by James, Seth
The Christmas Eve party was also entirely closed to the press. By Presidential command (and Vice Presidential insistence), no cameras of any kind were permitted. Thus relieved of any threat of undying embarrassment, much of the staff relaxed and came off message for a few hours. Early in the evening, the various children provided the entertainment, as they often do at a certain age to people who either have them or remember having them. But as the night drew on and the families left, the wine flowed more freely and the mistletoe revealed many a suspected office romance.
Nevertheless, this was Washington DC and the maneuvering of politics could never wholly be forgotten. Stories about fishing trips became innuendoes about fishing for scandal; anecdotes of ancestral industry were applied to modern means; and the nasty gossip heard in every corner of the city slithered up from guilty pleasure into the lap of election strategy, ideas caressed by the hands of certain men who were never absent, ever in DC.
President Howland enjoyed the children immensely: little girls floating around in dresses like flower blossoms, sticky-faced and sticky-handed; boys in their dressed-up clothes that never fit properly, tearing around rooms that intimidated dignitaries, knocking over priceless doodads and playing with the Presidential dog (Muffin, who only seemed to bite on Christmas Eve, though not hard); and babies with bows around their bald heads, wobbling on the floor or on knees, drawing looks from new and old fathers of pride and remembrance. Pete watched the confused play of emotions under their stuck-on expressions, which revealed—now if at no other time or place—that the grasping, positioning, opportunistic people with which he daily fenced were, in the end, as human as the next person.
When the evening grew late, the children were taken home to their sleepless vigil and the adults that remained—older or younger than the parents—no longer whispered in their talk. Gossip continued but the coming war found its way into the loudest voices, no matter Linda's attempts to keep enough women in each talking circle to restrain what made Washington parties so dull. Pete played host to keep from being dragged inextricably into any one conversation. He would have carried around a wine bottle, refilling glasses, if Linda would have let him. The coming war had lay heavily on his mind over the last month and all the conversations he heard, and from which he flew, seemed woefully behind his thinking.
The inspectors who had returned to Iraq by UN resolution had found, naturally, nothing. The national press—heretofore restrained from criticism of the Howland Administration by calls for patriotism and unity—were questioning the government's claims, even those news stations and newspapers owned by friendly contributors. Karl, of course, reassured Pete that they could spin the lack of evidence as evidence that the inspections could not solve the problem of a nuclear armed Iraq, only invasion could. But Pete had received briefs from his generals about the numbers of troops he would need to send if he chose to invade, and even the dramatically lower number Ben Butler assured him could accomplish the mission staggered him. To send so many into harm's way. Perhaps it was the season, thinking of Christ, of good will toward men, of peace, or perhaps it was remembering his father at similar parties, his father who had gone to war, who had carried the mutilated wounded and peaceful dead from his stricken bomber time and again, perhaps both worked upon Pete's mind and he wondered if he shouldn't welcome the inspector's reports and abandon his long pursued project.
Projects long pursued, Pete thought as he stood near a table covered with bottles and an over-sweet punch, watching Linda across the room. If I told you everything, he wondered, what I've ordered and what I hope to gain and why I want it, would you stay another moment in this house?
“Merry Christmas, Mr. President,” Karl said confidentially, behind Pete at the punch bowl.
“Merry Christmas, Karl,” Pete said, sparing only a brief glance over his shoulder for his Chief of Staff.
“I have an early present for you, sir,” Karl said, uncomfortably close to Pete's ear. Pete hardly heard him. “Khalid Sheikh Kahtani—the second in command of Al Qaeda who we believe planned 9/11—has just been captured in Pakistan.”
Pete had to exert himself fully to avoid drawing attention from the assembled guests as he turned slowly to face Karl. Karl's eyes gleamed.
“KSK,” Pete whispered, “we got him?”
“On his way to Gitmo as we speak, Mr. President,” Karl said.
“Good god,” Pete breathed, “it is a merry Christmas!”
“We'll have a confession in about a month,” Karl said, “as well as the added press value when we announce who we've caught.”
“Excellent, excellent!” Pete said, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep from hugging Karl. “And, no, don't announce his capture for a couple days; don't want it to compete with Christmas specials on TV or returning gifts on the 26th.”
They both laughed and drank a toast with the sickening punch.
“I think we could open our push for war powers right after the New Year, sir,” Karl said. “Start things out privately, then make public our intent with the State of the Union Address, maybe, and then crush all opposition with KSK's confession by the end of January. We could be in Iraq by February.”
“More like March, Karl,” Pete said. “It'll take some time to put the troops in theater.”
“Of course,” Karl said. “That's what I meant; we could begin deploying to Iraq by February.”
“Fantastic news, Karl,” Pete said and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Best Christmas present I'll get this year. Keep me informed.” Pete returned to watching the party.
Hesitating for a moment as if he expected more, Karl stared at the President's back and then crept away. Down the long table—still covered with drink and food, replenished by an observant staff—Pete saw Paul Kluister pushing past people toward the selection of scotch. Paul smiled at some inner thought as he rifled the bottles until he saw Pete walking toward him. Then his eyes shifted to check the room and he struggled not to smile more broadly.
“Did Karl tell you?” Pete asked when he was close enough to be heard under the general hubbub.
“Met him in the hall,” Paul said. He whispered, “We're almost there!”
“Yes, we are,” Pete said, rocking on his heels.
“Say, why don't we go find a spot away from all these people and have a quiet drink?” Paul asked. “Like in the old days.”
“Paul, that is just what I want,” Pete said and clapped his VP on the shoulder.
Paul picked up a full bottle of black-label blended scotch and walked out; Pete motioned to a waiter to fill a bucket with ice, grab two large glasses, and follow him. They avoided the family quarters and the Oval Office—anywhere they might be looked for—and settled in the Map Room in the basement, a rather curious room.
“You haven't seen us escape,” Pete told the waiter with a wink.
“No, Mr. President,” the young man said conspiratorially and left.
They sat in two overstuffed leather chairs with an antique little table between them, the perfect size for drinks. Paul drove a hand into the ice, filled both glasses, added a rim-full pour of the amber fluid—remembering to dole Pete's measure first—and sat back carefully, a look of ecstasy on his face as he lifted his glass. Pete raised his glass in answer.
“To that son of a bitch,” Paul said solemnly: “Sing, boy, sing.”
“Hear, hear,” Pete said, although he looked as if he'd got socks for Christmas.
They drank.
“No?” Paul said. “Alright, something more for the season,” he said, refilling his now depleted glass and topping off Pete's. “Allah Akbar, you son of a bitch: go with god.”
“For Christ sake, Paul,” Pete said but he laughed all the same and they drank while snickering. “Ah, that came out of the right bottle.”
“We're almost there!” Paul roared and cackled. “All falling into place. Karl's doing that thing with the press, making it look like the inspector's finding bupkis means Saddam's hiding his nukes; we got
son of a bitch over a slow fire, warming up his voice in Gitmo; and Congress waiting with baited breath for us to tell them how to vote and what on. Turning out to be a merrier Christmas than I thought.”
“It is,” Pete said. “A merry one; lot of presents.”
“It turned around,” Paul said. He drained his glass, added another cube of ice, and filled it again. “Know who I saw at the Christmas party? Not this one, the one earlier in the month for the press. Clyde Sewell.”
“Clyde Sewell?” Pete asked.
“Sure, you must remember old Clyde Sewell,” Paul said. “From Yale.”
Pete lurched forward in his chair as if he'd been kicked, a look on his face of someone whose long lost relative has been found. “Clyde Sewell, by god!” he cried. “Why I haven't thought of Clyde in thirty years. Good old Clyde. Well how the hell is he these days?”
“I didn't talk to that son of a bitch,” Paul snarled. “I hate Clyde.”
“What! No you don't,” Pete chided, swatting Paul's knee. “You and Clyde were thick as thieves back at Yale. Hell, I hardly saw one of you without the other after our first semester.”
“Oh, sure,” Paul said angrily. “If I wasn't in class, I was off drinking with Clyde; if I missed a test, me and Clyde were pulling a prank—”
“You two were terrors!” Pete laughed. “Legends in your own time for tomfoolery. But why would that make you hate him?”
“There's one thing we didn't do together,” Paul spat. “At the end of the year, both Clyde and I had done as poorly in our classes—but they gave him his 'gentleman's C' while I got a bus ticket! All the way back to Oklahoma!”
Paul took a slow pull from his glass; his eyes unfocused as he lowered his drink. Looking closely, Pete could see thick lines of blood in the corners of Paul's eye and noticed his elbow involuntarily jump.
He's on a bender, Pete thought, not far along, though. Still lucid, probably he's just drank himself sober. God how I hate Christmas, Pete thought as he remembered a few hectic Christmases past when his oldest friend tried to fend off depression with drink. In the end, drink beat both Paul and depression, and someone had to be called in to sober him up confidentially. He doesn't look that bad this time, Pete thought, he could pull out of it—he has before—but god, if only he wasn't thinking about Yale.
“And why?” Paul said, addressing the air in front of him. “Why do that to me? Because his family had the power to take what they wanted and they wanted Clyde to have a goddamn degree from Yale. What the hell business was it of the school's what I did? They got their money, they were paid! How could they benefit from my grades? It didn't matter to them one way or the other.”
“No, it didn't,” Pete said. “They had no business interfering. But why blame Clyde? With the influence you had over him,” Pete said, trying to lighten the mood, “I'd say you led poor Clyde astray.”
“Because he knew how it worked!” Paul shouted. “We didn't have his kind of money, it's true, but we knew a few people. He should have told me to make sure people back home were making phone calls on my behalf. If I'd known, I'd've asked your dad. It've been fine. But Clyde didn't say a word. Despite all the good times we had, Clyde didn't really think—”
“To hell with what Clyde thought!” Pete said, afraid of where the conversation was turning. “It was an unfortunate mistake, what happened back then, but you've proven how useless a Yale degree is.”
“You think I'm afraid to say it,” Paul said, turning sober but reddened eyes on his friend.
“I don't think you're afraid of anything, Paul,” Pete said.
“I'll say it,” Paul hissed: “Clyde didn't think I belonged there. The school didn't either. Grades are just hoops to jump through and we know what that's all about. You don't make your own people jump through them: hoops are for lesser people. That's what they thought of me, just like those bastards who gave us a hard time because of our accents or not knowing where to go to fucking ski!”
“It wasn't fair,” Pete said. Hearing words he'd thought in the silent watches of the night now spoken in Paul's voice jarred him. He dropped what was left in his glass down his throat and refilled it. “And it wasn't right, either, because—”
“You know, I went there,” Paul said quietly, not hearing Pete. “To St. Maritz, to ski. This was after I worked for—hell, for your future father in law. I took Missy there to go ski and stay at the lodge, drink hot toddies and play bridge. I remember thinking how great it'd be, how prepared I was: I had the right clothes, talked with the right accent, talked about the right things. But those bastards just sneered at me. They were laughing, Pete. Laughing because they knew I didn't have as much as I should.”
“Fools!” Pete growled. “All Europeans there, too, I don't doubt, and they always sneer at Americans. Never remembering what we did for them, never grateful. Ha, as if they had a right to expect us to save their asses. Right?” Pete asked, recovering and trying to launch Paul onto a topic he often enjoyed shouting about.
“Yeah,” Paul said, refilling his glass and then staring down into it. “Goddamn major shareholders are the same way. I was CEO of Administration Oil, but to the major shareholders, I was a servant. Didn't have the kind of money where I could just own enough stock to make demands of the company, I had to work—and they knew it. Knew their place was above mine. I was there to make the money and shut up.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Pete said as if fending off an accusation. He shook himself and then dug Paul in the ribs. He couldn't let Paul wallow, couldn’t be dragged into that mood—he needed his VP with what lie ahead. “Maybe for a year or so, but to hell with that. You were the major shareholder before long. Your place is at the top, not among the shareholders—or the common people. Why look at what we've done—and are about to do! Those who ought to lead, who ought to wield power, are those who lead, who wield power. Snap out of it, Paul! Your place is amongst the highest in the land and your being here proves it. And as it takes money to wield power in the world, our opening the resources of Iraq will secure all the power that's rightfully ours. Those who ought to lead, succeed!”
“You're right,” Paul said absently. He then looked up as if considering what Pete said. “You are right.”
“Of course I am,” Pete said. “So don't worry about what those damn fools thought or did.”
“I'm not worrying,” Paul said and took a quick drink. “I'm just hating Clyde! It's like you said, we're about to make up for all the advantages that others enjoyed early on and we had to do without—but not because we didn’t deserve them! With this little war, we'll take what's ours by right. It's like you said, since I have the power to make this happen—despite the stupid laws and regulations put in place by lesser people trying to degrade the great—that proves they were wrong. I'm the fittest! Survival of the fittest! And that makes it right. How else could you know who should wield power except by seeing who's strongest? And to do that, somebody’s got to lose. And that's what these liberal jackasses don't understand!” Paul said, coming to life.
“Or do they understand it only too well?” Pete said with a knowing tilt of his head. That's right, Paul, Pete thought, come into the present. “Someone has to lose in the rise of power—and don't they know who that someone is?”
“Yeah, yeah, and it's wrong!” Paul hollered. “It's wrong. Social Security and Medicare and all that crap, it elevates lesser people above their place—and that's unfair to those who deserve it. If you can't afford to retire or get a pill then down in the mud you go! It's as right as rewards and privileges going to those strong enough to take them. It's not right to apply laws and codes and regulations to those with the power to ignore them: those things are just hoops for little people to jump through. We do the same thing in business; make our minions jump through hoops, follow procedures until we're sure they're loyal and 'want it' and will do what's necessary without balking and then we can trust them with some responsibility. But those who make the hoops don't get anything out of jumping through
them! The people who say we should are just trying to elevate themselves above their place without doing anything—by dragging our place down closer to theirs! And that's not right!”
“You're right,” Pete said, finishing and then refilling his glass. “You're a hundred percent right. I don't like thinking poorly of people but the facts are plain. They don't like thinking of themselves as weaker and so they've constructed this fairytale about their 'rights.' The only problem is that it flies in the face of reason. Those who lead, succeed. Those with power, take privilege.”
“That's right and with this little war,” Paul said, leaning over the arm of his chair with a macabre grin, “we'll set things to rights and correct the accidents of fate.”
“Yes,” Pete said absently. He's coming out of it, he thought, he seems better now.
“All we should have had—and our rightful place in the world denied for their inexplicable lack—will be returned,” Paul said, leering. “What's ours is there for the taking, if we're strong enough to take it.”
“And we are,” Pete said, feeling as if he'd missed something, as if his mind had wandered and in his absence the conversation had inverted.
“I know, Pete,” Paul said, laying a cold speckled hand on his friend's sleeve. “I know how tough it's been for you, making decisions that send these people who choose to become soldiers off to die.”
“The toughest thing I've ever done,” Pete said in the voice of someone too proud to ask for mercy but hopes for its offer.
“But don't you worry about that,” Paul said. “That's their place, that's their lives. Would they want your decisions? Never!”
“No, they wouldn't,” Pete said, unconsciously nodding.
“That's right,” Paul said, falling back into his chair. “That's the right way round of things. That's their part to play—hell, risking your life is nothing—and they'll get the honor their after, we'll give them medals. But giving orders? Now, that can only be done by someone special, by someone strong enough to take the power to give them, and the struggle to seize that power makes it right.”