The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Across the glossy Cabinet table, seated in the high-backed leather chair bearing the diminutive brass plate engraved THE PRESIDENT, Douglass Dilman, without exerting himself, without emphasizing the key phrases, approached the end of the television address that the four of them had hammered out before their informal dinner.

  Dilman flipped the page, and then, in a voice becoming hoarse, read aloud:

  “It is my fervent prayer that these powerful battalions of this democracy, now battle-ready and on full alert, will not have to leave our nation’s boundaries. It is my fervent prayer that even if we should commit ourselves to a limited conflict, it will not spread into a worldwide holocaust, and that our ICBMs will rest forever in their silos, and our jet bombers will continue confined to their runways or routine missions, and that our Polaris submarines will cruise under the seas with their nuclear rockets safely unarmed.”

  He paused, and then he resumed.

  “This is my fervent prayer, and I know that you share it with me, one and all. But let not the enemies of freedom misconstrue this wish for peace as an evidence of weakness. There are many abroad who may think the United States speaks in many voices, and who may choose to hear, and believe, the voice that pleases them the most. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our normal, two-party political wrangling and discord, so that they may suspect we are disunited. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our onetime isolationist ideology, that promises we will not trade a single American life to preserve the independence of an African democracy whose entire population can fit into a single one of our largest cities, so that they may suspect we are disunited. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our own domestic racial strife, the one vowing we will not protect our colored brothers in other lands any more than we will integrate them in our own land because they are inferior, so that they may suspect we are disunited.

  “To the hopeful cynics abroad, I can only say-do not be misled by the discordant sounds of opinion and disagreement so much a part of our democratic system-for, in times of danger, America has always and will always speak out in one single united voice, and that will be the voice of the majority of its free citizens.

  “Tonight, fellow Americans, the words to be spoken by our united voice, the voice we want our friends and enemies around the earth to hear and heed, may best be taken from the words spoken by our beloved former President, John F. Kennedy, who said, ‘The free world’s security can be endangered not only by a nuclear attack, but also by being nibbled away at the periphery… by forces of subversion, infiltration, intimidation, indirect or nonovert aggression, internal revolution, diplomatic blackmail, guerrilla warfare or a series of limited wars… Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.’

  “Thank you, and good night.”

  Dilman exhaled, tossed the typescript on the table, and looked up.

  “Well, how did it sound to you?” he asked. “There are a few rough spots, but I think we can smooth them out in the morning. Otherwise, I believe it says what should be said.”

  Jed Stover was all enthusiasm. “I think it’s great, and about time!” He held up the stopwatch. “Almost on the nose, Mr. President. Only fifteen seconds over.” Then he added, “This is going to make Amboko and the African Unity Pact nations very happy.”

  “I’m not so sure it’ll scare Premier Kasatkin,” said Jaskawich, “but it’s sure as hell going to scare the living daylights out of the Senate!”

  Revolving his empty teacup in its saucer, Nat Abrahams said nothing. He saw Dilman’s attention focus on him.

  “What about that, Nat?” Dilman asked. “I’ve given you a tough enough job, asking you to handle that trial, without making it tougher. Anything you want me to reword or tone down?”

  Nat Abrahams removed the pipe from between his teeth. “Hell, no,” he said. “The devil with the Senate. Sure they won’t like this, but it’s only a big stick you’re waving at Russia, not a bazooka. It probably won’t influence a single senator’s vote, one way or the other, not yet.”

  “Then you think it should read as it stands?” asked Dilman.

  “Not quite,” said Abrahams. “If anything, at least in one passage there, I’d be a little more explicit. I mean earlier, when you go into our military resources, and when you detail the power potential of the Dragon Flies. I think you should come right out and explain why you and Steinbrenner have selected this all-white force for the African assignment.”

  Dilman’s features revealed his worry. “I don’t know, Nat-”

  “Why not, Mr. President?” asked Abrahams. “It’s in the open anyway-”

  “It sure is,” said Jaskawich. “Mr. President, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Abrahams. You heard the late afternoon broadcasts, saw the early evening papers. ‘A reliable top-level Pentagon source admitted today that the military chiefs are doing their best to dissuade President Dilman from throwing only white troops into the African inferno.’ ” Jaskawich snorted. “ ‘A reliable Pentagon source’-ha! Spelled Pitt Fortney. You’ll never be able to prove he leaked it, but one gets you ten he did. You’re his superior officer, Mr. President, so he can’t blow you down face to face. What he’s doing is the next-best thing, whipping up a tornado against you among the general public. If anybody’s going to fight and die for us in Africa, he’s going to make damn sure it’ll include our Negro soldiers with our whites, even though the mixed battalions aren’t prepared for that kind of warfare. Or maybe he just wants to solve our race problem by shipping as many colored men to Africa as possible. No, seriously, Mr. President, Fortney’s tidbit has been out for hours, burning across the country like a prairie fire, prejudicing more and more misinformed people against you. Mr. Abrahams is right. Douse that fire while you can.”

  “Maybe I should,” Dilman mused.

  Abrahams bent forward, leaning on his elbows. “It wouldn’t take much, another line or two in the speech. You know, ‘Fellow Americans, concerning the Dragon Flies, you may have heard irresponsible talk that this entirely Caucasian battle force will be committed to the defense of Baraza, if required, because of your Commander in Chief’s desire to protect those of his own race. This canard could not be further from the truth. The Secretary of Defense recommended the Dragon Flies because their units are the only ones equipped and trained for the type of defense indicated. Unfortunately, there are no colored soldiers in the Dragon Flies, because none have been given the long training necessary for handling weapons of such complex-” Abrahams shrugged. “That sort of thing, and that would be enough. It may blunt a good deal of criticism from around the country, and it’ll certainly show Fortney you’re not going to take any of his treachery lying down.”

  Dilman hit his fist on the table. “Sold. We’ll write it in.” He stared at Abrahams. “Do you think all of this will become an issue in the trial, Nat?”

  Abrahams emptied his pipe. “Mr. President, everything you say or do is an issue in the trial. But you wouldn’t be making this speech at all if you didn’t believe there are some things more important than the trial.”

  “That’s right, Nat.”

  “So-”

  There was a sharp rapping on the corridor door, and Nat Abrahams stopped and looked over his shoulder as the door came open and a distraught Tim Flannery rushed into the room. His face was as fiery as his hair, but then, as he started toward Dilman, he seemed to realize there were others present.

  “Sorry to bust in on you like this,” he apologized, “but-” He hesitated, as if wishing to speak to the President, yet unsure if he should do so in front of Abrahams, Jaskawich, and Stover.

  “What’s wrong, Tim?” Dilman asked. “Is anything the matter?”

  “I hate to tell you, Mr. President,” said Flannery, “but your boy’s out in the press lobby-”

  “My boy? You mean Julian-he’s here
?”

  “He just popped in from nowhere, and before I heard about it and could stop him, he had gathered the wire service men around him and begun making a statement. When I got out there, it was too late, dammit. Now he’s answering their questions-wouldn’t listen to me-so I thought I’d better find you-”

  Dilman came to his feet. “What kind of statement? What’s Julian saying?”

  Flannery hesitated, then blurted, “He just now confessed that he had for a long time been a secret member of the Turnerite Group. He-he said that young Negroes like himself got sick of seeing how their parents had been bought off by white men’s lying promises-sick of seeing the way the old folks were still in the anteroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for their citizenship papers-and he was one of the ones who had decided to do something about it. So he joined the Turnerites and pledged himself to secrecy.”

  “He confessed to all of that?” said Dilman quietly.

  Flannery nodded. “Right off. Then he told the reporters that if they believed that much, they had to believe more-that he never did a single violent thing or subversive act for the Turnerites-only did clerical work for them-and shortly after the Turnerites were banned, he telephoned Frank Valetti and resigned. Then he said-” Flannery faltered, and glanced uncertainly about the Cabinet Room.

  “Go on,” Dilman said, “what else did he say?”

  “He-he was sorry about only one thing-that he had to lie to you from the start. He told the reporters you never really knew he was a member, and that Zeke Miller’s Article of Impeachment concerning him was idiotic-because not only you didn’t know, but if you had, you wouldn’t have obstructed the Justice Department or made a deal with Hurley, because you disliked the Turnerites and their policies and their methods.” Flannery paused, and shrugged helplessly. “That’s as much as I heard. I was afraid to stop him, haul him in here. I didn’t want to start any commotion. But if you’d like me to go out there now and-”

  Flannery halted, suddenly aware that no one in the room, not Dilman or any of the others, was listening to him any longer. Their attention had been diverted to someone behind him. Puzzled, Flannery turned around, and then he, too, saw Julian Dilman standing in the open doorway.

  For once, Julian’s hair was not sleekly pomaded, and his form-fitting suit was wrinkled. Fidgeting, his tremulous eyeballs rolled, and his gaze went from Abrahams to Dilman to Flannery, and then back to his father. With an effort, he seemed to gather up his courage and finally entered the room.

  “You heard what I did?” Julian said to his father. Julian nodded toward Flannery. “He told you?”

  “Yes,” Dilman said.

  “I-I know it’s going to count against you in the-the trial-but I had to do it.”

  “Why?” Dilman asked.

  “Why?” Julian repeated. “Because when they impeached you, I figured you’d quit, and you didn’t. You set out to fight in the open the ones I tried to fight in secret. And then, from what I heard on the radio today, I knew you meant it-not being scared to punish Hurley because you believed he should be punished, and then-what I figured out from that ‘reliable source’ Pentagon story against you-that you were not afraid of the big-brass Charlies in uniform because you believed our best troops, no matter what color, should go to Africa. It-it just made me sick of my lying, when all I had wanted to do was to fight back in the open like you-so I took the plane here and figured the best way to begin was to stand up and tell the truth.” He paused. “I-I hope you’ll forgive me for what I did in the past, and what I did out there just now.”

  Dilman considered his son evenly. “I already knew what you did in the past, Julian. I found out this afternoon,” he said. “As for what you did out there in the press lobby, that’s all right. I guess it had to be done… Now get yourself upstairs and find some nourishment in the pantry. I’ll be up in a little while.”

  Quickly, awkwardly, Julian left the room, and when he was gone, Dilman turned slowly back to Abrahams.

  Dilman stared thoughtfully at Abrahams for several seconds, and then he said, “Yes, I know, Nat, this can help lose me the Senate trial. Well, I suppose this was a sort of trial, too, in a way-only this was one I couldn’t afford to lose.” He tried to smile, but no smile came, and then he said, “That’s something. At least, it is to me.”

  VIII

  For the first time in the nine days since the impeachment trial in the United States Senate had been under way, the front page headline of the morning edition of the Washington Citizen-American made no direct mention of the legal proceedings against the President.

  This early morning, the top and banner headline, bolder and inkier than any that had appeared before, read:

  SCANDAL! EXCLUSIVE! DILMAN HAS DAUGHTER PASSING AS WHITE!

  The second headline, scarcely smaller, as brazen and black, read:

  PRESIDENT’S HIDDEN OFFSPRING ASHAMED OF HER RACE-AND PRESIDENT KNEW IT ALL ALONG!

  Slowly, Douglass Dilman folded the newspaper until the headlines were no longer visible, and then he folded it again and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the Buchanan desk.

  He slumped in his chair for a moment, feeling old and feeble, sickened to the marrow of his bones, but then he forced himself to lift his bowed head and meet Tim Flannery’s angry look and Nat Abrahams’ worried one.

  “Why?” Dilman asked despairingly. “Doesn’t that Zeke Miller have enough without this?”

  “No,” said Tim Flannery. “He wants to be sure you’re a dead horse, a real dead horse, before he stops beating you.”

  “But can’t he see, it’s not I who am the victim?” Dilman said. “It’s poor Mindy, that poor, poor girl. Why go after her? Why ruin her life? It won’t get him any more Senate votes… Nat, explain it to me-I mean it-this is not only revolting, it’s mad, it’s senseless.”

  Nat Abrahams sighed. “I know, Doug.” Restlessly, he came out of his chair, crossed the Oval Office to the French doors, and stared into the bleak gray of the morning. Then he said, “When you’re locked in a death fight with a fanatical enemy, Doug, don’t expect rational motives for his actions. If there’s any rhyme or reason to this-this so-called exposé in the paper-well, trying to fathom a mind like Zeke Miller’s-I suppose the sense of it would be this.” He came around and spoke directly to Dilman. “Miller doesn’t care a hoot about your daughter. She doesn’t exist, as far as he’s concerned. You are the target, and all he cares about is hitting you, high or low, anywhere. He’s prosecuting you before two sets of jurors, so he needs as much heavy buckshot as possible, and if there’s no legitimate buckshot, then nails or anything else will do.”

  “What do you mean, Nat, two sets of jurors?”

  “Your first jurors, the real ones, are the great outside public, and the members of the Senate are actually only a vulnerable second jury. If Miller can keep the voters antagonized toward you, he knows their feelings will press down on the Senate, and encourage their continuing antagonism. This Reb Blaser story about Mindy passing, for instance. Try to see its value through Miller’s distorted vision. Despite your turning down the Hurley appeal, and his execution the other day, you’ve captured more and more Negro and liberal white sympathy because of your willingness to fight your tormentors. The big television speech on Baraza and our pledged defense, over a week ago, is a good case in point. The majority of the audience didn’t like it, true, because they think you’re fomenting a needless war to help some worthless African blacks. But American Negroes and white liberals liked it, for the wrong reasons, and many moderates and independents liked it, for the right reasons. Miller understood their growing sympathy for you. He doesn’t want those people going over to your side. How to turn them against you once more?

  “Well, however he did it, he found out you had another child, a daughter named Mindy, who is ashamed of being a Negro and is passing, and he found out that you knew that she was doing this, yet you had not stopped her. Okay. So today he shouts it to the world-he yells out-hey, American Negroes,
lookee here, your Negro President has a daughter who’s ashamed of being the same color as you, and her old man approves. Do you see, Doug? He’s desperately trying to turn the ones who are for you against you, trying to tell your Negro following that you hate their skin and your own, trying to tell everyone-Dilman, he’s ashamed of his skin. Then he’s trying to tell the liberals, and the members of the Senate, Look, look at the kind of man you are judging, a man capable of perfidy and lies, constantly saying he had one child when he had two, hiding a grown daughter, condoning her masquerade. Is this kind of man fit to remain President? He’s not only untrustworthy, he’s positively un-American.

  “That’s it, I think, Doug. That’s the level of Miller’s mentality, and the thinking of his fellow managers. They are appealing to the public, trying to get the public so whipped up against you that if the Senate dared to acquit you, there’d be marchers from four directions bearing down on Washington to burn the Capitol. You saw the caliber of witnesses they threw up against you all week long. Experts? Authorities? Judicious men to explain and defend their Articles of Impeachment? Hell, no. Not one. Instead, plain people, just-folks people, brought here for the holiday, swearing to hearsay and depending upon faulty memory to insist you were a drunkard, a lecher, an extremist-anything, as long as it is foul and inciting-and all declaiming your shortcomings in language the public can understand. No, Doug, it is not Mindy, it is you-they’re after you, by means foul or fair. It’s bad luck your girl has been caught in the middle. This news story is lousy. The whole thing is rotten lousy.”

  Dilman pushed himself up from the desk and walked heavily toward Abrahams, joining him at the French doors. For a long and silent interval he looked out upon the barren Rose Garden. Then, as if addressing himself rather than Abrahams and Flannery, he said, “I’m so sorry for Mindy, so sorry. She was like her mother. She wanted so badly to be white, and average, and part of life. This thing, I don’t know what this’ll do to her, publishing both her names. I’d give anything to be with her now, just to comfort her and try to talk to her, try to explain and soothe her. But I don’t even know where she is. Edna says the phone number listed under Linda Dawson no longer is connected. It was changed to an unlisted number a couple of weeks ago. Now Mindy has seen the papers, she knows the truth is out, the fact of her being Negro, and now all her white friends know, and her employer knows, and her life-what’ll it be? And I can’t even get to speak to her.”