The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  “It is a small matter to the United States.”

  He leaned closer to the telephone. “It is a big matter to me, and a personal one.” On impulse, he continued. “I intend to fly to Lampang and attend the funeral myself.”

  “Oh, I don’t want you to go through that…”

  “It’s something I wish, Noy. Something I want to do. I want to give you support. You’ll need it. Take all you can get.”

  “You are so kind. I don’t want you to take such a long journey over someone you did not know.”

  “I want to do it for someone I do know.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Yes, I insist. I want to be among those beside you.”

  “I will appreciate that. It would give me much comfort.”

  “Then, count on it.”

  As Underwood hung up, Alice tried to speak to him. But he already had the receiver back in hand.

  “Get me Paul Blake,” he commanded the operator. “Wherever he is, find him for me.” Alice tried to speak once more, but Underwood held up a hand, ordering her to be silent. Seconds later, Blake was on the phone.

  “Yes, Matt?”

  “You know the news about Larnpang.”

  “I do.”

  “Very well. I’m going there at nine in the morning to attend Thida’s funeral. Have Air Force One ready.”

  “Do you feel this is a wise thing, Matt? I’m sure it is something Vice-President Trafford could routinely handle. You have a long schedule of appointments tomorrow. It would mean cancelling every one. And the press, what about the press?”

  “They’re welcome to come along in the press plane. But try to keep the package simple.”

  “I can’t, Matt. First thing, I’ll still have to dispatch a planeload of engineers from the White House Communications Agency to install the two special phone systems. And there must be the military backup plane to replace Air Force One if anything goes wrong, and to carry your national security adviser, your military aide, your physician, more Secret Service agents. You’ll be very visible.” He hesitated. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “No, Paul. Do what you have to do, but I’m going. I intend to be in Lampang for the funeral. Get moving.”

  This time Alice was on her feet, and standing over him.

  “Don’t shut me up again,” she said shrilly. “I heard it all, and I say you’re crazy to fly halfway around the world to attend the funeral of someone you don’t even know.”

  “I promised.”

  “Break that stupid promise. This is madness, chasing after some clever native woman who’s trying to entice you. It’ll look terrible.”

  Underwood glared at his wife. “Not if you come along. You’re invited, Alice.”

  “That’s ridiculous, going all the way to that hot dump over an affair of no consequence to you, to us, to the country. If you want to be a fool, then be one—alone!”

  In the Press Room of the White House, Hy Hasken listened to the announcement by Press Secretary Bartlett. Before he had heard the finish of it, Hasken perceived what it was all about. He came to his feet, eased his body among the other White House correspondents seated behind him, and dashed for the nearest telephone in the rear. Using his phone card, Hasken punched out the long-distance number from Washington-to Sam Whitlaw’s private line in the main editorial office of The National Television Network in New York City.

  Whitlaw answered immediately. “Yeah?”

  “Hy Hasken, boss. I’m in the Press Room. There’s just been an announcement that the president is flying to Lampang tomorrow morning. It’s the funeral.”

  “I saw the wire coverage,” said Whitlaw. “Noy Sang’s sister poisoned. You’re saying Underwood’s flying all the way there to attend the funeral? Why?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe to tighten our relationship with Lampang. Maybe the follow-up on his relationship with Noy Sang after their two meetings here. I truly don’t know.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “Whatever it makes,” said Hasken, “Underwood is making a big deal of it. He’s sending a press plane ahead.”

  “And you want to be on that plane, Hy?”

  “I think I should be.”

  “It’s not even a lead story,” growled Whitlaw. “Why waste the time?”

  “You said you wanted me to stay on Underwood’s tail. You told me to ignore the White House and give my attention to the president.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “This is an odd trip. I feel I should be there. I want to know more about it.”

  Whitlaw was silent a moment. “It is odd for the President to throw everything aside to fly that far for a funeral for Noy’s sister.”

  “Maybe he isn’t going for Noy’s sister,” said Hasken. “Maybe he’s going for Noy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know when I find out. You can get someone to cover the White House for me. Let me stay with the president. What do you say, Sam?”

  “I say wild-goose chase.” He paused. “But I like this goose. Go get him.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Air Force One came to Muang Airport on Lampang from Washington, D.C., in a haze of early-afternoon heat and humidity. It landed smoothly on the long airstrip, braked, and gradually slowed down. A jeep with three airport personnel curved in front of it, led it ahead, and then to a turnoff toward a spacious slot reserved for the plane.

  On the field nearby, the eleven White House reporters and their crews, who had arrived an hour earlier on the American press plane chartered by the press pool, were roped off and kept in place by blue-clad Lampang security guards. Next to them the local and other foreign press had been similarly contained. Hy Hasken and his cameraman and sound technician had secured a front-row vantage point.

  Hasken consulted with Gil Andrews, the cameraman. “Did you get a full shot of Air Force One landing?”

  “Enough to cover three of your shows.”

  “Okay, now they’re opening up. Next, President Underwood will appear. Pick him up medium close emerging and coming down the ladder. I can see a delegation at the foot of the ladder. When and if Noy Sang steps forward to meet him—and there is a good possibility that she will—I want a tight dose-up of her greeting Underwood. That will be important. You got it, Gil?”

  “Got it, Hy.”

  Just then the door of Air Force One opened, and attendants rolled the aluminum ladder up to it.

  Hasken’s attention was riveted on the open doorway. Several Secret Service men came out, surveyed the scene, and waited. Moments later President Underwood emerged and fell in behind the Secret Service. Underwood appeared rested and trim—no doubt he had slept on the crossing—and he was wearing a freshly pressed dark-gray cotton suit.

  He came down the ladder, followed by more Secret Service agents.

  “I’ve got him,” said the cameraman.

  “Just get him on the ground when Noy Sang, Minister Marsop, and the delegation meet him.”

  Hasken scanned the area below, and the official delegation, for any sign of Noy Sang.

  He could not find her.

  Someone, a very thin man, left the delegation and approached Underwood, hand outstretched.

  Hasken thought that he recognized the greeter, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Where’s Noy Sang?” the cameraman, Andrews, wanted to know.

  “No idea,” said Hasken. “She’s certainly not here. Probably at the palace getting ready for the funeral.”

  Then Hasken heard a familiar high-pitched voice. It was that of Press Secretary Bartlett. “The president is off to the Oriental Hotel. All of you will follow in two buses. There can be no complaints from any of you. You’re staying in the same hotel. You’ve got accommodations nearly as good as the president’s. Once we get there, you’ll be directed to your rooms. You’ll have an hour to change and freshen up, and then back to the buses and off to the funeral. Try to preserve some decorum. After all, this is a funeral.”<
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  Troubled, Hasken turned for the bus. The fact that Noy Sang had not shown made his story a nonstory. Without more, he would suffer Whitlaw’s wrath.

  Heading for the bus, he prayed for something more.

  In the lobby of the splendid old Oriental Hotel, crowded with the rest of the press corps among the rattan furniture, Hasken watched as the president and his Secret Service contingent were guided past the stairway toward a bank of elevators.

  A Lampang official was guiding them, and once they were safely behind the elevator doors, the official spun away.

  It was then that Hasken recognized him.

  The official, the very one who had welcomed the president as he had left Air Force One, was Marsop, Noy Sang’s minister of foreign affairs.

  The members of the American press corps did not recognize him, and tended to ignore him, but Hasken moved quickly to intercept him.

  “Minister Marsop,” Hasken called out.

  Marsop squinted uncertainly and halted.

  Hasken closed in on him. “You may not remember me, sir, but I’m Hy Hasken. I’m with American television. I covered you when you came to Washifigton last week with President Noy Sang.”

  A glimmer of recognition flitted across Mar-sop’s face. “Oh, yes, I think I remember.”

  “I won’t bother you now, but there are two questions I must ask. The first is relatively simple.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you give me some idea of what the president’s suite looks like?”

  “It is large, over three thousand square feet. It’s called the Leader’s Suite, with a living room, dining room, entertainment room, two bedrooms, and three baths. All windows are made of bulletproof glass. It’s actually the penthouse. There’s a corridor leading from the elevator to a stairwell for the Secret Service guards. At the top there’s a metal detector protecting the penthouse. The two floors below it are for the president’s staff and press.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Minister. One more question if I may.”

  “Please.”

  “President Underwood on short notice flew to Lampang to attend Thida’s funeral. It was unexpected. I didn’t realize that Underwood knew Thida that well.”

  “He didn’t know her personally at all,” Marsop said.

  “You mean President Underwood never met her?”

  “Never, at least not to my knowledge.”

  Hasken’s surprise could not be disguised. “But then, why did he fly all the way here to attend her funeral?”

  “Because he wanted to give support to President Noy Sang. He wanted to comfort her.”

  “No politics involved?”

  “None whatsoever. This is personal. Your president is a compassionate man.”

  Hasken stared after Marsop as he disappeared into the crowd in the direction of his limousine.

  Hasken, nibbling his lower lip, considered what he had heard.

  President Underwood was here to see Noy Sang, and for no other reason.

  He had not even known the deceased.

  But apparently he knew the living very well. Hasken smiled to himself.

  Whitlaw would not be disappointed. There might be a story, a very good one, at Hasken’s fingertips after all.

  He determined to stay close to it, as close as was humanly possible.

  For Hy Hasken it was another funeral, as funerals go. A little glossier, perhaps, considering the representatives of various nations—in this case mostly. Asian ones.

  From his vantage point at the crest of a small hill in the cemetery, five kilometers outside Visaka, Hasken had a good view of the graveside down the slope below.

  There were, next to the coffin, Noy Sang, her son, Den, Marsop, and some elders, probably the parents of Thida and Noy. Among the foreign mourners, President Matt Underwood stood closest to the grieving family.

  From the distance to which he and other-journalists had been restricted by army guards, Hasken couldn’t hear a word. He could see a Christian clergyman’s lips moving.

  Dust thou art, to dust returneth, he was sure. The closed casket was edging toward a deep hole. Hasken could see Noy kneel and place a bouquet of flowers on the top of the casket as it began to be lowered from view.

  While respectful, Hasken was basically uninterested.

  He had not known Thida. She had been a name to him, no more. But then, she had been no one to Underwood, except Noy’s sister. Hasken tried to be attentive.

  Suddenly, as the coffin disappeared, Noy seemed to break down. Her shoulders hunched and she crumpled. Marsop reached out to steady her as the ceremony continued to its conclusion.

  Hasken was sure that Noy was weeping now, and then he saw President Underwood relax his solemn rigidity and step backward, out of line.

  He could see Underwood ease past little Den and Marsop and squeeze in beside Noy. He could see Underwood take her limp hand, whisper to her, and draw her head against his shoulder.

  Then he was startled to see Underwood bend his head and kiss Noy on the cheek, not once but several times.

  What a shot, Hasken thought with excitement. Je-sus, what a juicy morsel for the six o’clock news back home.

  Hasken whirled around for Gil Andrews, and then realized that he was not there. No cameraman had been admitted to the funeral.

  No cameraman, no picture. Hasken swore at his bad luck. This wouldn’t play in a flat news report. It was a visual. Yet, there had been no way to capture it.

  Now the funeral was over, and they were all turning from the grave.

  Underwood, his arm around Noy’s waist, was leading her away.

  “Where are they going?” he wondered aloud. An American voice behind Hasken answered authoritatively, “They’re going to a wake. It’s a Lampang custom. Back to the palace. Noy Sang will be hostess at a buffet for invited guests.”

  Hasken half turned. “What about the press?”

  “Special guests only, special people,” the voice answered. “You know we’re not people.” Hasken swore under his breath again.

  Noy and Underwood would be alone, and he could not get near them.

  Excuses wouldn’t work, not with Sam Whitlaw. But something had to go on. He tried to speculate what Noy and Underwood would talk about. He hadn’t the faintest idea, but he knew that sooner or later he would find out.

  The wake took place late that afternoon in the Peacock Room, a smaller reception room of Chamadin Palace.

  Matt Underwood had gone back to the Oriental Hotel to shower and change into a dark suit. Entering the crowded reception room, he could see Noy Sang at the far end of the room, and she had changed, too, into an ankle-length purple sari. She had also, he could see, recovered her composure and was introducing strangers among the guests, mostly Asians from sympathetic neighboring countries.

  Underwood went directly toward her, got in line, and clasped her hand as she whispered, “Thanks, Matt. Let me introduce you to a few of our neighbors.”

  She did so, and Underwood greeted them graciously and moved on. Separated from the others momentarily, Underwood cast about for another familiar face. Besides his collection of unobtrusive Secret Service men dispersed around the dining room, he recognized only two other Americans. One was Bartlett, his press secretary, and the other was hunched, impassive Percy Siebert, whose pale-blue eyes were fixed on him now. Siebert was Director Ramage’s CIA station head at the United States Embassy in Visaka, and had been waiting for him in his suite after his arrival on Air Force One. Before the funeral they had talked a little, enough for the president to regard him as a friend.

  To one side, Siebert had taken note of the president’s arrival and was making his way through the crowd toward him.

  The CIA station head took Underwood by the arm and whispered, “There is someone you must meet, Mr. President, a good friend of mine and of the United States.” He pointed the president to a stocky, older man in a crisp uniform bedecked with medals. Siebert made the introduction. “President Matthew Underwood, this is General
Samak Nakorn, head of the Lampang Army. General, the president of the United States.”

  Underwood reached out and shook hands firmly.

  After exchanging a few pleasantries, Underwood sought Noy Sang again, saw her not far away, and once more started in her direction.

  When he reached her, he was pleased to see she was briefly alone and to see her face light up.

  Taking her by the arms, he leaned over and—unembarrassed by the presence of others—kissed her on the forehead.

  “How are you, Noy?”

  “It’s over. I’ll survive,” she said. Then added, “How kind of you, how very kind of you, to come all this way to express your condolences.”

  “It was something I felt I wanted to do, Noy.”

  “It did very much for me. I won’t forget it.” She pointed to a long table filled with food. “You must be hungry. Try the dish in that white bowl, Gai Tom Ka. It’s chicken stewed in coconut milk. Truly delicious.” She pushed him toward the table, lowering her voice to say, “We’ll find time to talk later.”

  Underwood parted from her, dutifully went to the buffet table, took a large plate, a fork, and a napkin, and began to fill his plate with chicken, fried rice, curries, fish, and a tiny omelet mixed with herbs.

  About to leave the table, he noticed that General Nakorn was coming toward him from the opposite direction, filling his own plate. Before Underwood could consider speaking, to him, Percy Siebert, the CIA station head, stepped between them.

  “Mr. President,” Siebert whispered hastily.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you could spare a moment to talk to General Nakorn. He’s very anxious to have a further word with you.”

  “Any idea what that’s all about?”

  Siebert nodded. “I’d say it would be useful for you to hear him out. He’s a great friend of the United States. What he has to say may be in our interest.”

  “Well, then, of course.”

  Underwood remained in place as Siebert reached out to bring General Nakorn to him. “You wish to speak to me?” said Underwood.