The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  “Which is?”

  “We could go for a loan of a hundred fifty million—that much, but not a dime more. Then it becomes too costly, considering our outstanding loans to other countries. Oh, Madame Sang may ask for more. They always do. Those little countries are impoverished and feel Uncle Sam has bottomless pockets. But we don’t have that much to fling around, especially on a relatively obscure place like Lampang. You can be a hero and go up to a hundred fifty million, but I repeat, that’s the limit.”

  “What if she says no?”

  “Then you say good-bye to the lady. We’ll hunt elsewhere for another base and a more reasonable trader.”

  The president frowned. “But I thought you were saying we really must have this Lampang base?”

  “We want it, no question,” said Morrison. “Yet there are limits to what we can give. We can’t allow ourselves to be blackmailed.” He smiled at Underwood. “You can do it, Mr. President. Just turn on the old charm. We’re lucky Lampang’s head of state is a woman. A few words from you, a generous smile, and she’ll melt. Diplomacy often comes down to that.”

  Underwood seemed uncertain. “I hope so.”

  “You’ll pull it off,” said Morrison. “I don’t have a doubt in the world. You’ll come up a winner.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said the president, and with that the meeting in the Cabinet Room was adjourned.

  In the heart of the capital city of Visaka on the island of Lampang, Noy Sang sat in her husband’s office in Chamadin Palace behind her husband’s oversized desk, signing papers into law before her departure for the United States.

  The office and desk were still, even after a year of her occupancy, her husband’s office and his desk. He had been brutally killed here, and buried in the ground after great ceremony, but for Noy Sang her husband Prem was not entirely dead. It was as if he had simply gone away, on a long trip, without saying good-bye. Some memories of him had faded, details mostly, and in recent months she had felt less alone because she had been busy with her work.

  But the office and desk were Prem’s. She could not be disloyal. Everything she had learned and knew—well, almost everything—had come from Prem, and she could not completely believe that she was her own person.

  What brought all this to mind as she signed her papers was that the mourning period was over, and she was about to leave Lampang on her first official trip abroad.

  Truly she now was—would be—President Noy Sang of Lampang.

  Noy peeked at the dial of her gold watch. It was time for young Den to depart for school. She wondered where he was. Then she realized that her own departure for the airport and the flight to the United States with Chief of Foreign Affairs Marsop Panyawan would take place in a half hour, and that she had better finish signing her papers.

  She resumed scribbling her signature by pen, and had just finished with the last document when she heard the clatter of footsteps on the staircase that led down from the family apartment.

  Little Den bounced into the office, hastily followed by Noy’s sister, Thida. Den was dark-haired and dark-eyed with a pug nose, and small (even for his age). Her sister Thida was three years her junior, taller and slimmer than she, with more angular features. She was single again after having had an early marriage annulled and was now vice-president of Lampang—a worthy one, because she was as politically knowledgeable as Noy and with as much empathy for the poor.

  Noy put down her pen, came out of her chair, and knelt to kiss and embrace her little boy.

  “Get right down to the car or you’ll be late for school,” Noy told him. “This won’t be a long trip. Three or four days and I’ll be back. Thida will go along to school with you today.”

  This had been a special arrangement, sending Thida with him, to keep Den’s mind off her trip. Normally, there was only Chalie, a faithful driver always around to take Den to the public school—Noy would not permit a private school—and bring him back to the palace when school was over.

  Noy stood up and hugged her sister. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” Noy whispered to her sister. “Be strong. Don’t let General Nakorn begin acting on any of his anticommunist ideas. I mean to keep Lunakul and the insurgents in a talking posture with us until we can work something out.”

  Thida smiled and patted her sister’s hand. “Don’t worry, Noy. You leave Lampang in safe hands. Maybe I can’t manage Lampang the way you do, but still I can do a good job of imitating you. As for General Nakorn, I’ll never take an eye off him.”

  “Thanks, Thida.… Good-bye, Den. I love you. See you in a wink of days.”

  She watched Thida take the boy by the hand and lead him out of the office.

  About to return to her husband’s desk, she saw Marsop Panyawan come briskly into the office. He was an intense skeletal man, with an air of gravity.

  Not only was Marsop her chief of foreign affairs, but he had been her husband’s best friend, and was her own most dependable ally.

  Marsop was slightly taller than the average Lampangian male, about five feet seven, with brown hair combed sideways, sunken eyes, and gaunt features. Greeting Noy, he crossed over to her desk and seated himself opposite her.

  “Well, we’re on our way to Washington, D.C.,” said Noy.

  “A visit vital to our interests,” said Marsop.

  “I’m pleased you’ll be lunching with President Underwood.”

  “Obviously not a social lunch,” said Noy.

  “I would not characterize it as that. We know we need money from them. I’ve learned clearly what they want from us, not in detail but in general.”

  “We get a loan,” said Noy simply. “We give an air base.”

  “I’m quite certain that will be the arrangement.”

  Noy was thoughtful. “The loan. How much do we want from the United States?”

  Marsop grunted. “As much as we can get, Noy.”

  “But in practical terms. You’ve already felt out the United States ambassador here. You know what they’re thinking about.”

  Marsop shook his head. “I really don’t know. I know what we need. I’ve met with the cabinet and I have a fair idea.”

  “What do we need?”

  Marsop picked a package of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and loosened one. He considered the cigarette before lighting it. “We need two hundred million dollars,” he said at last.

  “Can they give it to us?”

  “They can, but they won’t,” said Marsop, puffing at his cigarette.

  “Will they consider it excessive?”

  “Only in the sense that they already have huge loans outstanding in Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, and a dozen other countries. Congress has been putting pressure on their president to tighten up and stop the handouts.”

  Noy showed her concern. “All right, I ask for two hundred million. What if they refuse it?”

  “You’re in trouble with our program at home.” Noy was considering something else.

  “Dare I hold the Soviet Union over their heads?”

  “No, absolutely not. Not even as a bargaining chip, a threat. They’d be appalled to imagine you’d consider letting the Russians in here, especially with America’s Pacific problem and their reason for meeting and negotiating with you. They want an air base for the very reason that it would be anticommunist.”

  “Well, what am I to do if they refuse the two hundred million?”

  Marsop was quick to reply. “They mustn’t be allowed to. You must demand the two hundred million and be steadfast in your demand.”

  Noy sighed. “You’re making me very nervous, Marsop.”

  He smiled. “I mean to. Actually, you don’t have to be. Don’t forget, President Underwood wants something from you. He wants it very much.”

  “He can have it. We agreed to that.”

  “Not quite,” said Marsop. “He’ll want an extremely large air base. I don’t think your followers would like that kind of giveaway. It would hurt you domestically. You’ve got
to be very stingy about the air base. We’ll talk in more detail on the flight to Washington. Actually, you have one more bargaining chip. It is the one I rely on most of all.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your charm, Noy.”

  “Please, Marsop, that’s impossible. I can’t be a femme fatale for an American.”

  “You don’t have to be.” Marsop smiled broadly. “You can just be your regular everyday natural self. Believe me, you can’t fail to impress him.”

  “I wish I could believe you. I wonder what he’s like?”

  “You mean President Underwood? I’ve got a complete rundown on him. I’ll give it to you on the plane. Now we’d better get ready to go and meet him in person.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  High over the Pacific Ocean, Noy Sang and Minister Marsop Panyawan were seated on a velvet sofa aboard the Lampang presidential plane, finishing their late dinner. When they were done, and a dusky stewardess in jacket and pants had removed their trays, Noy leaned to her right to peer out of the small window.

  “I think I can see the coastline of California,” Noy said.

  “Not yet,” said Marsop. “The horizon is deceptive. We won’t reach the United States for another hour.”

  “Then on to Washington, D.C.”

  “Yes, almost another five hours.”

  Noy gave a shudder and turned back from the window. “Too soon,” she said. “Maybe I can sleep away some of the time.”

  “A rest would be helpful.”

  “Marsop, I need more than a rest. I need an anesthetic. I’m afraid I’m not quite ready for my first foreign affairs meeting.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get on with President Underwood just fine.”

  “I wish I could be half as confident.” She reached for her purse, then did not open it. “This is one hell of a time to give up smoking. Marsop, can you spare a cigarette?”

  He fumbled for his pack, opened it, and held it out for her while she extracted a cigarette. Finding his lighter, he rolled his thumb across it and lighted her cigarette.

  She inhaled deeply, exhaled, and then stared through the smoke at her minister of foreign affairs.

  “I’m really not scared of dealing with President Underwood,” she said slowly. “I’m just scared of being face-to-face with him for two hours. Who am I dealing with? Abraham Lincoln? Theodore Roosevelt? Richard Nixon?”

  Marsop gave a short laugh. “Hardly. He’s none of those, as you very well know. Last night, when I ran an hour of videotapes of Underwood for you, you could see that he is not that formidable.”

  “What could I tell from those? Public speeches. Interviews. But no human being. I keep trying to think of him as a human being, and to imagine what he’s truly like. Who will I be talking to?”

  “A person no different from yourself, with his own ambitions, frustrations, aggravations, pleasures. Make believe Prem is beside you. Relax tomorrow. Feel secure.”

  She shook her head gravely. “Dear Prem is not beside me. I saw him dead. I can’t play that game anymore. I’m on my own from now on. It’s me alone.” She reached out and gripped Marsop’s hand tightly, then released it. “Of course, you’ll be there standing behind me.”

  “I will be. But essentially you will be on your own. Just as the president of the United States will have his chief of staff and secretary of state with him, but finally both of you will be on your own together.”

  “What’s he like, Marsop?” she said suddenly. “What’s he really like?”

  “I have a fair amount of intelligence on him,” said Marsop. “You really want to know? Let me dig out my folder and read you what I have.” He unlatched the leather briefcase beside him on the sofa and pulled out a blue folder. “Let me read to you a bit more about President Matthew—they all call him Matt—Underwood. I hope the knowledge will make you feel easier.”

  “Any light you shed will illuminate.”

  Marsop was parting his folder. “All right, let’s find out what there is to find out, and pray that it is accurate.”

  “Tell me everything,” said Noy.

  “Everything, Noy.”

  He studied the contents of the first page in his folder. He raised his head.

  “Matt Underwood is fifty-two years old.”

  “I thought he was older.”

  Marsop smiled. “It’s his manner. A trick of solemnity when he was a television anchorman. To make him seem more fatherly.”

  “He was a television star, a real one?”

  “A very real one, and an important one in his day.”

  “It’s very hard to conceive, a television actor becoming president of the United States.”

  “Everyone has to be something, even a television star,” Marsop said. “They had a Hollywood actor once before him. And a peanut farmer earlier. And a male model before that. It’s very hard to be born a politician and stay one.”

  “Go on.”

  Marsop consulted his notes. He absorbed what he was reading and turned closer to Noy.

  “According to our intelligence,” Marsop said, “Matthew Underwood went to Columbia University—”

  “I remember. That’s in New York City.”

  “Yes. As a young man Underwood was blessed with a deep, resonant voice and a wonderful easy presence. He took speech and journalism courses and became captain of his debate team. Columbia finished first in everything in those years. One of Underwood’s professors was so impressed with him that after his graduation the professor sent him to a close friend who was an executive of The National Television Network—that’s the largest cable network in America. It broadcasts out of New York and Washington, D.C. The executive was equally impressed with Underwood and hired him to do reports around America from Pittsburgh, Chicago, New Orleans, and Los Angeles. This was one of those rare cases where an individual’s charisma affected all the viewers. In two years Underwood was hired as anchorman for the national nightly news. It was his personality and weight that held a whole team of reporters in place. The anchorman starts off the news every night, and his person and style become so familiar to so many millions of Americans who welcome him into their homes that he becomes famous. Before Underwood there were such ones at the CBS network as Edward Murrow and Walter Cronkite. When Underwood became even better known than the others, he became a legend. His word was law. Everyone believed everything he reported. Anyway, his name began showing up on the popularity polls.”

  “That’s how Americans choose their leaders?” Noy marveled.

  “Underwood’s name was pitted against the biggest political names, movie names, sports names, and he always came out ahead as the one whose name was most easily recognizable and whose person everyone trusted. That’s what led him into politics. You recall that in America there are two senators from each state?”

  “Yes, you forget, I have studied the American system. I know about senators to Washington.”

  “Very well,” said Marsop. “One of the two from the State of New York died in the middle of his six-year term. The governor of New York had the right to pick a replacement for the deceased senator, to finish out his term.”

  Noy understood. “So he picked the anchorman Matthew Underwood, and Underwood accepted the appointment.”

  “Yes, he quit the network and marched off to Washington to be sworn in as Senator Matthew Underwood. He was an instant celebrity in a new profession. He was better known than any politician. He was an ongoing media event, someone to write about and report on, especially considering the similar celebrity of his wife.”

  “Alice Underwood,” said Noy, nodding. “The woman he married after she became Miss America.”

  “You know about Miss America?” asked Marsop.

  “I have read about it,” said Noy. “I have seen many photographs of her. She is still very beautiful. Isn’t it unusual for an American president to marry a woman only for her beauty?”

  “You are misinformed, Noy. Underwood was not the American president when he m
et and married her. He was still an anchorman, and Alice had been hired by TNTN as a reporter. Of course Underwood was moved by her beauty. There is no denying that. But”—Marsop dipped into his sheaf of notes again—”Alice Underwood is known for more than her beauty. She is intelligent as well. She is also well known for being aggressive—you know, pushy, wanting to get ahead or see to it that her husband remains ahead.”

  “Marsop, how can you know such a private and personal thing as that?”

  “That’s the purpose of having a first-rate intelligence service. Our country may be small, as small as Israel, but our intelligence is top-notch, just as Israeli intelligence is unbeatable.”

  “So,” said Noy, “the American first lady is ambitious. But how much farther can she go? She is first lady already.”

  Marsop said flatly, “She wants to stay that way. She wants Matthew Underwood to remain president. In short, she wants him to run for reelection, for a second term.”

  “Is he interested?”

  “No.

  “How surprising,” said Noy. “How can he not want it again? It’s the single most important job in the world, much more powerful than that of the Soviet Union’s general secretary.”

  “But it is not the most interesting job, at least that’s what our intelligence source reports on Matthew Underwood’s feeling about the presidency. Underwood is an intellectual man and a curious one, despite his facade of bluff geniality. The presidency of the United States is not a job you hold if you want to pursue matters of intellect. It is a job of taking advice, weighing advice, and of decision making. I’m led to believe that Underwood finds it tiresome.”

  “Why did he run for president in the first place?” Noy asked. “We know how I became a president. It was thrust on me. But Underwood had a choice.”

  “Not quite,” said Marsop, “not quite. He was a wildly popular senator, and his party needed a presidential nominee. The offer was hard to resist. And then there was his wife, Alice.”