Hazardous Duty - PA 8
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The President picked up the cup with both hands and took a healthy swallow.
He did not say “Thank you.”
“Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said, “your eight-thirty is Senator Forman. Is there anything I should know?”
“Wrong,” the President said. “For two reasons. One, Mulligan had to carry ol’ Foggy out of here last night and load him in his car, and the only place the senator’s going to be at eight-thirty is in bed. Two, the First Lady got me out of bed by telling me the secretary of State called her last night to tell her we’ve got a message saying they found Colonel Castillo, and Mrs. Clendennen told her to deliver it this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I want you here for that. Don’t say anything, just listen. Sometimes, when I’m suffering from a catarrh attack—and this one’s a doozy—my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“I think I’ll have another little touch of that catarrh elixir, Robin,” the President said. “Why don’t you pour a little in a fresh coffee cup before you get ol’ Natalie in here? That way she wouldn’t see the bottle.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Let her in, Mulligan,” the President ordered.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Cohen said as she walked into the Oval Office.
“What’s so important that you told the First Lady you wanted to see me first thing this morning?”
“Actually, Mr. President, I wanted to see you—or at least talk to you—last night. When I spoke with Mrs. Clendennen she set up this appointment for me.”
“Well, what have you got?”
Cohen handed him the message.
He read it.
“What’s it mean?” he asked.
“Apparently Colonel Naylor has found Colonel Castillo.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t he a lieutenant colonel?”
“You’re correct, Mr. President. Castillo is a lieutenant colonel, retired.”
“And LTC means lieutenant colonel, too, right? I thought I told General Naylor to go down there and look for Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. So how come LTC Naylor went?”
“That was my decision, sir. I felt that someone in the press would find out if General Naylor went down there—”
“Somebody like Roscoe J. Danton?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Somebody like Mr. Danton.”
“Good thinking, Madam Secretary. The less anybody knows about this the better, and if Danton, that sonofabitch, got wind of it…”
“That was my thinking, Mr. President.”
“. . . it would be all over Wolf News and in every goddamned newspaper in the country,” the President finished.
“Yes, sir,” the secretary of State said.
“It says on here No Duplication, but it also says Make Available to Lammelle, Ellsworth, and Whatsisname, the secretary of Defense. God, the Military Mind! How are you going to do that?”
“After I spoke with the First Lady, Mr. President, I showed the message to Secretary Beiderman and DCI Lammelle. And when I leave here, I will send a State Department security officer to Tampa to show it to General Naylor. And with your permission, sir, I will get in contact with Mr. Ellsworth, telling him to return. You will recall you sent him to Budapest. When he comes back, I’ll show the message to him.”
“And what we do now is wait until we see how this face-to-face meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo comes off, right?”
“Yes, Mr. President. As I read the message, that may take place late this afternoon or early tomorrow morning. We should know the results within an hour or two after that.”
“And you’ll bring me the results as quickly as you brought this message, right?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Well, that’s it, then. Thank you, Madam Secretary. Mulligan, show the secretary to her car.”
Ten seconds after the door closed on Mulligan and Cohen, the President asked, “Robin, how the hell did that stupid woman ever get to be secretary of State?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken confessed.
“All she had to do was get on the goddamn telephone to General Naylor and read the goddamn message to him. What she’s going to do is send one of her security people down to Tampa with the message. She may even fly him down there in an Air Force jet, just so he can say, ‘Take a quick look at this, General Naylor.’ How much is that going to cost the poor taxpayer?”
Robin Hoboken confessed, “I don’t know exactly, Mr. President. But you can bet a pretty penny.”
“I am surrounded by idiots and cretins, Robin.”
“‘Cretins,’ sir?”
“A cretin is a high-level moron. You didn’t know that?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. But I will from here on.”
“On the other hand, there’s always a silver lining, as Belinda-Sue is always saying.”
“Silver lining, sir?”
“I’ve been thinking out of the box again, Robin.”
“You have, sir?”
“The more I think of this idea of mine of having Castillo look into the piracy and drug problems, the more I like it. Even if Castillo doesn’t come up with something useful—and he even might; strange things happen—if the word gets out that what I’ve done is tell a brilliant intelligence officer to look into the problem and make recommendations, I don’t think that would adversely affect my reelection campaign, do you?”
“You’re going to go on TV, sir? Or hold a press conference and make an announcement?”
“If I held a press conference, not only would it make me look immodest but some bastard would ask me questions I don’t want to answer. Christ, you should know that, you’re the presidential spokesman and nobody believes anything you say either.
“What I’m doing is going to have to reach the American people via the press who are going to discover what I’m doing.”
“How are you going to arrange that?”
“Roscoe J. Danton,” the President said.
“He hates you, sir.”
“Yeah, I know. And everybody knows he hates me. That’s why people will believe him.”
The President looked impatiently around the room.
“Where the hell is Mulligan? He’s never around when I need him. How the hell long does it take to load one pint-sized female into her car?”
“Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken replied thoughtfully, “I would estimate about four minutes—no longer than five, unless Special Agent Mulligan encountered an unexpected problem.”
“Tell me, my fine-feathered friend, when you spent all those years at the Missouri School of Journalism, or later when you were covering women’s lacrosse for Time magazine, did the subject of rhetorical questions ever come up?”
Mr. Hoboken opened his mouth so that he could reply in the affirmative and define “rhetorical question” for the President’s edification. But before a sound slipped out Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan came into the Oval Office.
“Saddle up, Mulligan, it’s Round-Up time,” the President said.
V
[ONE]
The Watergate Apartments
2639 I Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0935 8 June 2007
In the parking garage, Roscoe J. Danton stepped off the elevator and, his heart full of pleasant anticipation for what was shortly to follow, walked briskly toward his automobile.
First, just as soon as he unlocked the door and got in, his nostrils would be assailed by the smell of the fine leather in his new 2007 Jaguar XJR, a present to himself the day after he deposited his million-dollar-after-taxes bonus from the LCBF Corporation. Next, he w
ould have the pleasure of driving this automotive masterpiece on a beautiful spring day across town to the Old Ebbitt Grill, where he would partake of his regular breakfast of Chesapeake Bay eggs Benedict (succulent lumps of blue crab meat in place of the usual leathery Canadian bacon served by lesser establishments) washed down with one—or perhaps two—Bloody Marys.
None of this was to happen.
Just as he was putting the key in the door of his automobile, a familiar voice spoke to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Danton. And how are you, sir, on this fine spring morning?”
Roscoe turned and saw Supervisory Special Agent Robert J. Mulligan of the Secret Service, head of President Clendennen’s security detail.
“What can I do for you, Mulligan?” Roscoe asked.
“Actually, sir, this is a question of what Mr. Robin Hoboken can do for you.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Mr. Hoboken did not elect to share that with me, Mr. Danton,” the massive Irishman said. “He sent me to offer you a ride to the White House, where he is waiting for you, sir.”
“Please tell Mr. Hoboken that while I appreciate his courtesy, unfortunately my schedule is such…”
Several things then occurred with astonishing rapidity.
Mr. Mulligan raised his hand above his head.
A GMC Yukon Denali with darkened windows suddenly appeared. Two muscular men erupted from it, grabbed Roscoe’s arms, lifted him off the ground, carried him to the Yukon, and deposited him in the backseat.
Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan got in the front seat and the Yukon started off.
“What the hell is going on here?” Roscoe demanded.
“Actually, Mr. Danton, it’s the President who wants to see you. I didn’t want to say that where there was a chance I might be overheard.”
[TWO]
The Oval Office
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1005 8 June 2007
“Good morning, Roscoe,” President Clendennen said cordially. “I really appreciate your coming here on such short notice.” Then he ordered, “Put Mr. Danton down, fellas, get him a cup of coffee, and then get the hell out.”
The Secret Service agents carried Roscoe to an armchair and dropped him into it. Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan held open the door as they left, then closed it after them, and crossed his arms as he leaned on it.
“I hope you didn’t have to interrupt anything important to come here, Roscoe,” the President said. “The thing is, Robin and I had what we think is a splendid idea, and we wanted to share it with you as soon as possible.”
Hoboken said: “I’m sure you remember asking me, Roscoe, if the President—you referred to him as ‘the leader of the free world’—had given me ‘anything else about his out-of-the-box thinking about his unrelenting wars against the drug trade and piracy, to be slipped to you when no one else was looking.’”
“Clearly,” Roscoe admitted.
“Well, Roscoe,” the President said, “no one’s looking now. Mulligan makes sure of that.”
“Now this is sort of delicate, Roscoe,” Hoboken said. “By that I mean if anything came out—by that I mean, if anything came out prematurely—in the interest of national security, the President would have to—by that I mean, I would have to, speaking for the President, as we don’t want to involve him at all—deny any knowledge of it at all. You understand that, of course.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Danton confessed.
“What he means, Roscoe,” the President said, “is that this is just between us. Okay?”
“What is just between us, Mr. President?” Danton asked.
“My out-of-the-box thinking that you asked him about.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“What would you say if I told you that I have decided to enlist the services of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in my war against the Mexicans and the Somalians.”
“Your war against the Mexicans and the Somalians?”
“What the President meant to say, Roscoe,” Hoboken interjected, “is the Mexican drug cartels and the Somalian pirates. President Clendennen has absolutely nothing against the Mexican or Somalian people. Quite the opposite—”
“Roscoe knows that, for Christ’s sake,” the President said. “So, what do you think, Roscoe?”
“What do I think about what?”
“About getting Colonel Castillo’s opinion of the Mexican and Somalian problems.”
“What the President meant to say—” Robin Hoboken began.
“Roscoe knows what I meant,” the President interrupted. “Well, Roscoe?”
“I would say you have two problems, Mr. President,” Roscoe said. “The first is to find Colonel Castillo, and then to get him to agree to do what you want him to do.”
“A representative of General Naylor is going to meet with Castillo either late today or early tomorrow,” the President said. “He will relay to him my request that he enter upon temporary active duty to do what I want him to do.”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. President.”
“And as I’m sure you know, Roscoe, I’m the Commander in Chief, and Castillo is a retired officer so that ‘request’ is more in the nature of an order than a ‘pretty please.’”
“I suppose that’s true, Mr. President.”
“Now here’s where you fit in, Roscoe,” the President said.
“The President likes you, Roscoe,” Robin Hoboken said. “You must know that. He wouldn’t think of fitting anyone else in the White House Press Corps in. He told me that when I went to him and told him you had asked me if he had anything about his out-of-the-box thinking he wanted me to slip to you when no one else was looking. He said, correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. President, ‘It has to be old Roscoe who fits in, or nobody.’”
“That’s what I said,” the President confirmed. “And I’m sure you understand that when I said ‘old Roscoe’ it was a figure of speech. I don’t know exactly how old you are, Roscoe, but you certainly look younger than that. What I should have said was, ‘It has to be young Roscoe who fits in, or nobody.’”
“Fits in where, Mr. President?” Roscoe asked.
“You tell young Roscoe, Robin,” the President said.
“You probably have been wondering, Roscoe, what you may do for your President, not what your President can do for you, but if so, you’re wrong. This is a case where we’re going to tell you what the President is going to do for you, and later, what you can do for President Clendennen.”
“Which is?”
“I’m going to arrange for you to be with Colonel Castillo on this mission,” the President said. “Wherever it takes him, Mexico, Somalia, wherever.”
“I don’t think that Colonel Castillo would be agreeable to that, Mr. President,” Roscoe said.
“And while you’re with him you can keep the Commander in Chief and me up-to-date on how things are going,” Robin Hoboken added.
“I don’t think Colonel Castillo would be agreeable to me going along with him, Mr. President, and—”
“He was agreeable to you going along with him when he nearly got us into a war with Venezuela by invading their island and stealing that Russian airplane, so why not now? Besides, I’m not going to suggest he take you along; I’m going to tell him.”
“‘Whither Colonel Castillo goeth, thou wilt go,’ so to speak,” Robin contributed.
“. . . and,” Roscoe continued after a moment, “I know he won’t want me making reports on how, or what, he’s doing.”
“He doesn’t have to know about that,” the President said. “As a matter of fact, it would be better if he didn’t. Keep that part of this un
der your hat.”
Roscoe gathered his courage.
“Mr. President, I’m honored and flattered—”
“Why don’t you wait until the Commander in Chief tells you what he’s going to do for you before you thank him?” Robin asked, just a little sharply. “That way you would know what you’re thanking him for.”
“Robin and I are going to make sure, Roscoe,” the President said, “that as an expression of our appreciation for your cooperation in this matter, no one else will have the story. If I’m not mistaken, I think they call that a ‘scoop.’
“When it comes out—and it will—that my out-of-the-box thinking has caused significant advances in my unending war against the Mexicans and the Somalians—”
“The President meant to say, of course,” Robin interjected, “his war against the Mexican drug cartels and the Somalian pirates. As I said a moment ago, the President has nothing but the highest regard for the people of Somalia and Mexico.”
“Roscoe knows that, for Christ’s sake,” the President said, somewhat snappily. “Why do you have to keep telling him?”
“I thought, Mr. President, that it was better to repeat it, in case it had slipped Roscoe’s mind.”
“Do you know what a cretin is, Roscoe?”
“Yes, sir. A high-level moron.”
“And I’ll bet that someone like you knows what a rhetorical question is. Right?”
“I think so, Mr. President.”
“Sometime when you have a spare moment, Roscoe, you might tell Robin.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be happy to.”
“As I was saying, Roscoe, when it comes out that we’re making significant advances against the drug cartels and the pirates, the press will wonder how that happened. They will ask questions, and I will tell them. A week after I tell you you can write the story about my out-of-the-box thinking. And you write the story. Now, is that a scoop, or isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. That would be a scoop,” Roscoe replied. He found his courage again. “Mr. President, I can’t go along with this.”