by Doug Walker
CHAPTER SIX
The flight to Washington, with a change in Rome, was tiring. Orson had time to call the White House operator and mention that he was dispatched from Saudi Arabia. He asked for an appointment with the president. Then he showered and tumbled into bed for twelve plus hours of peaceful sleep.
A banging on his door brought him to instant life. Donning the ubiquitous terry cloth robe, he opened the door with the safety catch attached. A pair of dark-suited men were in the hall, one brandishing a badge and shouting FBI. Open the door.
“Do you gentlemen wish to speak with me?” Orson asked.
“Damn right we do. Let us in.”
“I’m afraid I’m not dressed. I’ve been sleeping. Come back in an hour. We can have coffee.”
“Open the door. This is a serious business.”
“We have business?”
“Damn right we do. Just open the door. We can use force.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. But I have to get dressed. If you can wait ten or fifteen minutes out there, I’ll let you in.”
“We want in right now,” the second man said. “You’re dealing with the FBI.”
“Sorry. I’ll let you in as soon as I’m dressed.”
The two were fuming when Orson finally opened the door. They strode in as if they owned the place and looked around warily. Orson settled into the only comfortable chair.
“We’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the J. Edgar Hoover building,” the first man finally said.
“Not interested.”
“You’re talking to the FBI.”
“And you’re talking to an American citizen.”
“You called the White House.”
Orson smiled. “Is that a high crime or a misdemeanor?
“What’s your game?” the second man asked.
“I play a little bridge. But I’m not very good at it.”
“We’ll teach you to get smart with us,” the first man said with some distaste.
“I already know. You don’t have to teach me. I suppose I must tell you that I’m an envoy from the King of Saudi Arabia. The President has been informed of my coming. Has he been notified?”
“Notify the President?” the second man said, then added, “Hell no.”
“So, we have reached an impasse.”
“Not on your life. You’re coming with us.”
“You’re arresting me? On what charge?”
“We want you to come with us for questioning. If you’re an honest man, you will be cleared.”
“Cleared of what? Staying in the Hays-Adams?”
“We don’t know yet, but you called the White House with some cock-and-bull story.”
“My cock-and-bull story involves a message from King Saudi.”
The second man eyed him suspiciously. You said the King of Saudi Arabia. Now you say King Saudi.”
“That happens to be his name, I’ve just come from there.”
“Show us the message.”
“Show you a confidential message for the President? You know better than that.”
The second man seemed to be the voice of reason. “Stay in the room. We’ll do some checking. We have your name from the hotel register. That is your name, isn’t it? Orson Platt.”
“It is.” He pulled his passport from his jacket pocket and handed it to the officer. After a long look, the FBI agent said, “You seemed to have been in Saudi. We’ll do some checking.”
“Thanks. No hard feelings. I know you have a tough job.”
Wordlessly, the agents left the room.
Orson ordered a pot of coffee and croissants. The Hay-Adams still had room service although lesser hotels had talked of cutting it out as a money-loser.
He received a call from the White House just as he was beginning a nap. The President had a full schedule, but he would be admitted at 8:30 that evening. With several hours to kill and no chance of cocktails with dinner, he did take a long nap, a lengthy steamy shower, and then switched around the TV to various news programs, attempting to ferret out objective reportage. Of course he failed.
His plan was to have dinner after his White House visit. However, at the White House he was escorted to the family quarters, greeted by President Warren in the family dining room and offered nachos and dip along with chilled Chablis. The snacks were made up of nachos in a torn sack, an uncapped jar of Cheese Whiz and a supermarket jar of salsa not yet opened. There was an air of informality. The President wore a dressing gown that had seen better days.
After a handshake and as the Secret Service agent was exiting the room he inquired, “Do I call you Madame President?”
She shrugged and said, “Why not just Mary. This is not a state occasion.” He passed her the letter from King Saudi and busied himself with the snacks, opening the salsa, pouring them both Chablis while she looked it over.
Looking up, she asked, “Did you read this?”
“No. I felt it was confidential. I think I know the meaning though.”
“And that might be?”
“Help Israel as little as possible. The King is an old friend of mine and he desperately wants peace in his part of the world while he still lives. This hope is shared by many others on both sides of the fence. He believes it’s to our interest also. As do I.”
“You’re with us or with them?” she asked.
“I’m a loyal American citizen. I’ve traveled some and met quite a few people during my life. Now I’m attempting to settle down as a husband and father. My wife is pregnant.”
A flicker of a Mona Lisa smile held her face for a split second. “I’ve attempted to read up on your life, but the facts are sketchy and a bit out of the ordinary.”
“I’ve always tried to stay within the law.”
“And not always successfully. But I trust you, Orson. That’s why you’re here. Fill me in.”
“There’s not much to say. The peace project has been chewed over for years. The settlements are a sore point. There would be land swaps, a limited right to return and on and on. But with his Arab Coalition the King hopes to squeeze Israel into a sound settlement.”
“I’m interested in those details.”
“Nothing moves by land in or out of Israel. He plans to blow up a major building in Tel Aviv very soon, but with adequate warning.”
She raised her hands with a shrug. “This will do what?”
“Show the Israelis how vulnerable they are. Demonstrate that the Arabs are serious, but do not wish to harm anyone.”
Grinning and pouring herself a good measure of Chablis, she asked, “Blowing up a major building, not harming anyone. It’s an interesting game, isn’t it, Orson. A game you might enjoy.”
“I’ll play the game. Although this was my major mission, I did plan to return to Saudi, but maybe it’s not necessary.”
“But it is. Israel’s conflict with the Arab world has been a thorn in our side for many years. We support Israel as we should. We also support the surrounding countries when we can. There are certain things I can do and certain things I cannot do. If Israel does something not in our interest, a direct snub say, it would give me some breathing room to get certain things done.”
“I understand that. But I don’t get your point.”
“You go to Israel to watch that building being demolished. Make believe you know more than you know. The King’s message says there’s to be a second bombing and the Israelis will know that. But the target is unknown. Maybe they will think you know the target.”
“They might imprison me,” Orson said calmly.
“That’s my hope. I can get certain things done and wait until later to announce that you were my personal envoy and that their slamming you into the slammer is an egregious insult to America.”
“It sounds like a childish game. Do you think they’ll fall for it?”
The President looked down, picked up a nacho and then downed half a glass of Chablis. “Hook, line and sinker.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Orson thought about scratching his head, but didn’t. Instead he filled his wine glass.
He had called Delilah when he first checked in and said he hoped to spend some time with her before returning to Saudi. Back at the Hay-Adams he caught a couple of hours of sleep and then dashed into the shower. The bathroom phone rang just as he was emerging. It was Delilah.
“I tried to call you last night. Where were you?”
“You know I brought this letter from the King for the President. The schedule was jammed yesterday, but it was thought important enough to schedule a late night meeting. So it was.”
“Very late night. What now?”
“I’m off again and sincerely sorry I cannot see you. I miss you, Delilah. How’s the pregnancy coming?”
“No problem. Where are you off to?”
“I shouldn’t say and won’t say. Frankly I don’t know if I’m doing anything critical or not, but one doesn’t gossip on the telephone anymore.”
“I understand. I miss you too, Orson.”
He felt like shit after the night at the White House. Damn these brilliant, aggressive women. Damn them to hell. But he told Delilah he loved her and then got dressed and packed his bag.
He had to deliver the second letter to the Saudi embassy explaining why it had been bypassed. Then to check in with the King, and off to Israel. There were items to be blown up.