Come now, Mr. President, Burnham thought. Great, yes; epic, perhaps; but Nobel prize . . . ?
"I'm serious." The President's look reproved Burnham for his modest thoughts. "Do you know why?"
"No, sir. I was just trying—"
"Because it's savvy. It's deep. It shows long-term thinking. It has the best interests of the country at heart. And most of all, it shows that this writer is in tune with his President."
Humbly, Burnham hung his head.
"Any hack could fawn all over of some two-bit muckety-muck, but it takes a writer to see through all the fog and tell it like it is. Where'd you get this stuff?"
"Sir?"
"No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Better you do your job and I do mine. But, Tim, I have to be frank." The President took a step toward Burnham and put his arm around his shoulder and began to walk him around the office, like a comrade trying to sober him up for the long drive home.
"Yes, sir," Burnham said. “Please do.”
"This toast worries me."
"It does?"
"Yessir. Fact is, I'm 'bout as worried as a pregnant fox in a forest fire."
"Really. What is it that—"
The President stopped walking and clutched Burnham's shoulder and drew him even closer. Three inches shorter than the President, Burnham found himself staring into the pores on the man's chin, could feel the President's moist breath warming the tip of his nose.
"Tim, I've got the State Department. I've got the National Security Council—though what those dipsticks keep secure is a mystery 'bout as great as the goddamn Sphinx. I've got about a billion people working for me in the federal government, and at least a million of them are s'posed to know something about foreign policy. Right? Is that asking too much?"
"Yes . . . no, sir . . . right."
"Then why is it, Tim"—the President resumed his promenade—"that of all those millions of people, people the taxpayers pay billions and trillions of dollars, only one man knows his ass from live steam?"
"Well . . ."
"Now, the fella who wrote that ..." The President pointed to the ball of papers beneath the coffee table, which Burnham assumed was the NSC draft of the toast. ". . .he didn't have the guts to put his name on it. And he was right, too, 'cause when I find out who he is, he's gonna be lucky to get a job writing four-letter words for the Scrabble company."
"I'm sure—"
"Where've you been keeping yourself, Tim?"
"Sir? I've been—"
"Never mind. Past is past. I should be grateful—the country should be grateful—^that you're here now." The President gazed at the ceiling. "It's a comfort to know that somebody up there still looks out for us." They had reached the couch. Gently, the President eased Burnham down into the soft upholstery.
"How's Andrei?"
Andrei? Burnham thought. Andre? Andre who? My dinner with Andre? Andrei? He said aloud, "Gromvko?"
The President guffawed. "Who do you think? Andre Previn?"
Burnham forced a choking laugh. Who does this man think I am? "Well, I—"
"I may want you to—" The President whirled at the sound of a door opening behind him.
Burnham peered around the President and saw Mario Epstein, accompanied by the National Security Advisor, Dennis Duggan. They had entered through the small office that adjoined the Oval Office, the sanctuary where the President went to relax, for it had a bar and a bathroom and a television set and a favorite sofa on which he could stretch out and nap. Burnham had heard that the President called it his “flatter palace," for there he would entertain guests who could be cajoled into doing his bidding by being stroked and fed Jack Daniels in the President's private retreat.
Epstein was one of four people with unrestricted access to the President (the others were his Appointments Secretary, his wife and Evelyn Witt), and it was known that he did not abuse the privilege. Something was up.
Burnham knew that he should stand and make a discreet exit before being asked to leave, but the prospect of being privy to a crisis—even to the first few sentences of a crisis— was irresistibly seductive. He stayed seated.
"What is it?" the President said sharply.
"Got a problem," Epstein said, waving a piece of paper. Duggan stayed a step behind Epstein. He was in his early fifties, contemplative and professorial, with a silver-gray crew cut and a pipe that never left his mouth except when he gestured with it. He was Epstein's man. He never communicated with the President except through Epstein, never visited with the President except in Epstein's company, never ventured an opinion unfamiliar or unacceptable to Epstein. In effect, he was Epstein's National Security Advisor.
"What else is new?" the President said. "The world is full of problems."
"Yes, sir," Epstein said, apparently perplexed at the President's obduracy. "But I'm afraid this one needs the President's attention right away."
Burnham was surprised that the President didn't turn and ask him to leave. Nor did he cross the room and huddle with
Epstein and Duggan by the signing table. He stayed where he was and said, "Okay. What is it?"
Epstein held up the paper again. "I'm afraid this is for the President's ears only."
There it is, Burnham thought. Okay. He started to stand.
But the President pushed him back down on the couch. "Bullshit, Mario. Feel free to speak in front of Tim." He took a step to the side, and for the first time Epstein saw Burnham.
"You!" Epstein all but shouted. His mouth hung open for a fraction of a second.
Duggan looked at Burnham, then at Epstein, then back at Burnham. He sucked on his pipe. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew better than to get mixed up in it.
Burnham raised a tentative hand and said, "Hi again."
"I figured you two knew each other," said the President. "Go ahead, Mario."
"But who is he?" Epstein fought to suppress the outrage that bubbled beneath his skin.
Good question, Burnham thought. I've been wondering myself.
"A friend, Mario," the President said, and he winked at Burnham. "A real good friend, come to help me in my hour of need."
Burnham was sure he was mistaken: The President of the United States could not have winked at him. He had a fleeting fantasy that he was a player in a remake of The Prince and the Pauper. Lurking somewhere in the corridors of the mansion must be the genuine dauphin.
"Who does he work for?" asked Epstein the inquisitor.
"Me, Mario." The President paused. "Just like you do."
"Yessir," Epstein said quickly.
The President cast a satisfied glance in Burnham's direction, as if he was pleased to discover that Epstein was as ignorant about Burnham as he was. "What you need to know, you know," he said. "And what you don't know can't hurt you."
I'm his secret weapon, Burnham concluded. He doesn't know anything about me, and he's glad. He must think that my cover is so perfect that no one knows anything about me.
"Now, Mario, what's on your mind?"
Epstein was staring at Burnham, willing his eyes to pierce the shell of mystery. He exhaled, visibly, and the air hissed as it passed through his teeth. "Cuba," he said to the President.
"Cuba? What's that stogie-smoking hippie up to now?"
"An American-flag vessel, a yacht, is in Havana Harbor."
"Castro captured it?"
"No, sir. It came in there on its own. Apparently, it broke down offshore and sailed in."
"Why didn't it go to Guantanamo? There're Americans there."
"I don't know, sir. This came in to Dennis an hour ago, from the Marine general down there. We don't know any of the 'whys.' "
"Castro won't let him go?"
Epstein shook his head. "The captain won't leave. He—so to speak—is requesting asylum. But somebody's yelling out of a porthole that he doesn't want asylum. He's yelling 'rape' and 'kidnap' and bloody murder. So Castro's just sitting back—watching, I guess, and laughing his head off."
&n
bsp; "What do you mean, 'so to speak'?"
"Apparently, sir," Epstein cleared his throat, "this whole operation, the whole crew, everybody on board is . . . well . . . gay ... but even ..."
"Fags?" the President roared.
"Not exactly, sir." Epstein looked like a child who had just wet his pants.
Sitting on the couch, Bumham delighted in watching Epstein squirm.
"It seems that there are transsexuals aboard—one, maybe two. Transsexuals are—"
"I know what they are!" The President sighed. "Christ on a flaming crutch! I got the Russians want to blow me up, the Senate wants to cut my balls off, a cannibal coming for supper, and now a ship of fairies has run aground. Well, my decision is, let 'em rot."
"I'm afraid that's not an option, Mr. President."
"Why not?"
"They're American citizens."
“That's beside the point."
"No, sir. That is the point."
Loath though he was to do it, Burnham awarded a point to Epstein.
Epstein continued. "You see, sir, the captain has rafted his boat to a Russian oil tanker. He says if he doesn't get asylum, he'll blow everything up—tanker, boat, Russians, everything."
"Can he do it?"
Epstein looked to Duggan, who eased the pipe from his mouth and said slowly, "We doubt it, sir. He's forty-eight feet long, the tanker's over six hundred feet. Even if he was a hundred percent ballasted with C-4 explosive—extremely unlikely, in our estimation—he'd have to position himself perfectly in order to inflict substantial damage on the tanker. The chances of him actually sinking the tanker are, we judge, nil."
"But," said Epstein, "we can't take the chance. Even if he puts a hole in it, the Russians will raise holy hell."
The President sighed. "So what are our options?"
"Two," Epstein said, "and neither very attractive. One, go through the Swiss and try to convince Castro to give them asylum, just temporarily, to defuse the situation."
"Sure, why not? The prick sent us all his fairies—and a thousand lunatics to boot—from Mariel."
"We don't think he'll do it. Why should he? He'd love to see some crazy Americans blow up a Russian tanker. Two, General Starkweather, the Marine general, wants to send a SEAL team in tonight and take the Bilitis—that's the name of the yacht—from the water. The problem there is . . ."
Burnham stopped listening. He was frozen. Bilitis. He should have guessed. There couldn't be two such bizarre crews, not even on a planet with four and a half billion people, and though some of the details were different, the substance was unmistakably similar. But he had been so beguiled by the intoxicating brew of international crisis, had heard it with such fascinated detachment, that he had never made the connection.
Epstein was concluding. "... constitute an invasion of Cuban territory."
"So," said the President. "What do you recommend?"
"Dennis and I think you should tell General Starkweather to go ahead and send the SEALs. But we have to try to buy time. The . . . captain . . . says he's going to blow everything sky-high at five o'clock."
"Call him and tell him we're working on it."
"He won't speak to us, sir. He says he won't speak to anybody but Castro himself."
"Maybe he'll speak to me. I hate to put the presidency on the line for a bunch of fruits, but if^"
"No, sir. I'm afraid he specifically excluded you. He made a statement on his radio saying that you were prejudiced against ... his kind."
"I'm not prejudiced. I'm biased. There's a difference."
"Yes, sir."
Burnham stood up. Rivulets of sweat ran down his sides and soaked the elastic in his boxer shorts.
"Mr. President?"
Epstein looked at him as if he were a herpes lesion.
Duggan sucked on his pipe and contemplated him as if he were a new species.
The President said, "Yes, Tim?"
Burnham stepped forward. "It's three o'clock." No, no! Not that! He cursed himself. What an opener! They've got to think I'm nuts.
"Thank you, Tim," the President said. His head was cocked at an interesting angle.
"Ah . . . sir . . . what I mean is, there are two hours till the deadline expires. I wonder if . . . may I have one hour to work on it?"
"You!" snorted Epstein.
"You think you can help, Tim?" said the President.
"I th . . .I hope so, sir."
The President looked hard at him, and Burnham had to fight to keep from looking away. But he kept his eyes locked on the President's.
"What makes you think you ..." The President stopped. Then he smiled and said, "You got it, Tim." He turned to Epstein. "Mario, give him the paper."
"But, sir^" Epstein was aghast.
"Give him the paper, Mario!"
Tight-lipped, Epstein stepped toward Burnham and handed him the telex sheet that had come into the Situation Room. Burnham glanced at it just long enough to see that it was slugged: TOP SECRET—URGENT.
He turned toward the door. The President walked with him, his arm around Burnham's shoulder.
"I'm counting on you, Tim."
"Yes, sir. If I need some help with communications ..."
"Communications!" the President said. "Shee-it, son."
He yanked open the door to Evelyn Witt's office and barked, *'Evelyn, Tim is on a special assignment for me. Top priority. Whatever he needs, you see he gets it. Planes, choppers, the goddamn Third Marine Division if he wants it." The President patted Burnham on the back and walked into his office.
Burnham heard the President say, "Now, Dennis, I want to know which one of your wimps wrote that crap for the swami toast tonight."
Evelyn Witt smiled at Burnham and said, "Welcome to hard times."
Burnham felt his hands shaking. He stuffed them into his pockets before Evelyn could see them. "I think I'd like to take a nap," he said.
Evelyn pulled a pad and pencil toward her. "What do you need?"
"Is there such a thing as a secure open phone line?"
"Where to?"
"The middle of Havana harbor."
"If there isn't, I'm going to take my cat and move into a cave. I'll set it up. Anything else?"
"I can't think of anything. But if I do, can I call you?"
"Timothy ..." She reached up and touched his cheek. "You're sweet to ask, but don't ask any more."
"What?" Lord, Burnham thought, I've had this job for sixty seconds, and already I've put my foot in it.
"You don't ask anybody. You tell them."
"Oh. Sorry."
"And you never apologize. Never."
"Oh. Right. Thanks."
Burnham turned left outside Evelyn's office, and walked quickly down the hall past the Secret Service men guarding the President's private office, past the closed door of the office of the Appointments Secretary, past the regiment of Epstein's harassed secretaries. He turned right and took the stairs to the basement two at a time.
No one noticed him, and it occurred to him that he was moving through these hallowed halls in a way he had never moved before—as if he belonged there. Hurrying. Preoccupied. Confident. Defying anyone to stop or question him. He was on priority business for the boss.
He felt strange: nervous but not frightened, challenged but not worried. He should be berating himself for an idiot—there was a good chance he would come out of this looking like a presumptuous, feckless fool—but instead he felt a little glow of self-satisfaction at his daring (he would never have called it courage). He had seen a chance to help the President, help the country and help an unfortunate friend (a distant friend, but a friend nonetheless), and rather than refuse the risk, he had volunteered to take it. If he succeeded, he would be doing himself a favor, too: Virtue Plus Twenty Percent.
If he failed . . .
He pushed open the door of the West Basement and strode across West Executive Avenue.
He didn't intend to fail. He was sure he was right about Bilitis. The parallels were
too great to be coincidence.
Unless . . .
His foot struck the curb on the far side of West Executive Avenue, and he tripped.
Suppose Toddy Thatcher wasn't on board. Suppose he had sold the boat to one of his chums. Suppose ... No. It couldn't be.
Toddy Thatcher was Sarah's cousin. He had been a source of concern to his family since the fourth grade, when he started avoiding the boys in his class and associating only with the girls. He had been asked to leave Groton, not because of any overt homosexual activity—he didn't consider himself a homosexual, he considered himself a female—but because he refused to be a boy. He wouldn't undress in the boy's locker room, wouldn't sleep in the same room with his roommate, insisted on trying out for the girls' field hockey team (and threatened to file a lawsuit when he was denied permission), and circulated a newsletter called "The Daughters of Bilitis Gazette." School officials tried to accommodate him for a year, but then concluded that he was too disturbed— and too disturbing—to function in the Groton community.
Psychoanalysis proved to be a waste of Toddy's time and seventeen thousand of his parents' dollars. He regarded his penis as a cruel joke played on him by a male chauvinist god.
He acquired a high-school equivalency certificate from one of the academies that advertised on the inside covers of matchbooks. He let his hair grow, took female hormones and applied depilatories daily to his soft, fair face and his slight body. In the fall, without his parents' knowledge (by this time, his parents had given up on him; to them, he was an eccentric roomer who, instead of paying rent, was given an allowance), he applied and was admitted to Elon College in North Carolina.
As Teresa Thatcher.
Sarah's branch of the family, including Burnham, had lost touch with Toddy for several years. He had gone underground, someone said. He had joined a commune. He had had surgery, though to do what, no one was certain.
Burnham liked Toddy, who was bright and congenial and, as he had grown up, funny about what he called his "perversion." He hoped Toddy had found a way to be happy.
A year ago, Toddy had resurfaced at a Christmas gathering at his parents' home. As Teresa. He dressed like a Teresa. He looked like a Teresa. And he said that he was about two-thirds of the way through the long process of mechanically becoming Teresa.
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