For a moment, recollecting his last confrontation with the President less than a month ago, Earnshaw could feel his hackles rise. The humiliation remained hot within him. He recalled how he had been summoned by his successor to his old stamping grounds, the Oval Office of the White House, and with good reason had expected to be offered the highest judicial seat on the highest judiciary bench in the country, the post of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. But even more certainly, he had expected to be notified of his appointment as an official delegate to the Summit conference, to sit beside his successor and advise him in treating with the leaders of the world. Yet, in his meeting with the President, he had been tendered neither appointment, but had been used as a dumb political prop, briefly brought into the White House for press propaganda, to enhance his successor’s image. This had rankled when he had returned to his home in Rancho Santa Fe, and it rankled still in Paris.
With firmness, Earnshaw reminded himself that he must subordinate selfish pride if he were to seek help for another who deserved it. The next step would be onerous, but it was necessary to take it. There might be no second chance. Moreover, if he must engage his successor, this was the best time for himself, while he was still fresh from his victories over Marshal Chen and Sir Austin Ormsby and while he was still sparked by confidence.
Earnshaw swallowed. Lumpily, pride started down. Handing his empty champagne glass to a waiter, Earnshaw pushed forward, elbowing through the mass of guests, returning a greeting here and there, until he arrived at the window.
The French Foreign Minister and young Wiggins had just turned away from the view of the Seine when Earnshaw reached them. His French host welcomed him with friendly graciousness. Wiggins acknowledged his arrival with nervous concern. Their mentions of his name brought the President of the United States from the window.
“Emmett, good to see you,” said the President in his indifferent tone of voice. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
The handshake was brief. “Couldn’t resist,” said Earnshaw. “I hoped to catch up with a few old friends again. I also wanted to thank you for loaning me the services of Admiral Oates last night.”
“Yes. Oates reported to me.”
“I would have asked your permission, but it was late and there was no time to wait.”
“No problem,” said the President. “I’m pleased that he was of some use.” His gaze had strayed to other guests nearby, as he added absently, “If at any time there is anything more we can do to make your vacation more comfortable—”
Earnshaw fiddled with his white tie, then gulped hard. Pride went down all the way. “As a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me.”
The President appeared surprised, even faintly distressed, as if he had rhetorically inquired how-are-you only to discover that he was about to be told at length. “Why, yes, Emmett, what is it?”
Earnshaw glanced pointedly at the French Foreign Minister and at Wiggins. “Well, now, I don’t want to break into any tête-à-tête, but as soon as you are through with these gentlemen, I’d appreciate a minute of your time, no more than a minute of it, before dinner.”
“Of course. We can talk now.”
“Well—uh—it’s a little personal matter I’d—I’d prefer to discuss in privacy.”
“In privacy?” The President surveyed the room. “I doubt if that’s—”
The French Foreign Minister came to their aid. “It can be arranged, Mr. President, and I am certain that you have had enough of my discoursing on the beauties of the Île St.-Louis. Actually, we have a number of small salons throughout this floor for guests who wish their privacy. Allow me to show you to the petit salon just alongside you.”
“Thank you,” said the President.
Earnshaw thought that he detected a trace of disappointment in his successor’s voice, disappointment that a means had been found to bring himself and Earnshaw together alone.
About to follow the French Foreign Minister, the President said to his aide, but obviously meaning the words for Earnshaw, “We’ll be no more than a minute, Wiggins. Stand by.”
The French Foreign Minister had opened the door of the east wall, a door masked by green brocade like that on the wall itself, and he gestured inside. “Right in there, Mr. President, Mr. Earnshaw. You will have complete privacy.”
The President of the United States went through the doorway, and Earnshaw followed him. Earnshaw listened for the door to close behind them. The babble of voices had suddenly been shut off. The silence in the salon, like that of a decompression chamber, made Earnshaw’s ears ring.
He could see the President wandering about the small salon. Except for a window and a fireplace with a mirror above it, the walls of the salon were covered with murals, portraits, and landscapes, each one bordered by a gold frame built into the wall. The assault of all this bright gilt made Earnshaw suffer a slight imbalance. The President, he saw, was squinting up at the ceiling. It was also covered by a mural, an enormous one, depicting a bare-bosomed young woman seated on a cloud, with some kind of pagan god holding on to the cloud, a naked young man kneeling before her, and numerous winged cupids carrying garlands ringed around her.
“Magnificent,” said the President.
Earnshaw had been about to remark that it was atrocious, and was now relieved that he had held his tongue.
“People could do things in those days,” said the President, “before deficit spending and Internal Revenue.”
“And union labor,” Earnshaw said, he thought rather wittily, but his successor did not appear to have heard him.
The President made his way to a green-and-gold Louis XIV sofa no larger than a love seat, lifted the tails of his coat, and sat down in the middle of it, leaving no room for Earnshaw to sit beside him. Biting his lip, Earnshaw took hold of a rebuilt sedan chair, pushed it to a position directly across a table from his successor, and lowered himself into it.
The President was balancing a glass ashtray in his hand. “Heavy,” he said to himself. “Baccarat crystal. Look good in the Cabinet Room. Perhaps I’ll drop a hint.”
Earnshaw had taken out a cigar to occupy his hands, and he made it ready and lighted it.
The President shoved the crystal ashtray across the walnut table toward him. “Well, Emmett, we have our privacy. What’s on your mind?”
Earnshaw had been observing that until now the President had seemed less energetic, more worn out, than usual. His tan had recently faded, giving way to an indoor pallor. His face was puffier, and even the bags under his eyes had grown. But now his natural resilience appeared to restore his lost vigor, and he became more animated. Certainly, his impatience with small talk, his blunt approach, indicated that he had no liking for this face-to-face meeting and was eager to have it concluded.
“I want to ask a small favor of you,” said Earnshaw.
“Go ahead.”
“Do you remember a young man named Matthew Brennan in my Administration? He was one of our key people in the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency when it was connected with State.”
“Brennan? Certainly. The left-winger. The one that Senator Dexter raked over the coals. Four years ago, wasn’t it? He was branded a dangerous security risk, and you forced his resignation.”
“I approved his resignation,” Earnshaw corrected. He hesitated. “I was mistaken, Mr. President.”
One of the President’s eyebrows lifted. “Meaning what?”
“Brennan’s been an expatriate ever since,” said Earnshaw. “He’s here in Paris right now. I’ve met with him. I’ve reread the testimony he gave to Dexter’s Joint Committee on Internal Security. I now have every reason to believe that Brennan was unfairly treated. I’m convinced of his innocence and I’d—”
“There is evidence of his guilt in the record,” said the President. “Does he have proof of his innocence?”
“Not yet,” said Earnshaw, disconcerted. “First of all, and I won’t be long, let me review the background of Brennan�
�s case before and after Professor Varney’s defection to the Chinese—”
The President made a distinctly negative gesture with one hand. “Not necessary, Emmett, not necessary. I had the whole business reviewed for me the other night, after Brennan had dropped in to see Tom Wiggins. I trust Tom. Astute young man. One of the best on my staff. At any rate, Tom got a poor impression of Brennan. Felt he was trying to lay the blame for Varney’s defection on your friend Simon Madlock. That didn’t sit well with me, either, when Tom told me about it. As much as I may have disagreed with Madlock’s policies, or your policies, I never questioned Madlock’s integrity, or your own. You know that, Emmett. So I find it quite surprising to hear you championing Brennan, a left-wing sympathizer who’s going around damning Madlock.”
Earnshaw found his next words difficult to speak, but he spoke them. “Perhaps Madlock deserves to be damned for his—uh—his role in Varney’s defection.”
“Oh?” said the President.
“I’ve seen some new evidence that would indicate all of us in my Administration should share the blame. In any event, if Brennan is blameless, as I suspect him to be, I think he deserves our help in restoring his good name and being permitted to serve again in government.”
“Laudable on your part, Emmett, but impractical,” said the President, “unless Brennan can submit concrete proof of his innocence.”
“Well, it’s about that, the proof, that I wanted to see you. Only one man can back up Brennan’s claim of innocence and make it acceptable—”
The President’s hand made a negative gesture again. “I know all about that. Tom Wiggins advised me. Brennan requires the backing of Nikolai Rostov. I gather he has been unable to reach Rostov. He wishes someone in our Government to speak to someone on the Russian delegation and arrange the reunion with Rostov. Is that it, Emmett? Is that the favor you’re here to ask of me?”
It was the incumbent President’s favorite tactic, Earnshaw knew, to anticipate what people wished to say to him, to guess it and voice it beforehand, in order to take the wind out of their sails and leave them becalmed and helpless.
The President had done it again, and while it had rattled Earnshaw, he was more determined than ever to persist in his request. “Mr. President, the favor I want is for you to give an innocent man a chance to prove his innocence to the entire world. It would be a simple matter for you or the Secretary of State to mention this to Premier Talansky before you sit down to the conference table tomorrow. One word from Talansky, and Rostov would come on the trot to see Brennan, give him a signed and witnessed affidavit admitting that he had possessed a note from Varney which clearly indicated Brennan’s innocence. Then either you or I could release this to the press, and we would have honorably rectified an executive error that Madlock and I participated in and a mistake that the Joint Committee committed. Doing this would make us all look better, and it would restore Brennan to public usefulness and trust. That’s the favor I’d like. I hope you’ll do it for me.”
The President stared at Earnshaw with cold, unblinking eyes.
Earnshaw gripped his cigar tightly. He waited.
The President sniffed, sat up, straightened his back. “No,” he said. “No, thank you. Quite impossible.”
Earnshaw had expected, at worst, at very least, a promise of cooperation, a promise of some effort to grant the favor. Now the President’s absolute refusal, offering no chance for appeal, left Earnshaw temporarily speechless. He fought to repress his personal resentment of his successor, sought a means to touch the President’s sense of decency.
“Mr. President, perhaps you misunderstood. I’m not asking you to absolve Brennan. I’m merely requesting that you intervene with the Soviets so that Brennan will have a chance to clear himself, if that can be done.”
“I understand you very well, Emmett. The answer is still no.”
“But why?”
“I’m in no position to risk the good relations I’ve built up with our allies, the Russians, to endanger the good work I’ve done in coddling the Chinese, in order to make you happy and to satisfy the selfish paranoia of one branded traitor. If Brennan is not a traitor, let him prove it on his own. There is probably good reason why Rostov does not want to see your man, and it is probably the same reason I don’t want to involve myself and my Administration. Neither of us wants to stir stagnating scummy waters and be splattered by them. We’re clean. Why dirty ourselves? And why disturb all the goodwill the Summit has engendered by going out of our way to remind the others of espionage and security and defectors, especially one shameful case that is dead history and not relevant here? We’re dealing cards for millions of lives, Emmett. We can’t worry because one individual was dealt, or dealt himself, a bad hand.”
“Mr. President, this has to do with more than one man,” Earnshaw said urgently. “It has to do with the whole image of democracy you’re representing in the Palais Rose. The Chinese have always charged us with being a capitalistic dictatorship, and here is an opportunity to show them dramatically that it is untrue. We made a mistake. Now we’re the first to admit it in public, and rectify it. That’s democracy as it truly is. I assure you, Mr. President, such an act would absolve our America—”
“It would absolve your America, Emmett,” interrupted the President, “your America, not mine. What you are really asking me to do is to help you wipe out one of the worst blots on your Administration.”
“That’s not so,” said Earnshaw angrily.
“All right, then. Whatever your motives for this sales pitch, I’ll tell you once more, I’m not buying. At another time, under different circumstances, I might be more charitable. I know, Emmett, that you don’t believe me capable of charity. But I-am. But not at a critical period like this. I can’t waste time airing and cleaning your dirty laundry, when your Administration left me so much else to try to repair and save. And now that we’ve finally got China coming along with all of us on disarmament, now that we’re in accord and the Summit is going smoothly, I don’t see—”
Still simmering, Earnshaw said, “I’m not so sure that Summit of yours is going half as smoothly as you believe or make out.”
The President glowered at Earnshaw. “Are you trying to tell me what’s going on at the Palais Rose?”
“I’m trying to tell you what’s going on outside the Palais Rose, outside and behind the scenes of your conference.”
Earnshaw could feel the President’s eyes upon him, probing to evaluate whether he was daft or simply lapsing into senile alarms. The President spoke at last. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you are implying, if anything.”
“If you’ll listen to me, and not sell Brennan short, I won’t mind telling you what I’ve heard. To do it, I’ve got to go back to the subject of Brennan. In trying to arrange his meeting with Rostov, he’s stumbled upon considerable information, from a variety of sources, that indicates that while the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China are pretending to participate in a community of nations, disarm forever, at the Summit, their real intentions are less honorable. Brennan’s information indicates that the Russians and Chinese have also been having secret dealings, and many of them point to a continuing nuclear buildup after the Summit accord is reached. I can’t give you documentation. But I trust Brennan, and I can only repeat what he’s heard. I would suggest to you, Mr. President, that despite Premier Talansky’s public friendship for us, you might be wise not to take him entirely at his word but to be tougher and more uncompromising on the international policing and inspection clauses of the disarmament treaty—”
“Hogwash!” the President exclaimed. “If I wasn’t positive before, I am now, I’m more positive than ever that your boy Brennan is a crackpot, an inveterate troublemaker, and that he’s played on your weaknesses to convert you to his side. What kind of rot are you passing on to me from Brennan? What does he know? Does he know more than all our intelligence branches and the CIA and the FBI? He’s passing on that nonsense to you to conv
ince you he’s patriotic and deserves your help, when all he’s really doing is performing a disservice to every one of us. How could you let yourself be taken in twice by the same leftist crackpot, Emmett?”
“I haven’t been taken in by anyone,” Earnshaw replied evenly. “I thought some of Brennan’s information, which could easily have escaped our intelligence services, had merit, at least enough to make it worthy of consideration. Also, I’ve been in politics long enough to be alert always to the possibilities of—of—uh—a certain degree of duplicity among our neighbors.”
The President rose, came around the table and drew himself to his full height. His face seemed to be sculptured from a block of ice. His tone was no longer one of anger, but was now one of contempt.
“Emmett,” the President said, “before I leave you, let me straighten you out about a matter of geography. The Summit conference is taking place in the Palais Rose, and not in Brennan’s hotel room or your hotel room. Furthermore, let me straighten you out about America’s representation at this disarmament conference. The interests of the American people are being safeguarded by me, their President, and by my staff, the choicest of the best minds in the fifty states, and not by some self-serving, deluded traitor whom you and Madlock created, and not by a former President who has suddenly become interested in his nation’s welfare.”
‘ Earnshaw came quickly to his feet. “That’s hitting below the belt.”
“Where have you been hitting, Emmett, trying to foist your problem bad boy on us? And then trying to tell me that I don’t know what’s going on, and trying to tell me how to conduct my foreign affairs?” He caught his breath. “You want to whitewash Brennan and your Administration? Do it yourself. See Rostov for yourself. He’s right in the next room. You want to see Rostov? I’ll have Tom Wiggins’ introduce you. Clean your own linen. Just don’t get my White Housekeeping mixed up with your own.”
The Plot Page 92