by Al Ruksenas
“I’m afraid, we can’t control the fates, Mr. President.”
“Don’t say it with such anticipation, Victor,” the President said teasingly. “We can’t escape fate, but we don’t need to go chasing after it.”
Victor Sherwyck’s response was an acknowledging stare.
“How was the Smithsonian? I tried to reach you.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Sherwyck said in his deep, resonant tone. “Had I only known you wanted to see me,” he continued solicitously, “I would have come immediately, of course. I found the most opportune time to catch Volotsyn, the Russian Ambassador—to follow up on issues of nuclear arms he had mentioned to you at the State Dinner the other day. I practically had to pull him away from some admiring socialites. You know this space weaponry business is a major hurdle in their thinking.”
“I know,” the President said absently. He wanted to broach the subject of the disappearance of Jeannie McConnell from that very State Dinner. He knew he had to do it in such a way as to avoid the inbred sense of superiority that Sherwyck would inevitably display— a sense of indispensability that Presidents before him had accepted— a sense of indispensability that had helped shape and control associations and friendships, including his own.
Sherwyck looked straight at the President, his eyes fixed on the Chief Executive’s. They were dark and deep‐set, but flared large and intense, hypnotic. The President almost flinched in response. Victor Sherwyck’s commanding stare was at the same time demanding and reassuring. It was so penetrating as to suggest that he could see another’s weaknesses and offer unspoken strength and guidance in return. It was, no doubt, a major reason why those entrusted with heavy burdens sought his counsel over the years.
The President looked away toward the door of the Cabinet Room, as if anxious why the steward had not arrived with brunch. He then turned back to Sherwyck, recomposed. He would ask about Jeannie later.
“I need to appoint a new Secretary of Defense soon, probably right after Ron’s funeral. There are several good candidates under review.”
“I’m sure any one of them would be excellent.”
“Yes. But one of them has to be the best,” the President emphasized. “Especially with those arms talks so close to a major breakthrough. We’ve been involved with this process since I took office. What? Three years ago, now? It’s been such hell! Such minute scrutiny!”
“Ahh, but Mr. President, look where it has brought us. Look what it has done for the world. You have in your power the ability to guarantee that the world will never be destroyed by an act of nuclear war—or accidental blunder.”
“You hope. That’s why these talks can’t fall apart,” the President said urgently.
“There is absolutely no reason why they should,” the President’s friend replied and looked assuringly at him.
“Ron Stack had a knack with their negotiators. Even though he was tough, he had built up excellent rapport.”
“It is not just one man on whom this process rests, sir.”
“I know that. I know that, damn it!” The President rose and paced along the conference table. Then he turned to look at Sherwyck from a further vantage point. “I’m not sure how the Russians will read us with a new negotiator. They may retrench. We have to make sure we appoint the right person.”
Sherwyck’s eyes followed the President who returned to his chair and sat in thoughtful silence.
The chief of staff arrived accompanied by a steward who was rolling a chrome serving cart with brunch. George Brandon stood silently by while the steward efficiently laid out the china plates, linen napkins and silverware. He served each of them Eggs Benedict—the President first—with a choice of fruit juice and coffee, then stood back to see whether either would need something else. Brandon looked the President’s way. A slight nod indicated everything was in order. Brandon, in turn, nodded to the steward who wheeled the cart out of the room, followed by the chief of staff who closed the door behind him.
The silence continued while the President and Victor Sherwyck sampled their food. After a tentative sampling, the President’s guest spoke: “There is something else that burdens you. I’ve known you long enough to see.”
“In my position everything’s a burden, Victor.”
“Certainly, Mr. President. But there is something else. Something besides the arms talks.”
“Well, there is something.” The President saw his opening. “It could put the arms talks on the back pages. It’s potentially explosive. You know that Speaker McConnell’s daughter has disappeared.”
The President took a lingering sip of his coffee, studying his friend for reaction.
“I have heard. She hasn’t been seen for some days. But is that real cause for concern? I also heard that she enjoys the company of the jet‐setting glitterati.”
The President was reassured by the answer. He sensed that Sherwyck’s network did not include secret sources asserting abduction by terrorists.
“That’s occurred to us, Victor. Her family’s gotten calls in the past from Monaco, Tokyo, Paris. She’s always called to say ‘hello’—really to stay in touch with family.”
“Of course,” Sherwyck replied. “And this time she didn’t.”
“No, she didn’t.” The President sliced a generous serving from his plate and continued eating. It was as much to divert his attention from Sherwyck’s penetrating stares as hunger.
“Well then, she either decided she’s finally grown up, or…”
“Or something has happened to her,” the President finished. “The reason I’m bringing this up—“
“Of course, Mr. President,” Sherwyck interjected. “I understand. I was with her just so recently at the State Dinner here. What a charming young lady! I was her escort.” Sherwyck anticipated the unasked question and continued: “In fact, Senator Dunne was with us when I dropped her off at home. I remember it was—“
“Please, Victor, don’t embarrass me,” the President interjected raising his hand. “You don’t think for a minute that I—“
“No, no, Mr. President! Of course not! Of course not!”
The President pondered for a moment whether Senator Dunne could have inadvertently revealed to Sherwyck the Warlock connection; whether Sherwyck knew that Jeannie was the victim of terrorists. He dismissed the thought, rejecting the idea that the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee would reveal top secret information to a friend, even as a boast over booze.
Any information to the public about a possible terrorist kidnapping would have to wait upon the return and debriefing of the Omega Group operatives from Beirut, the President thought.
“The reason I’m bringing it up, Victor, is the public uncertainty about Jeannie’s disappearance. That’s the problem. As you know, her mother opposes me in the Congress on the arms issue.”
The President put down his silverware and looked seriously at Sherwyck.
“That could breed unspoken suspicion against the White House. Like as if we had something to do with it. The ultimate dirty trick to neutralize a political opponent. The Russians suddenly look clean and attractive and everybody leans to their position.”
“Well, Mr. President, if I might say. Nobody can stop rumors or gossip, but we could still maintain the momentum of leadership by shifting our position, so the other side looks like they are catching up to our views. That way we still maintain the high ground in the battle of ideas and world opinion.” Sherwyck now took a long, slow sip of his coffee, then looked at the President to see his reaction.
“We’re doing everything possible to find her,” the President said.
“I know, Mr. President.” His friend tilted his head for emphasis. “And I have no doubt you will succeed.”
The ring of confidence in Sherwyck’s voice bolstered the President and reaffirmed his own belief that the Omega Group would find Jeannie.
“Meantime, the choice of a new Secretary of Defense who is right for this delicate stage of the arms limit
ation talks is critical,” the presidential adviser said in a tone that made the obvious sound profound. “You have to neutralize Speaker McConnell’s opposition on the arms issue. That way, Mr. President, you automatically eliminate any false rumors about even the remotest connection to Miss McConnell’s disappearance.”
“Victor! You know I can’t look like I’m caving in to Speaker McConnell and her Congressional supporters. Especially, when they have the glimmer of the White House in their eyes.”
“Of course not, sir. But preemptive action with a lot of publicity creates momentum and people will forget what McConnell’s position ever was.”
The President pondered a moment.
“May I ask who you have in mind?”
The President reviewed the four names he and his advisers had discussed. “I also have some others in mind,” he declared in case his confidant thought he was too limiting.
“You haven’t reacted to the Philip Taylor issue?” Sherwyck’s question was as careful as his sip of coffee.
“That’s one I’m sure of, Victor. Philip Taylor’s definitely not in consideration. Why?”
“You could make the wisest—the most canny move of all,” Sherwyck said in a calculated, measured tone as he slowly lifted his face from his coffee cup and stared the President intently in the eyes.
The President stared back, suddenly uncomfortable over the familiar, patronizing look emanating from Sherwyck’s deep, commanding countenance. “What do you mean, Victor?” The President looked toward one of the large windows in the Cabinet Room and then got up as if something caught his attention outside.
Sherwyck’s stare followed the President. He waited until the Chief Executive turned again to face him from the window—from a farther, more comfortable distance.
“Mr. President!”
“Don’t try to convince me otherwise, Victor. You of all people should know that Taylor would be a bad choice.”
“But if you look at it this way, Mr. President,” Sherwyck began. “The present posture of the Russians in world affairs—and on a tight rope in their own country—surrounded by militant states looking for nuclear weapons themselves—calls for a Secretary of Defense that would prove to be a brilliant strategist.”
Sherwyck’s tone was flattering. He smiled broadly. “Philip Taylor’s position on space weaponry, open‐minded as it is—would be just the kind of opening the Russians are looking for as a gesture of trust.” He paused to let the thought sink into the pondering President. “Think of all the positive actions the Russians have taken in the recent past. We must get them to continue those actions by reciprocating with reductions of our own. If the news media harps that Taylor is ignorant or naïve about space weapons, that is immaterial. They have lost perspective in favor of rumors and titillation. They have turned open‐mindedness into naiveté. Besides, Taylor is but one man. He is a mere spokesman in a grand scheme that will assure your place in history!”
The President’s confidant opened his eyes wide. They enveloped with an all encompassing gaze that seemed in itself to promise a glorious destiny; inviting, lulling, assuring.
“Imagine, Mr. President, if a much more flexible Kremlin reduces its nuclear arms even further, because it sees flexibility and openness on our side. We will be that much more successful in keeping rogue or developing countries from seeking nuclear weapons. We will neutralize their common arguments that they have a right to nuclear arms, just because we do.”
The President was listening carefully.
“And a cautious and even fearful world will support us wholeheartedly. But we and Russia must show the way. We must eliminate the argument that because we have nuclear arms, so can everybody else.” Sherwyck stretched out his hand in a grand gesture. “And Mr. President, by choosing Philip Taylor, you not only eliminate loggerheads with Speaker McConnell on this issue, you squelch any whispered rumors about any connection with her daughter’s disappearance, absurd as that is.”
“But I’ll look like I caved in to McConnell’s view. This could hurt in the next election.”
“Proceed like her view was yours all along. Her position will be left in the dust of your public relations offensive.”
“I like it, Victor. I like it. I must say you are persuasive.”
“Only when I speak the truth, Mr. President.”
He looked thoughtfully at his friend and confidant, whose eyes were still fixed intently on the Chief Executive. The President returned to his chair and slowly sat down, measuring his sage adviser’s argument.
“That’s what I like about you, Victor. You’re always so sure of everything. I am too, of course—in public. I’m expected to. But I have to admit I’m sometimes unsure in private. Aren’t we all?”
“Not all of us, Mr. President.”
The Chief Executive dismissed his friend’s haughtiness. It was a tolerated trademark.
“What about the news media?”
“Even though much of the media editorialize that Taylor is not suitable, it will be those same editors who will smell blood when they know that they have, in fact, been the ones to sway you in making a critically wrong decision—in chiding you away from Taylor. It will have been their decision, not yours!” Sherwyck raised his voice for emphasis. “They will lose respect for you! How many times in the past have we seen this?”
The President nodded his head.
“Like it or not, sir,” Sherwyck said softly after an interval, “the most important decision is the one which asserts your authority. Names and positions shift all the time. People forget what stand you took yesterday and don’t care what stand you might take tomorrow. But they will remember determination or weakness. They will support strength, even if it is wrong and they will condemn weakness, even if it is right.”
The President glanced back at Sherwyck. It was not so much his friend and adviser’s words or logic that affected him. It was Sherwyck’s demeanor, his fixed gaze, his commanding stare, his sense of assurance about the future. After several moments the President rose from his chair.
“Thank you for your time, Victor. I appreciate your views, as always.”
Victor Sherwyck took his cue. He rose also and approached the President, extending his hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for the wonderful brunch.” He firmly shook the President’s outstretched hand and bowed his head slightly. “If there is anything more I can do, anytime.” The formality of the surroundings belied their more familiar social relationship.
“I know, Victor, thank you. I appreciate it.”
Sherwyck walked out of the Cabinet Room. His meal had been barely touched.
The President followed his friend part way until he saw him disappear past the door. He then turned to look out one of the imposing windows lining one side of the Cabinet Room. A large, black crow making a raucous noise in a branch of a tree near the window had caught his attention. No other birds were nearby, nor was there any evident reason for the crow’s persistent cries.
“Now, there’s something,” the President murmured as he idly observed the bird’s cackling. “First time I’ve seen a crow around the White House.”
***
Meanwhile, Victor Sherwyck was returning past the guardhouse to his waiting limousine. One of the officers watched him pass then turned to his partner on watch inside the glassed checkpoint on Pennsylvania Avenue. “You know, Frank, there’s something strange about that Sherwyck guy.”
“Strange?” His partner’s eyes were fixed on his computer screen where he was reviewing that day’s schedule of appointments.
“Yeah, you ever notice that?”
“I’ve been here a long time, Steve.” He made an entry into the computer. “I’ve seen a lot of people come through here from every corner of the world. ‘Strange’ is a relative term—you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean, Frank. But there’s just something about this guy.” He watched Sherwyck climb into his limousine and the chauffer close the door behind him.
As Sherwyck’s limousine departed the White House grounds, the crow leapt with its flapping wings from the tree outside the Cabinet Room. It bounded along the roofline of the White House, ascended in a southerly direction towards the Washington Monument, then west along the reflecting pool above the Lincoln Memorial to the Potomac River, turning in a lazy loop southward along the river towards Sherwyck’s estate near Alexandria, as if anticipating the route Sherwyck’s limousine would take along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.
***
The President watched the large black bird for the few moments it was visible through the window, then returned to the Oval Office where he summoned his chief of staff and senior adviser. When they arrived he greeted them heartily: “Gentlemen! I’ve made my decision on the new Secretary of Defense. After giving it much considered thought and weighing all relevant factors, there can be only one choice—Philip Taylor!”