Benchley, Peter - Novel 06

by Q Clearance (v2. 0)

  Pym didn't reply. Main course?

  "Your curlicues."

  Curlicues? What is the man talking about?

  "Cues, cues cues! You know the ones."

  Cues? Cues? "I'm afraid—" Oh, yes. Cues. "Qs." The Q-Clearance documents. From the Department of Energy. "I'm glad she liked them."

  "She says the others showed skill and flair, but they were light and airy, like souffles. The real meat was in the curlicues. She hopes you'll be able to give her more."

  "I'll certainly try."

  "She knows you will ... if you want to keep her business." Teal rang off.

  It took Pym fifteen minutes to retrieve the package from Teal's courier, for Teal had been unable to contact him by phone. An addled biddy had shoved the courier out of the phone booth so she could call and harangue her daughter in Elkton, Maryland, and when the courier had protested, the biddy had brandished a sharpened knitting needle and threatened to insert it "where the sun don't shine." Pym took the courier aside and recited his entire conversation with Teal, and, evidently, the courier discerned enough of Teal in the tale to be convinced to turn over the goods.

  The package was a worn Purolator Courier bag. Pym unstapled it and emptied its contents on the coffee table between himself and Eva.

  The high-school diploma was perfect—not just realistic. but real, a genuine diploma with Jerome's name written in fine Gothic calligraphy. The grade transcript showed him to be prodigious in computers and math and competent in the humanities.

  Ivy would be ecstatic.

  That should have been all, for that was all Pym had requested, but Teal had thrown in several dividends.

  There was a box that contained a tie-clip/microphone and a cigarette-pack receiver. The antenna on the receiver was activated when one of the cigarettes was shaken up out of the pack.

  There was a fountain pen that shot needles out of its nib, and a small bottle of "ink" that was really a cousin to curare.

  "Who does he think I am?" Pym said. "Colonel Abel?"

  "Who's Colonel Abel?" Eva asked.

  Pym smiled. "How quickly they forget."

  There was a stack of a hundred hundred-dollar bills.

  There was a small white envelope. Pym tore it open, and six transparent capsules full of a colorless liquid fell into his palm. Pym's heart thumped. He closed his hand.

  But Eva had seen them. "What are they?"

  "Nothing." He couldn't believe they had sent these.

  "Cut the crap. What are they?"

  "Pills." Hurry up, he told himself, think of something. Now. Ten seconds more of your fumbling, and she'll guess the truth, and once she knows that if things get dicey she's supposed to bite down on one of the capsules rather than let anybody ask her questions . . . well, goodbye Eva. She'll go to the grand jury and beg them to hear her story.

  "I see that. For what?"

  Teal was crazy! Nobody had ever talked about the worst-case scenario.

  Of course they hadn't. It was assumed he knew it. It had been drummed into him forty years ago.

  Inspired, he said, "For Ivy. In case she gets out of control."

  "What'll they do to her?"

  "Calm her down. She can be unstable."

  "No wonder, you feed her all that trash. Don't do that to her. Pop. Let her be."

  She believes. Give in to her. Be reasonable. He said, "You're right," and he spilled the pills from his hand into an ashtray.

  Eva picked up the last item on the table, a pair of half-glasses. "Reading glasses? Did you ask for these?"

  "No." Pym reached for the glasses. "Let's have a look."

  The president was asleep. His eyes were open, and he appeared to be concentrating on what the Secretary of Commerce was saying, but Burnham could tell he was sound asleep. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, and during the last thirty seconds he had begun to snore—not an obvious window-rattler, more of a staccato skip-snore.

  Burnham was certain no one else had heard the President snore. The men on both sides of him were in their own dream worlds: The Secretary of State was staring into the distance (composing his memoirs, probably), and the Secretary of the Treasury was drawing his initials and his family coat of arms into a variety of crests, insignia, plaques, banners and burgees. But there was no way to predict when the President would suddenly fire off a boomer that would let everybody know, that would insult the Secretary of Commerce and that would inevitably worm its way into the columns of The Washington Post.

  Burnham did not dare wake the President suddenly and risk inducing snorts, whinnies and exclamations that would betray him to his Cabinet. He had to coax the President back to consciousness by making him so uncomfortable that he awoke.

  Burnham tapped on the President's back with the eraser of his pencil.

  Nothing.

  He tapped harder, drumming an irregular beat that should have been enough to interrupt the pattern of his dream.

  Nothing. The President gurgled.

  Burnham turned his pencil around and pressed the point against the President's back, twirling it and pushing it until the lead pierced the fabric of the President's jacket.

  The President stirred and grumbled. The pencil was annoying him but not awakening him.

  "I'm glad you agree, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Commerce, and on he went.

  Burnham pressed harder. A small black stain circled the pencil point. Blood.

  The man's not asleep, Burnham thought, he's in a coma.

  But then the President shrugged and swiped at his back with an elbow, shook his head and stretched his face and ran his tongue around inside his mouth. He tipped his head toward Burnham and said, "What's he saying? I must've dozed off.''

  "Nothing," Burnham whispered back. "You can just say you'll take it under consideration."

  The President nodded. He waited for the Secretary of Commerce to take a breath, then said, "Right, Norm. I'll take it under consideration." He slapped the table. "Well, I guess that's that . . . unless anybody sees another threat to the Republic."

  The Secretary of Commerce looked as if the President had called him a Communist, or spat on his sharkskin suit. He said, "But ..." but he was drowned out by the sounds of rustling papers and chairs being pushed back from the table.

  Burnham had to push his chair back before the President could stand up. As he stepped out of the President's way, he purposely dropped his yellow pad on the floor and, bending to retrieve it, stole a glance at the panel of buttons beneath the table. They had to be connected to crisis centers around the nation—like NOR AD, SAC, NSA—for even within the womb of the White House the President could never be more than a fingertip away from the instruments of Doomsday.

  The labels beside the buttons read: Coke, Tab, Fresca, Pepsi, Coffee, Tea.

  The room cleared slowly, for every Cabinet Secretary made sure to exchange a few private words with the President, so that he could return to his department and impress his subordinates with a presidential confidence—a flattering remark about the cut of the Secretary's suit, perhaps, or a kind word about a supportive speech the Secretary had given to the Veterans of Foreign Wars or the Council of Religious Broadcasters.

  Burnham watched the ritual, fascinated. It reminded him of bees swarming around their queen, servicing her and drawing sustenance from her. He imagined that each Secretary had a power hard-on, and as the President put his arm around his shoulder and whispered words of praise or encouragement, the Secretary experienced the ego orgasm that made his job worthwhile.

  He noticed that the courtiers awaiting their turn with the President were glancing at him, commenting about him, obviously speculating among themselves about who and what he was. Clearly, he represented a new threat to them, a filter of their access to the President. Clearly too, they disliked him, resented him and feared him—especially those who had seen the President consult Burnham before responding to their carefully honed and well-considered remarks.

  Enemies, Burnham thought, are sprouti
ng around me like tulips. He didn't like having enemies, went to any lengths to avoid conflict that might create enemies, felt particularly uneasy knowing that people hated him for reasons that had nothing to do with himself. But he also knew he was safe, at least for the moment, because under the wing of the Khan, all God's creatures are invulnerable.

  He stood alone, not daring to scratch himself or pick his nose, for dozens of eyes were appraising him, and any barbarism would give ammunition to their ridicule.

  Suddenly he realized he was enjoying himself, enjoying the attention, the consternation, the mystery he was exciting. It occurred to him that this was a kind of power. He had enjoyed himself during the meeting, too, giving his opinions about matters of national policy and seeing them instantly implemented, albeit not through his own voice.

  What's your job? Ventriloquist to the President. Interesting.

  Hubris.

  Be careful: He that giveth, taketh away. Alone, you are nobody. You are but a reflection of the President. If he chooses to move to another mirror, you cease to exist.

  Just like everyone else in this room.

  He looked around for Cobb. He'd force Cobb to talk to him if he had to. Anything, just so he didn't have to keep standing here like a goddamn mannequin. But Cobb had already gathered his papers and shouldered his way to the door.

  He was rescued by the booming voice of Benjamin T. Winslow.

  "Tim!"

  The President walked Burnham to the door of his office. "You did good, Tim," the President said.

  "Thank you, sir, but I'm not sure what I did."

  "Tim. ..." The President put a hand on Burnham's shoulder. "You know what they say about it's lonely at the top? Well, dammit, it is! The President's ... the President. It's like being king, don't get me wrong."

  Burnham's eyes flicked to one of the two Secret Service men. His eyes were utterly blank. It was as if the President was talking in front of his dog.

  "No one tells me to put the brakes on," the President continued. "No one tells me when I'm off base. No one says, 'Hey, Ben, don't be an asshole.' I can tell we're on the same wavelength, Tim. I want you to be that man for me. Special Assistant to the President for Perspective."

  Burnham swallowed, nodded. Sure, he thought, the first time I tell you you're an asshole, I'll end up selling pencils in the park.

  " 'Course, we won't let that interfere with your other . . . duties. Which reminds me: Soon's I catch my breath, I want to go over that Gromyko business with you."

  "Yes, sir." There it is again. The Gromyko business. What Gromyko business?

  The President patted his shoulder, turned, stopped and said with a smile, "And thanks for waking me up. Damn, but those meetings could bore the balls off a buffalo!"

  Burnham opened the door to his office. Dyanna sat primly at her desk, her hands folded, looking at him as if he were a child late for supper.

  "There's a . . . lady ... to see you," she said.

  "A . . . omigod!" He looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. "Thanks." Before he pushed open the door to his own office, he said to Dyanna, "You've got your Aunt Polly face on again."

  "My what?"

  "Never mind."

  Eva was standing at one of the windows, looking out over the South Lawn. She turned as she heard the door close.

  "Hi," Burnham said, noticing that she looked nervous and uncomfortable. Well, the first time in the West Wing usually did that to people.

  He tried to kiss her, but she turned away and whispered, "Not here!"

  "Why not? There're no cameras."

  "It's like . . . church. I thought you worked across the street."

  "I did, till this morning."

  "What happened?"

  "The President decided he couldn't live without me." He smiled. "You don't have to whisper."

  "What's through there?" She pointed to the door in the far wall.

  "Another office," he said. No point alarming her.

  He walked to his desk, to check for messages, assignments, mail. "Where would you like to eat?"

  "You have time?"

  "Sure." In his IN box was a memo from the Office of the Naval Aide to the President, informing him that he had been reassigned to the Second Sitting in the Mess. "You want to eat downstairs?"

  "Here?"

  "They moved me in with the grownups. It might be fun." He cast her a reassuring smile. "Come on."

  "Suppose somebody—"

  "They won't. And if they do, we'll say you're my . . . cousin from Milwaukee."

  Eva sighed. "All right."

  Burnham pulled the envelope of DOE mail from his IN box and carried it to the couch. He sat down and patted the cushion beside him for Eva. "This," he said, as he slit the envelope, "is a sick joke on America."

  "What is?" She sat beside him.

  He pulled the documents from the envelope. TOP SECRET— Q CLEARANCE ONLY was stamped across the top of each one.

  "This stuff has to be signed for every day. It has to be shredded every night. There's only one thing they can't make me do with it, and that's understand it. Look." He passed her one of the papers. It was a chart sprinkled with numbers.

  Very carefully, almost in slow motion Eva reached into her purse and brought out a pair of half glasses. She put them on awkwardly.

  "I didn't know you wore glasses."

  "For reading. I just got them." She tried to smile, but the smile died aborning.

  She's embarrassed, he thought, her vanity wounded. "Don't worry." He patted her knee. "Time cannot change my love, nor age impair.''

  Eva looked at the document. "It's not even in English."

  "See? Why they insist that I get this stuff I do not know. But they do." He stood up. "Back in a minute."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Just to the John. If you can figure out what any one of those things means, you'll win a blue ribbon, two Kewpie dolls and"—he grinned—"my tongue in your ear." He walked to the door. Glancing back, he saw Eva touch her fingers to her temple, apparently fiddling with the earpiece of her new glasses.

  If he had not said, "Those things are a nuisance, but you'll get used to them," if he had not said anything, if he had stood still and listened, he might have heard a faint click— like a fly striking a window pane across the room—and the even fainter sound of a tiny electric motor. But he did speak, so he heard nothing but the sound of his own voice.

  He opened the door, closed it behind him, and said to Dyanna, "Do me a favor and book me a table for two downstairs in about ten minutes."

  "Of course. Mr. Burnham ... I need to speak to you."

  "After lunch, okay?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "Right."

  He had to ask directions to the men's room, which peeved him—it branded him a new boy—but the Secret Service agent who pointed him down a flight of stairs and around a comer did not treat him like a Shiite Muslim or a motor-pool chauffeur. He addressed Burnham as "Sir" and seemed eager to be helpful. The jungle drums have passed the word, Burnham thought, pleased.

  He took a leak, washed his hands and straightened his tie. He searched the mirror for changes in himself. Could power etch its signature into his face this soon? Was there a new jauntiness to his carriage, a new confidence in his bearing?

  As far as he could tell, he was the same seedy WASP he'd always been.

  He returned to his office, not stopping as he passed through Dyanna's.

  "Mr. Bur—" She rose from her chair and raised a hand.

  "Right after lunch," he said, pushing open the second door.

  His first sight was of Eva, standing at attention in the center of his office. Sweating.

  His second was of the President, sitting in Burnham's chair, leaning back, his feet on the desk. For one split second, the thought crossed Burnham's mind that only a man who weighed more than two hundred pounds could make that chair recline comfortably.

  "Oh," Burnham said.

  "There he is," said the Pr
esident. "I was just telling Miss—Pym, is it?—what a pleasure it is for a President to chance upon a young man as loyal and dedicated as you. Sure does ease the burdens."

  "Oh. Well ..." Burnham blushed and looked at the floor, shifting his eyes to the couch: All his Q-CLEARANCE documents had been replaced in the DOE envelope, and the envelope lay face-down on the couch. The President couldn't have seen Eva reading his mail. He hoped. "I'm not really—"

  "No, it's true, Tim. Where were you?"

  The President's voice was not accusing, not unfriendly, but not offhand either. He was looking straight at Burnham. He wanted an answer.

  "In the John, Mr. President." When the President did not respond, Burnham felt pressed to defend his right to maturition. "It was a long Cabinet meeting."

  "Was it ever!" The President looked around the office. "No, you don't have one. Tell you what: Use mine." He jerked his thumb at the open door in the back wall.

  "Ah . . . thank you, sir, but I'm sure there are times you—''

  "Use mine, Tim." The President's voice was flat, discouraging discussion.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Miss Pym says she's a nutritionist and a caterer."

  "We met playing squash."

  "Good. Good for the heart. An aerobic affair." The President laughed at his wordplay.

  Burnham tried to smile, but his mouth was so dry that his lips threatened to crack.

  Eva's face was the color of wet plaster.

  "Well," the President said, swinging his feet to the floor and standing up. "I thought you might want to come to the leadership lunch, Tim."

  Burnham said, "Of course, sir."

  Eva said, "I should be go—"

  "No, no," the President said, holding up a benedictory hand. "You kids go enjoy yourselves. I don't want to go to the damn thing either, but I have to."

  "Really, Mr. President, I—"

  "There'll be plenty of other leadership lunches, Tim. But the chance to share a meal with a pretty girl should never be passed up. Tell you what: You go to the leadership lunch, and I'll let Miss Pym buy me an organic cheeseburger." The President laughed. He shook Eva's hand and said, "Take care of my boy." He said to Burnham, "See you later, Tim."

  And he was gone, pulling the door to his private office closed behind him.