Q Clearance

by Peter Benchley

  Were they?

  Four-four-nine-one spoke up. "It's none of my affair, but you're walking in a mine field here. Banda's a strategic bonanza for us. It's not only the oil, even though that's 3ie big-ticket item. The pasha's gonna let us put in a deep-water terminal, and if it should happen to have all the capabilities of a naval base, well, he let us know he's not one to criticize. It'll be a backup for Subic Bay until the Philippines cave in and go radical red—and that is going to happen, Mr. Burnham, believe me—and then, overnight, it'll replace Subic Bay. Now, what d'you think the pasha's gonna do if the President boots him out? He may be nuts, but he's not stupid. He knows what he's got. He'll get back in his gold-plated seven-forty-seven and go straight to the Ivans."

  "But ..." Burnham sputtered. "Suppose some reporter gets hold of this? The man cooks children.”

  "Who cares? I mean ..." Four-four-nine-one cleared his throat. "That's a rhetorical question. First of all, most of the public doesn't believe the press any more, unless it reinforces something they already know or want to believe. Oh sure, some of those knee-jerk groups like Amnesty International will raise a stink, but they're always yelling about something. Most of the public has a selective memory: They remember what they want to remember. At the moment, they don't remember who Somoza was or what he was like. Where's the public uproar about our great and good friend Stroessner in Paraguay? Zip. They don't even care that we hired Klaus Barbie after the war. I tell you, everybody over here was walking on eggs when that one broke. But it lasted two days, and then pffft! Gone."

  Burnham insisted. "I don't think you appreciate what a good reporter could do with a monster like this."

  “And I don't think you appreciate the public's capacity for not giving a damn. The next time the Arabs stop fighting long enough to kick up the price of oil, or the Ayatollah gets really pissed and closes down the Persian Gulf, and we're back to two-hour waits in line to buy two-dollar-a-gallon gasoline, do you really think Joe Sixpack and Betsy Buick are gonna thank the President for kicking out the little brown oil man—just because he likes to set fire to other little brown people?"

  "But . . . I . . ." Burnham felt a stammer coming on. Then he said, "I see."

  Four-four-nine-one was silent, and Burnham thought that he could feel the man smiling.

  "Principles are expensive," said four-four-nine-one.

  "Why didn't the NSC tell the President?"

  "How long have you been at the White House?"

  "Why?" Burnham saw no reason to confide in a stranger the fact that while he had been at the White House for years, he had been alone with the President exactly once, yesterday, and had never been in a position of advising him to do or not do, say or not say, anything.

  "The NSC doesn't want to clutter his head. The decision has been made, by them and State—which means by Mario Epstein—and facts will just confuse him. Look: Put principles aside for a second and consider two practical issues. One, will the President listen to you?"

  Burnham spoke before he had time to consider his words. "I doubt it."

  "Me too. So all you'll do is start a fight that you're bound to lose. Two, it's too late to stop it now. The pasha's already in the air, and unless you've got the clout to deny him landing rights at Andrews, the visit's gonna happen. It strikes me that all you can do is cut your losses. Give the President a draft that will keep him from looking like a complete ass."

  Burnham smiled to himself. "Yes. I think he'd appreciate that."

  "Send me a copy if you want."

  "If there's time."

  "No. On second thought, forget it. I don't want to know." Four-four-nine-one paused. "I think you're a dangerous person to be involved with."

  Burnham laughed and hung up. He felt good, almost elated, and he had no idea why. His mind was a conflicted mess. For the first time in his months at the White House, he was faced with an issue of right and wrong—and not just with the absolutes, but with their many subtle shadings. Right would be to turn the pasha away at the gate, but it would probably also be wrong for the country. Besides, he had no power to enforce a right decision. Epstein would slice him up like liverwurst and feed his pieces to the pasha on a plate. So he would have to seek a compromise between his own feelings and the NSC draft and Epstein's militancy and the President's ... the President's what? He had no way of knowing what the President wanted to say. All he knew was that the President had detected an unsavory odor about the pasha's visit.

  It was troublesome. Difficult. Fascinating. Scary. Heady.

  He reread the NSC draft of the toast. Diplomatic platitudes galloping on a field of boundless praise. He underlined a couple of useful statistics, then set the draft aside. He turned on his IBM Correcting Selectric III, rolled a sheet of paper around the platen and straightened it, flexed his fingers and held them poised above the humming keyboard. He felt like Robert Stack at the controls of a B-29, about to embark on a mission in Twelve O'Clock High; like Matthew Broderick tapping into the Pentagon's nuclear codes in War Games.

  He began to type.

  An hour later, he was finished. The speech was still four hundred words long. It had to be. ("I will have four-hundred-word toasts," the President insisted, "four paragraphs long, with four sentences to a paragraph, four words to a sentence and four letters to a word. I won't have the goddamn duchess passing out in her Jell-0.") But otherwise, it bore no resemblance to the NSC draft.

  The light-hearted comparison of Banda's weather to Washington's was gone. Burnham had decided that there should be no comparison of Banda with anything in the United States.

  In its stead was a reference to the length of the pasha's journey and recognition of the fact that issues of great moment were always more fruitfully discussed face-to-face.

  Instead of a recitation of Banda's relationship with the U.S., the President would (respectfully, not condescendingly) refer to Banda's youth as a nation and express his hope that the pasha would look to older nations for examples of wise leadership—touchy, but phrased so delicately (Burnham applauded himself) that only a master of fancied slights could take offense.

  The body of the speech detailed the agreement that the President and the pasha would be working to achieve. It contained phrases like "mutual interest" and "bulwark of freedom" and gave the President the chance to (as Burnham knew he would) ad-lib about the great strides in education, health and social welfare that Banda would undoubtedly make with the bonanza from its new-found wealth. (This would be the President's hedge against the day when and if the pasha was unmasked as a vicious tyrant. "He swore up and down to me that he was going to pump that money into social programs," the President would say. "What was I gonna do, call the man a liar? Look how long it took John Kennedy to get wise to Fidel Castro.")

  There was no praise for Banda, nor for the pasha himself. Burnham opted to praise Banda's people, some 30,000 rice farmers, banana growers and sugarcane workers. Many of them had but to look over their shoulders to see the Bronze Age, and the vast majority were illiterate. Their deities were the very practical gods of sun, rain, moon and fire. They were afflicted by leprosy, rickets, beriberi, yaws, dengue and most of the other wasting and rotting diseases. But Burnham referred to none of that: He called them good, simple. Godfearing people whose lives would probably be changed by affluence but who, the President would pray, would retain their basic virtues.

  Finally, there was the toast—to Banda, to the people of Banda, to the opportunities for the people of Banda, to cooperation with Banda, and—almost, but not quite, as an afterthought—to the pasha of Banda.

  Burnham was proud. The toast was good. It said what he wanted to say, albeit mostly by omission. A perceptive diplomat or an astute reporter would be able to read between the lines and realize that the pasha was a man the President intended to feed with a long spoon.

  He gave the toast to Dyanna to type clean and in delivery form—triple-spaced, wide margins, each new statement beginning a new line, every place name and proper name ph
oneticized ("BAHN-da," "BAH-bar SOOM-bahay-MEER"). Later, after the President had approved the text, it would be typed on heavy bond on the speech typewriter. Then he returned to his desk to ponder the cover memo he would send to the President.

  The memo was more of a challenge to Burnham than the speech itself. He had to appear informed but not presumptuous —after all, the National Security Council was a team of professional experts, and he but a petty scribe—helpful but not pushy—a writer's franchise was to enunciate, not formulate, policy—confident but not critical—the NSC draft was first-class, of course, but perhaps a few altered phrases would better convey the President's message.

  The memo could contain no slips, no errors, no double-entendres. Communicating with the President was an unforgiving art. There was no such thing as a confidential—let alone secret—communication. It was seen, first, by a secretary, then (more often than not) by anyone who happened to be in the room with the President when he read it, then by anyone with whom the President chose to check the missive's accuracy, then (inevitably) by Epstein, then, finally, by the archivists who had to find a slot for it in the vast mountain of Presidential papers that would eventually repose in a multimillion-dollar Winslow library in Ohio. A simple memo could become a footnote to history, and the careless writer who let slip an offhand remark or a lame witticism or a sly barb at a staff rival ran the risk of becoming a carbuncle on the ass of posterity.

  Burnham wrote and rewrote, crushing discarded attempts into paper balls that he aimed at his wastebasket and that invariably missed since most of the mouth of the wastebasket was covered by the shredder.

  When at last he had a document he liked, he pulled a clean sheet of White House stationery from his desk. "The White House, Washington," was all it said. Nice understatement. He intended to type the final draft of the memo himself, partly because he often rewrote when he retyped, but also because he felt proprietary toward the memo: It was his, his statement, his position, his first foray into the no man's land of policy.

  He hesitated briefly before applying the ultimate classification slug. It was not to be used lightly. Staffers had been chastised, even demoted, for scattering it indiscriminately about the Executive, treating it like a tool to enhance their own stature. Burnham had never used it at all, except in jest to the other writers, knowing that it would humbug no one but the archivists. It wasn't that the classification was particularly effective, but rather that it was regarded as a privilege reserved for the exalted.

  What the hell . . . This was a memo based on a Top Secret CIA paper that accused a head of state of being a homicidal pyromaniac. If this wasn't an appropriate occasion for the ultimate slug, what was?

  So he typed the portentous words: EYES ONLY.

  EYES ONLY

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Washington

  Memo to the President

  from: Timothy Y. Burnham

  re: Banda toast tonight

  Here is a new draft of tonight's toast to the pasha of Banda.

  The President's instincts were acute: The pasha is not a man with whom the President should appear to be on friendly personal terms. He is a man of unstable violent personality, and there is evidence that he has slaughtered many of his own people.

  I believe that this draft acknowledges the need for cooperation between the U.S. and Banda without, in any way, endorsing the pasha himself or his lunatic views.

  The President should be aware that the pasha has several wives, of whom three will be at the dinner. It is important that the President avoid dancing with any of the pasha's wives, since the pasha might, on mercurial whim, offer a wife as a gift to the President. Declining such a gift from a man who believes he is God incarnate could be extremely awkward.

  Burnham was pleased. The memo flattered the President without criticizing the NSC. It documented the case against the pasha without going into such lurid detail that the President would worry that he had been suckered by staff flakes into breaking bread with a dimestore Hitler. And it demonstrated that Burnham was, as advertised, well-wired and savvy enough to propose a way for the President to avoid unnecessary embarrassment.

  He buzzed for Dyanna. When he gave her the memo, he saw her face light up as she saw the EYES ONLY slug. Then, discreetly, she looked away.

  "Make two copies," he said, "then put the original with the original of the toast, and—''

  "Take them to Mr. Cobb."

  "No." Burnham had decided to route the memo directly to the President, as he felt he had Cobb's tacit leave to do: Time was short; the President had requested Burnham by name, so Cobb would not presume to edit the draft before the President saw it. And the normal routing procedure would place a draft with the NSC, from which aggrieved protests were bound to erupt. "Walk them over to Evelyn Witt and tell her we're on a tight deadline."

  "Yes, sir!" Dyanna smiled a smile that Burnham thought she would have reserved for a marriage proposal from the Secretary of State.

  Burnham looked at his watch. It was 11:40. "I'm going to play squash. I should be back by one or a little after."

  "Right!" Dyanna wheeled as enthusiastically as a Parris Island recruit and marched out of the office.

  Watching her go, Burnham thought: There's something pathetic about this. Today we are rich in the coin of the realm. The President likes us, and so we exist. We are affirmed. Tomorrow he may not like us, and we will be denied, we will not exist.

  And that kind of thinking, he said to himself as he stood and pushed his chair back, is a waste of time. You want to play the game, you play by the rules.

  He kept his squash bag and racket in a cabinet beneath a bookcase. He opened the cabinet. It was empty. It took him a second to remember: Of course it was empty. He had left his racket and clothes in his room, four stories above the squash courts.

  His room. It didn't sound right, didn't feel right. Wasn't right.

  He hadn't thought about Sarah all morning, and now that he did, his stomach began to hurt. He felt guilty about not having thought about her, and stupid for feeling guilty because he hadn't done anything— she had done it all—and cowardly for feeling helpless because there had to be something he could do—he wasn't going to let fifteen years of marriage go down the chute because of a misunderstanding— and tormented because he knew that it wasn't just a misunderstanding—that was only the trigger, Sarah was falling (had fallen?) out of love with him because she couldn't separate her emotional life from her political life—and angry because that wasn't fair, and confused because maybe it was fair to use a person's attitude toward the Big Issues as a basis for an emotional attachment, and frustrated because why should stuff like apartheid be allowed to wreck his marriage, where is it written that we all have to be our brother's keeper all the goddamn time?—and determined that he was going to fight.

  He picked up the phone and dialed his home number.

  No answer.

  He felt like a Whoopee cushion sat on by a fat person.

  EIGHT

  He refused to change in his room and ride the elevator down to the basement. He was not ready to acknowledge that 1 he was a resident of the YMCA, did not want to have to 1 answer questions from anyone he might encounter in the 1 elevator or in the hallways by the squash courts. Besides, he I enjoyed the camaraderie of the locker room.

  Four men were already there: a pair from State, who played together often, and a pair whom Burnham didn't recognize but who knew one another and were obviously matched up. Burnham changed slowly, expecting a lone man to rush into the locker room at the last minute, tearing at his tie and kicking off his shoes, complaining about the traffic or the lack of parking spaces or thoughtless superiors who had burdened him with urgent trivia.

  But no one appeared, which meant that Hal had been unable to find an opponent for him. Either he would have to play alone, which would give him little exercise and no pleasure, or he would have to endure forty minutes of being cut to ribbons by Hal himself. Hal was self-taught, but he played squas
h every day and was quick as a cougar and mean as a shrew. His racket was a scalpel with which, methodically, he dissected an opponent.

  At the first stroke of noon, Burnham left the locker room and walked to the row of squash courts. Hal was standing by the door to court #1. He was a symphony in white, from platinum skull to ivory skin to milky polo shirt to Cloroxed ducks to vanilla shoes. Someone stood behind him, in the shadows. An opponent.

  Burnham smiled, relieved.

  "Timothy Burnham," Hal said formally, "meet Eva Pym."

  A woman.

  She stepped around Hal and extended her hand. She looked nervous.

  She looked nervous? Burnham was suddenly frantic. He wanted to call for help. He had never played squash with a woman. How do you play squash with a woman? The rules must be different. No bumping or checking? He'd have to go easy on her. How do you go easy on somebody in a squash game? Suppose she was good, better than he. Suppose he lost. This was supposed to be an hour of relaxation and exercise, not a test of his manhood and self-esteem. If he won, he won nothing, he was supposed to win. If he lost, he was a ... a wimp. He'd rather play against Hal. At least he expected to lose to Hal.

  The kaleidoscope of anxieties jangled in his mind for perhaps a second, just long enough for him to realize he was staring at the woman's hand. He took the hand and grasped it and said, weakly, "Hi."

  "Timothy works for the White House," Hal said brightly,! providing (as he always did for new opponents) conversational fodder. He was as considerate as a hostess at a diplomatic soiree. "He lives in"—he hesitated for a split second —"Georgetown. Eva is a caterer and a nutritionist. She insists that I start taking a high-potency B-complex vitamin."

  The woman took a step forward, into the light, and Burnham saw her for the first time. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore no makeup. Her nose was straight, her cheekbones high, her jaw strong, her lips thin and perfect, her skin like polished walnut. She wore a baggy Bennington College sweat suit, but the muscles in her arm suggested that her entire body was fit and finely tuned.