Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

  “No, Ted. Your friend is a monster, and for the sake of this country I plead with you—don’t you ever forget it.”

  For several moments after he concluded the characteristic muffled silence of the Oval Office seemed more profound than ever. Outside the afternoon was turning rapidly to twilight under the heavy, leaden sky that means snow. Very faintly there came the sound of voices in the corridors, a sense of the continuing busy life of the White House; but it seemed very far away in this tense and earnest moment. It was Mr. Justice Davis who finally broke the mood.

  “Well!” he said indignantly. “Well, Mr. President! I may say as one citizen that I think it is just as well you are leaving this office and going back to the Hill, if that is the sort of blind, reactionary, hopeless attitude you take toward things! I have known you many years and you know I say that as a friend, but I am glad, Mr. President. Glad! I can’t think of anything worse for our country and the world than a continuation of these old, worn-out, hopeless clichés at a moment in history when we have a chance to open a whole new chapter—when we have a chance at last to work with the Soviet Union toward a genuine and lasting peace. Governor,” he said earnestly, turning to Ted with a desperate sincerity, “I plead with you, too: ignore these harmful, hindering, hampering thoughts that freeze us in old hostilities and old terrors. Have faith in the future! Have faith in friendship! Have faith in good will! Have faith in yourself!”

  Again there was a silence while they waited for the President-elect. When he spoke it was quietly, calmly and with a self-confidence that was quite obviously serene and unshakable.

  “Thank you, Tommy,” he said gravely. “I appreciate your support and your faith in me. I don’t intend to betray it, nor do I intend to betray that of any man—including the Chairman of the Council of Ministers. Mr. President, I appreciate your sincerity and your concern, and I acknowledge your patriotism and your devotion to the country’s best interests as you see them. Obviously the country does not agree, or it would not have elected me by the margin it did. Therefore I have a mandate to seek new solutions to old problems—to thaw the ice—to break the logjam—to use whatever clichés one wants to use to indicate a new and good-faith approach to the achievement of world peace. Chairman Tashikov, new to his office as I am to mine, has given me that opportunity. I intend to take it. I believe I can succeed. I hope you will presently come to believe that I can, when you return to the Hill. By the same token, I hope all Americans of good will will help me—beginning,” he concluded quietly, “with the man I have asked to be my Secretary of State.”

  “Bob,” the President said into the hush that followed, “I think you’d better.”

  Bob Leffingwell nodded, his expression troubled and unfathomable.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I had.”

  Ten minutes later, Ted having left to return to Patsy’s for the night, the President having bade them farewell to retire to the family quarters on the second floor and get ready for the state dinner he was giving for the President of Nicaragua, the Secretary of State-designate and the little Justice were walking together down the curving drive to the East Gate and the taxis that would take them home. At his side Tommy was bubbling, as Bob had known he would be.

  “My dear boy!” he said happily. “My dear boy, what a magnificent step forward! How much he needs you and how splendidly you have responded! And what a great man he is! I truly believe,” he said, suddenly solemn, “that his Administration is going to do more for world peace than any in a hundred years. I really do, Bob. I honestly, really do.”

  “I hope you’re right, Tommy,” Bob Leffingwell said. “We’ll all have to pray that you are.”

  “I shall pray,” Mr. Justice Davis promised as the guards wished them a pleasant “Good night!” and they passed through the gate.

  “I, too,” Bob Leffingwell told him. “Constantly.”

  It was beginning to snow, in the persistent way that indicates that Washington is in for it. Instinctively, as they reached Pennsylvania Avenue, they turned west and walked along the fence until they could see the White House sitting amid its floodlights, full and clear. It looked white and ghostly in the steadily increasing swirls of snow, secret and mysterious with power: an omen and a talisman, though of what, at that moment, neither they, nor in all probability anyone could have said with any surety.

  JASON FILLS AGRICULTURE AND TRANSPORTATION POSTS TO COMPLETE CABINET ON EVE OF INAUGURATION. LEFFINGWELL, WATTERSILL HEAD WHAT NEW EXECUTIVE CALLS “GATHERING OF EXCELLENCE.” BATTLEFIELD LULL FALLS ON GOROTOLAND, PANAMA AS WORLD AWAITS LEADER PLEDGED TO END ALL WAR. NATIONAL MOOD SOBER, HOPEFUL AS AMERICANS FORESEE DRASTIC CHANGES IN FOREIGN POLICY. JASON AIDES HINT “DRAMATIC, REVOLUTIONARY” PEACE MOVE IN INAUGURAL.

  “I have called you together,” the President said with a little twinkle, “for this final, private dinner in the White House before we must all pick up our worldly goods and flee from the advancing forces of change and dissolution. As leader of the government-in-exile I thought it might be fun, before we all go underground, to meet for the last time in these hallowed halls and plot our future course. Before we do, though—” and the light mood died, he looked suddenly somber and completely serious—“I think we should drink one toast, in which I know you all will join me.” He raised his glass and down the table they raised theirs, abruptly as serious and concerned as he. “To the next President of the United States. May God give him the strength he will need to lead us safely in the paths he proposes.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Beth Knox, widow of Orrin, and Lucille Hudson, widow of President Harley. “Hear, hear!” said Senator Lafe Smith and Mabel Anderson, widow of Senator Brigham. “Hear, hear!” said Cullee Hamilton, Senator-elect from California, and his bride-to-be, Sarah Johnson. “Hear, hear!” said the President’s sister and brother-in-law who had lived with him in the White House during the six hectic months of his tenure. “Hear, hear!” said Senator Elizabeth Ames Adams of Kansas. “Hear, hear!” said Senate Majority Leader Bob Munson and Dolly, who had come with Senator Stanley Danta of Connecticut, the Majority Whip. “Hear, hear!” said Stanley and Stanley’s daughter, Crystal Danta Knox. And “Hear, hear!” albeit with a note of annoyance that amused them all and lightened the mood again, said Representative-elect Harold H. Knox of Illinois.

  “I suspect I should tell you also, quite confidentially,” the President said, “that the incoming Secretary of State sends his warm regards and affection to all. I invited him to come and he wanted to, but we agreed that it might not be too diplomatic, under the circumstances. He said he was going to need all the diplomacy he could muster, and had best start now.”

  “I still don’t see why he took it,” Hal said moodily. “I still don’t see why—”

  “Because,” the President said crisply, “as of approximately twelve noon tomorrow, Edward Montoya Jason of California is the only President we have, and Bob Leffingwell feels, I believe, that he has got to help him in every way he can if Ted is not to be crushed by the pressures of the events he is going to set in motion—starting, probably, at approximately 12:05 p.m. tomorrow. I might add,” he said with a certain affectionate severity, “that I think we had all better do the same. And that includes rambunctious new Congressmen from the state of Illinois.”

  “I’ve tried to tell him,” Beth said, ruefully amused, “but he finds it difficult to listen.”

  “His father would have, I think,” said Lucille Hudson softly, looking, as always, plump, lacy-pink and grandmotherly.

  “Would he?” Hal asked, still moodily. “I wonder.”

  “Oh, I think so,” Senator Munson said. “He fought many a fine fight, did Orrin, but when it came right down to the basic needs of the country, he stopped fighting and pitched in.”

  “And you think Ted Jason is going to serve the basic needs of the country?” Hal inquired with a sudden asperity so reminiscent of his father that several of his elders exchanged amused glances. “I don’t.”

  �
��Of course he is,” Elizabeth Ames Adams said with an answering asperity that made Hal blink for a second. “Not according to your lights or mine, maybe, but according to his. Which he’s been handed the right to do, remember. Maybe you’d better repeat that fact to yourself several times a day. It might help you get along more comfortably on the Hill.”

  “Now, Aunt Bessie,” Hal said with a sudden charming grin that he had learned years ago could mollify the Senator from Kansas and most others of his father’s close Senatorial friends, “don’t lecture me. I’ll do my best to support him … I guess. But it won’t be easy.”

  “I didn’t say it would be for me, either,” Bessie Adams said, responding with a smile. “So don’t think you’re alone, young scamp. But I’m going to try. I’m going to go just as far as I can, give him the benefit of every doubt right up to the limit, probably swallow my oath to uphold the Constitution until it chokes me—and hope we can keep him from taking us too far down roads I don’t believe in and worry about.”

  “Good for you, Bess,” Bob Munson said. “One vote I can count on to support the Administration, anyway.”

  “And how about you, Uncle Bob?” Hal inquired. “Are you going to be right in there every minute, rounding up those votes and cracking that whip, being the very model of a model Majority Leader, no matter what the guy does? I suppose he’s that lucky.”

  “No,” Bob Munson said slowly, “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.… I’ll help him to the limit, just like Bessie: surely. That’s my job, not only as Majority Leader but as United States Senator. After we reach the limit—” he looked suddenly grim—“other considerations will apply.”

  “And who sets the limit?” Lafe Smith inquired from down the table, almost as moody as Hal. “You—me—the next guy? Where do we draw the line, Bob? I’d like to know.”

  “Conscience,” Cullee Hamilton suggested dryly, “must decide the issue.… But whose conscience?” He too looked moody. “His or mine?”

  “A collective conscience, maybe,” the President said. “We’ll know, on the Hill. Instinct will tell us when to stop.”

  “Do you and Bob really think you can hold this new Congress in line?” Cullee asked. “More than half of this Congress rode in on Ted’s coattails. It’s going to be his Congress. It may not be yours at all, this time.”

  “We know that’s a possibility,” the President conceded with a troubled frown in which Bob Munson joined. “We know we may have to fight for it.”

  “You may not be re-elected Speaker and Bob may not be re-elected Senate Majority Leader,” Cullee persisted, “even if the boys have been temporarily decent enough to delay organizing the two houses until you can get back to the Hill.… Then what?”

  “I’m not ready to concede that, yet,” the President said shortly. “I’ll know more about that day after tomorrow. I’m damned if I can see myself getting beaten by Jawbone Swarthman.”

  “Or me by Arly Richardson,” Bob Munson said.

  “We can’t see it either,” Lafe Smith agreed, “but sometimes these things happen. If Ted throws his support to Arly and Jawbone—”

  “If Ted is smart,” Senator Munson said bluntly, “he’ll damned well keep his hands off both houses of Congress when we organize.”

  “Do you think he has, in the past few days?” Beth asked. “There seem to be rumors—”

  “If he’s smart,” Bob Munson repeated, “he’ll keep his hands off. If he isn’t—well—” he looked grim—“then Bill’s right, there will be a hell of a fight. I don’t think he wants to add that to all the other problems he’s going to have to handle right off the bat—but maybe he does. We’ll just have to see. If so, I’m ready for him on my side, and I think Bill is on his.”

  “If either of you has the say,” Stanley Danta reminded quietly. “What’s going to be in the inaugural address? Does anybody know yet?”

  “An end to all wars,” Lucille Hudson said with a gentle irony. “For which I am sure we must all be very grateful.”

  “I would be if I thought it were anything more than a grandstand stunt,” Cullee remarked.

  “I too,” Lafe agreed. “But I don’t see how—”

  “He’s been very secretive with me,” the President said, “But I get the impression that it won’t be too great a wrench from past policies. We’re both still pledged to ‘gradual restructuring,’ remember. I haven’t seen any indications of a change in that.”

  “But you don’t really know, do you?” Hal pressed.

  “No,” the President admitted. “I don’t really know. But I repeat, I haven’t seen any indications.”

  “He never did repudiate NAWAC, did he?” Lafe Smith asked. “And he forced you to halt aid to Gorotoland. And relax the blockade on Panama.”

  “He did no such thing,” the President said sharply. “I’ve made that quite clear to everybody. I did agree with him a couple of weeks ago, in the statement you all read, that as my contribution to ‘restructuring,’ I would not increase aid to Gorotoland during the interim period. And I agreed privately with him that I would not make any more statements of any kind about the blockade. But I certainly haven’t diminished aid to Gorotoland, and I certainly haven’t relaxed the blockade.”

  “But you have permitted him to establish the impression,” Stanley Danta pointed out, not unkindly, “that there has been a slackening, a falling-off, a change. You have allowed him to appear to have slowed down the momentum to a point where he now has all sorts of options and can move in almost any direction. Isn’t that the fact of it?”

  “Look,” the President said, with a certain frustrated annoyance, “let’s all remember one thing, shall we? The man is about to become President. I haven’t been able to ignore that fact, much as I would have liked to. He has had some right to say what should be done. I have had to take some account of his views, after all.”

  “You could have told him to go to hell and kept right on with what you were doing until the moment you left this house,” Hal Knox said bluntly. “Others have.”

  “Yes, so they have,” the President said with a show of real anger, “and a hell of a mess it’s made for their successors and for the country. I sometimes think you young hotheads on our side of it are just as ruthless, intolerant and impractical as the hotheads on the other side of it” … I have tried to cooperate as much as I could, consistent with my own convictions,” he went on more calmly. “That has been my concept of it and that has been my training and tradition, and that is how I have done it. I know some people haven’t liked it. I know I haven’t liked it myself, sometimes. But I am still enough of a Christian and a gentleman, I hope, so that I will do unto others as I would like them to do unto me, were the situation reversed. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “But you don’t have any real promise from him, do you,” Cullee Hamilton said, also in a not unkindly fashion, “that he won’t kick the whole thing over the moon tomorrow, if he wants to.”

  The President shook his head.

  “No,” he said quietly, “I don’t have any promise. All I have is the faith that he will take his oath of office seriously and won’t make too many violent changes.”

  “Just faith in Ted Jason,” Lafe Smith said in a musing tone and the President gave him a steady look.

  “That’s right,” he said crisply.

  “Good luck,” Hal Knox remarked grimly, and his mother leaned forward.

  “Listen!” she protested. “Try to be objective about it, will you? The President has done the best he can to work with Ted. He has had to work with him. I think he has done a fine job of it, in a very difficult situation. What Ted does with it now is his problem, and whatever comes of it is on his hands and on his conscience. I applaud what the President has done. And,” she concluded quietly, “I think your father would have approved, as well.”

  “Well—” Hal began, but his wife forestalled him.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Crystal said quietly. “I think you have done a fine
job, Mr. President. And I’m not afraid of Ted Jason. I don’t think he’s all that bad.”

  “After all his people did to you and our baby,” Hal began in bitter disbelief. But again she spoke with a quiet firmness.

  “He didn’t do it and I will never think he wanted it. I’m not so sure he’s entirely wrong. I would like a world of peace for our children to grow up in, too, you know. I’m willing to give him the chance to try for it. The overwhelming majority of our fellow citizens think he can. Who am I to stand in his way and cast suspicions on his plans before we even know them?”

  “I agree,” Mabel Anderson said abruptly, and Sarah Johnson said firmly, “So do I.” Mabel pushed back a lock of hair with a hand that trembled with nervousness. But her voice was equally firm.

  “The thing I hate about politics is that it always sets people so against each other. I saw what it did to—” her voice trembled for a second, then strengthened—“to my husband, and after Brig died I said I would never have anything to do with it again. Lately I’ve changed my mind, because I’ve decided it’s the way we do things in this country, and if I wanted to have any influence at all I’d better get back in and play my part. But I still hate the suspicion and the backbiting and the tearing-down of men before they even have a chance to show what they can do. I agree with Crystal. I don’t like Ted Jason in lots of ways but we’ve got to have peace and he thinks he knows how to get it. So let’s give him a chance. It seems to me that’s only fair.”