Wesley’s heart was hammering in his chest, and the skin on his face felt like a tight mask. He prepared himself, then looked directly at Jansen. “Allow me to speak freely for a moment, Mr. President, and then I’ll do the job I’m supposed to do.”
The vice president was about to protest, but the president nodded to Wesley.
“Aren’t we going to cause irreparable damage?” Barefoot continued. “I’m aware that many good things are being done out there and that the intentions are well meant, but everything will fall apart if we fall afoul of the entire country and the rest of the world as well. I’m getting constant phone calls from embassy officials who want to know how safe it is for them to remain here. What do you think they’re reporting back to their governments about what’s happening in the US? There’s no way we can stop them doing it, there are still plenty of means of communication. We can’t simply try to isolate ourselves from the rest of the world, can we? Isn’t it possible to find a softer, less hasty approach to all this?”
Jansen sat back in his chair with his hands on the armrests, like some benevolent emperor. “There is nothing I’d rather do, Wesley, but the nation is in a state of emergency. There’s no longer any middle course. The bombing of the Democratic headquarters, the threats against Congress and myself, the assassinations and the damn militias . . . There’s no way back.”
Wesley tried to catch Donald Beglaubter’s and Lance Burton’s glances, but they’d both retreated into decorous shells of obedient civil servants, something Wesley could never do. “Yes, but we risk facing severe punishment later on if we don’t apply the brakes here and now. Bestial things are going on out there; we know that. We execute militiamen after snap court-martials that are more like lynchings. I’ve heard about people being shot down from Alabama to Oregon, and I know they’ve already executed some of the militia members who are in prison. How do you think this makes people react in the outside world, not to mention average American citizens?”
“There are clear rules for what this state of emergency allows us to do, Wesley,” answered Jansen.
“Yes, Mr. President, but tens of thousands of people have gone on strike because the situation has made them lose their jobs, and what do we do? We send out the National Guard against them. All opposition is being crushed so brutally, I’m afraid . . .”
Sunderland broke in bluntly. “That’s right, we put down resistance wherever it arises.” He looked at his watch, then at President Jansen. “We have most of the strikes in the larger cities under control now, and in a half hour all borders will be closed. I imagine the situation will improve somewhat in the course of tonight, Mr. President, so right now your safety is the highest priority. I am going to order the Secret Service to hold all rooms, chambers, and hallways on the second and third floor under surveillance, starting now. Do you approve, sir?”
Wesley didn’t hear Jansen’s answer.
Vice President Sunderland nodded to the security guard standing by the door. “Please inform the men outside that the president is leaving the building now.”
* * *
—
They walked down to Lance Burton’s office and closed the door behind them. Burton sat down at his desk and then, with the help of a remote control, adjusted the lighting and turned on his stereo. Subdued light and quiet classical music calms the soul, as he always used to say, but Wesley didn’t expect it to help this time.
“Pinch my arm, I must be having a bad dream,” said Wesley quietly.
Donald sat down across from him with his arms crossed and his jaw set. In spite of the anxiety that shone in his eyes, Wesley knew the man would remain clammed up.
“What’s happening, Donald? Tell me what’s going on.”
Donald Beglaubter’s mind seemed to be somewhere else. “We just have to decide what you’re going to say two hours from now at the press conference. That’s what’s happening, Wesley, is it not?”
The three men looked at one another. One used to be able to take for granted their being a group that stuck together through thick and thin. Known as “The Triumvirate” and “The Three Musketeers,” they knew one another inside and out. They were married in thought, allies in word and pronouncement, the salvage team that could be called upon to write themselves out of any tricky situation. They made the perfect combination: one to untie the Gordian knot, one to bind it together again stronger than ever, and the third to present their results to the public, leaving no shadow of doubt that the problem had been solved. But it wasn’t like that now. Burton and Beglaubter were no longer performing their roles, which in turn made it impossible for Wesley to play the court jester with an answer for everything. What had happened to their renowned collaboration?
He drummed his fingers on the glass surface of the coffee table. “Is there one of you to whom I can speak freely?” he asked, looking first at one, then the other. His fingers continued dancing on the tabletop while the stereo played Ode to Joy. What could be more ironic?
Chief of Staff Burton spread his arms. “Both of us, naturally! Say whatever you like, Wesley.”
He sat for a minute, trying to read Burton’s and Beglaubter’s facial expressions. Did he detect a glimpse of contact behind Donald’s so carefully guarded look?
He stood up, took Lance Burton’s remote, and turned up the music. Beethoven knew how to achieve the desired artistic effect; the atmosphere in the room changed in character. Then he removed his ID chip and reached over to do the same with Burton’s. If they really were going to talk, it was essential they weren’t overheard. But Burton leaned back in his chair, away from Wesley’s outstretched arm, and looked at him with defensive animosity, like some threatened, wounded warrior. The reaction surprised Wesley, but he knew Burton would resist if he tried to remove the badge.
So he went back to his seat and sat down.
* * *
—
During the minutes that followed, Lance Burton reiterated the facts and events of the last twenty-four hours, all the time instructing Wesley as to what was allowed and what wasn’t. Because, in spite of the fact that the situation everywhere continued to escalate out of control, he had to understand the president’s goals remained unchanged. The Washington Decree with its Secure Future program was going to be successfully implemented, whatever the cost. Violence had to be extinguished, even with violence, if need be. Unemployment was going to disappear, no matter what. The media were going to be brought up to a higher moral level; all forms of corruption, organized crime, and drug dealing were going to be wiped out. There would be an election reform to guarantee true democracy. There would be total immigration control and illegal workers would be hunted down and thrown out of the country.
Lance Burton could recite the Washington Decree in his sleep. It was as though he’d been brainwashed by it. If all that he’d just stated didn’t happen now, he declared in a convincing voice, it never would. The American liberal tradition had to be put temporarily on hold because that was what the situation demanded. This “fact,” plus informing the public
about the calling home of American troops to aggressively put down militia insurrections on American soil, were going to be the basic contents of Wesley’s press briefing. It was a frightening agenda, definitely not one that he’d ever have expected to hear from the Lance Burton he used to know. He got the impression that everything Burton said was for the benefit of the hidden microphones, but then why didn’t he at least give him some kind of sign? A shake of the head or a raised eyebrow?
Wesley could feel his diaphragm contracting. Boy, what he wouldn’t do for a nice, fat joint right now. He’d inhale it in one toke.
* * *
—
Back in his office, Wesley’s legs were tripping nervously under his desk. He fidgeted with his pen and looked at the clock. He had an hour and a half, within which time whatever pile of crap he planned to say had to be okayed by both Lance Burton and Thomas Sunderland, which probably meant a rewrite or two. How the hell was he ever going to get this done?
He stood up. Maybe he ought to pop into Doggie Rogers’s office. Maybe that was all he needed to get his head straight so he could write. He went into the archive, opened the back door to the narrow passageway, and looked to the left and right. The Secret Service guard nodded to him briefly. Then he heard someone in his office and turned to face Donald Beglaubter. His disheveled, thinning hair was a sign that he’d been doing some deep thinking. Wesley closed the door to the passageway. “Let’s talk here, in the archive, Donald,” he whispered.
He removed their badges and placed them under some old documents. “So, what’s happened now?” he asked. Something obviously had.
Baglaubter was calm. “Thomas Sunderland has asked the president if he was considering resigning.”
“What?!”
“Lance Burton was there when it happened. He thinks it was meant as an offer to Jansen, not a threat.”
“My God! What’d Jansen say?”
“Nothing. He just shook his head.”
“Did Sunderland really ask him that? Fucking hell! I’m sure he figures he’s the one to take over from Jansen. The Constitution says he can.”
“It wasn’t discussed, but, yes, I’m sure he does.”
“What’d Sunderland do then?”
“He looked satisfied.”
This was amazing. What would be next? “What about you, Donald?” Wesley asked. “Are you satisfied, too?”
The White House’s acting chief of communications was one of the best problem solvers Wesley had ever met and had been an asset ever since he joined Bruce Jansen’s presidential campaign. But now, as he stood there studying his shoes, he was a shadow of his former self, impotent and distracted. “This is the last time you and I discuss things off the record, Wesley,” he said, “so listen to what I have to say now and don’t ask any questions. I can’t answer them anyway.” He studied Wesley for a moment. “We all have our reasons for reacting as we do right now. Nothing that’s happening has happened by chance. If you think I like the situation and know more than you do, you’re mistaken. But I’ve got my eyes open.”
“Yes, but do we see the same things? Don’t you think we ought to be discussing what we see?”
“Listen, Wesley, you haven’t participated much in all of this until today. I’m sure you’ve had your reasons; you’re not dumb. But none of us can help forming impressions about the others involved in this game, and some of us have long suspected you of playing a double role—you should know that. But since today I’m not so sure, which is why I’m here now. Do you understand?”
So there it was. Wesley couldn’t believe his ears. “Me? What are you talking about? I’ve been protesting what’s been going on from the very start!”
“Yes, but not all that much. It’s been a kind of charade. Sometimes one makes a point better by staying quiet.”
“Just like you, you mean? If I hadn’t heard otherwise just now, I’d have gotten the impression you were a proponent of all this.” He shook his head. “Tell me, Donald, is someone threatening you?”
“I said not to ask questions.”
“What about Lance Burton? What’s his position?”
“See? Another question. I honestly can’t answer you. All I know is that he’s done his own investigating along the way.”
Wesley settled for shrugging his shoulders inquiringly so he couldn’t be accused of asking a direct question.
Beglaubter looked as if he were considering whether he should say more. Wesley kept quiet; he didn’t want to press him this time.
“I’ve already said too much, but okay, briefly: I don’t know what investigations Burton has been making, but it all started when the attorney general’s mother was raped. He mentioned several times to me that he thought the attack came a little too conveniently, just like the subsequent attack on Attorney General Lovell and the assassination of the chief justice of the Supreme Court. I think these are the kinds of things he’s been investigating, but I’m not sure. Except that no one is above being investigated these days. So if you value your life, you’ve got to stop saying the kinds of things you said a while ago in Burton’s office, and in the Oval Office before that.”
Wesley stared deep into his eyes, as though they might reveal some deeper truth, but what he saw was hopelessness and despondency. Wesley knew exactly how it felt.
“I have to go now,” said Donald, and replaced his chip. “Jansen and I have a meeting with some people from Internal Revenue.” He clapped Wesley on the back, gave him an encouraging smile, and left.
Wesley sat still for a few minutes, trying to digest what Beglaubter had said. Suddenly, there was some shouting outside his door and the sound of people running, and then the shouts got louder.
He put on his badge, opened the door, and could immediately see something was very wrong. All the other office doors were wide open, too, with secretaries standing in some of the doorways, their hands over their faces. All the security guards were gone.
“What’s happening?” he yelled, grabbing one of the secretaries.
“Oh, God, there’s been an assassination attempt on the president. I think he’s alive, but I’m not sure.” She’d obviously been crying, but Wesley didn’t know how he should feel. Was this good, or bad?
* * *
—
For some unknown reason, President Jansen had chosen to leave the White House via the tunnel to the Treasury Department, and along the way an unidentified man carrying explosives had attacked the entourage. Apparently, one Secret Service or FEMA agent and one other person were dead, and Jansen had been very, very close to being killed, too. Vice President Sunderland had been following a little ways behind and was unharmed, except for the shock that remained etched on his face.
The attack was terrible news for several reasons because if there’d ever been any hope that Jansen would soften up his hard line, it was gone now, for sure. Wesley knew Jansen. Now he’d join the fight with all the means at his disposal. He’d surround himself with bodyguards day and night and have the CIA, FBI, and FEMA deal with any form of resistance. Control would be tightened even more and suspicion and paranoia would flourish, which in turn would result in more disastrous decisions. The prospects were frightening.
After a short consultation with Lance Burton, Wesley canceled the press briefing. The situation was too complicated, too unclear. It might be a long, long time before there was another press conference.
He hunted through his shelves until he found a video that suited the situation. They’d recorded it a week ago, and it depicted a strong president at the top of his form, speaking about alternative sources of fuel to replace disappearing oil reserves, about becoming self-sufficient with energy in a great land with so many resources. About being positive and acting the way Americans were famous for when the going got tough. Wesley had several of these kinds of clips to choose from.
He dispatched the video sequence to
the three large remaining networks, and one of them already had it on the air within ten minutes, followed by an ancient Hollywood movie, starring actors now deceased who couldn’t protest being used as tranquilizers by the government. Sooner or later he’d have to hunt down a current movie star who still liked Jansen and have him or her interviewed. That is, if such a person were to be found these days.
* * *
—
Afterwards he found Doggie in her office. It was hard to see how she was feeling, but that kind of defense mechanism had become commonplace in the White House.
He sat down across from her and looked at her—this wonderful, intelligent, beautiful woman, the heiress to a huge fortune, who was a thoroughly good person. How had she ever gotten herself caught up in a mess like this?
“He’s going to survive, isn’t he?” was all she asked. Wesley nodded.
“That’s good. He’s the only one who can pardon my father.”
She wasn’t looking at him, and he understood. How else could she preserve—let alone express—such an impossible hope? What else did she have but hope?
“I called Sheriff T. Perkins just now. I’d called him hundreds of time before, but this time I got hold of him. I told him about a lot of realizations I’ve had regarding my father’s case . . . Oh, Wesley, I know things that would postpone his execution, I’m sure of it. Things that could prove his innocence.” She looked like she was ready to cry as she said these last words. “T was really listening, too. I just love that man, I just know he’s going to try to help me.”
Wesley kept looking at her until she looked at him. Her eyes were blue and determined. There, in the smallest and least important office in the White House, sat possibly the only person who still hoped the best for the president. But Wesley couldn’t bring himself to tell her this.
All he could do was nod. And take her hand.
The Washington Decree Page 20