By Order of the President

by Kilian, Michael;

  Goode gazed out his window. “The vice president is behind me.”

  “You’re our guy, not his guy.”

  “I’m nobody’s ‘guy.’ I’m nobody’s ‘boy.’”

  “True enough. You’ve just proved that by not asking the obvious question. Anyway, there’s nothing the vice president can do with Owens and us together on this.”

  “What’s the ‘obvious question’?”

  ‘“What’s in it for me?’ Which is to say, you.”

  Goode shook his head and returned to his seat. He propped his feet up on his coffee table and linked his hands behind his neck.

  “Okay, Andy,” he said. “What’s in it for me?”

  “You get to be whip. No ‘gentleman of color’ has ever risen so high.”

  “Me? Whip? You have the votes for this?”

  “We will.”

  “You only have three days.”

  “Hampton got the Honduran military assistance bill through in two days.”

  “That was after the guerrillas killed our ambassador.”

  Rollins said nothing. Goode tilted back his head until he was staring at the ceiling.

  “Nagging question here, Andrew. Has Meathead agreed to any of this?”

  “He will. He hasn’t heard about it yet. I’m going to tell him this afternoon.”

  “He could be drunk by then.”

  “That’s the idea. I’m having lunch with Reuben Jackson. As you always said, Mose, administrative assistants run the country.”

  Goode sat up straight in his chair, and sighed. Then he slapped the tops of his thighs and stood up.

  “Majority whip.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Whip.”

  “But you won’t tell me why this is happening.”

  “When you find out, Mose, you’ll approve.”

  Kreski had set aside most of the morning for his interrogation of agents Evans, Ajemian, Ballard, and Storch. He had worried how to approach them. Having read their reports, he was in effect asking them if they had erred or lied in them.

  All four said virtually the same thing. They had not seen any second shooter or fleeing figure because they had immediately turned to Huerta’s tower at the first burst of gunfire. Kreski believed young Evans without hesitation—because the agent had been the nearest to Huerta of the four and because it was Kreski’s instinct to believe him. He listened to the most halting of the young man’s answers without feeling the slightest itch in his gut.

  Ajemian he thought evasive and prevaricating, but discounted this reaction. Ajemian came from a family of Lebanese Armenians. Kreski had lost an old and cherished friend in the 1983 bombing of the U.S. embassy in Beirut, and consequently bore a prejudice toward the Lebanese he fought constantly to keep out of his judgment.

  Storch he believed because he had known the man for a decade and found his responses to questions about Gettysburg just as thorough, open, and forthright as hundreds of others he had made over the years. Storch made one erroneous assumption, however: that the Secret Service helicopter stationed overhead would have sighted anyone using the museum roof or the Slocum statue. Kreski reminded him that the aircraft had been ordered to stand off to the north because the noise from its rotors had interfered with Hampton’s speech. Only Perkins atop the Culp’s Hill tower might have seen the museum roof—if he were looking at it instead of the larger tower where everyone was shooting at Huerta.

  With Ballard, there had been an itch in his gut. The man’s answers were too perfect, containing no doubts or stumbles, uttered cleanly without downward glances. He was an inordinately handsome fellow, athletic, the product of private schools and an Ivy League college. He had served in the Army Rangers after graduating from Harvard Law, killing some people in the 1983 invasion of Grenada, and had joined the Secret Service for no reason Kreski could understand. He supposed the fellow had, along the way, developed a taste for violence.

  Kreski called in Hammond afterward and both of them listened to the director’s tapes of the interviews. Hammond found all four credible but said he would probably rate Evans and Ajemian lowest on the scale of credibility.

  “Why’s that, Dick?”

  “Because Storch and Ballard are so professional.”

  Kreski relighted his pipe. He had not only given Hammond Al Berger’s job but, within the space of a few days, had virtually accorded him Berger’s place in his life, adopting him, as it were. Anyone to fill the void, he supposed. Such a painful void.

  But Hammond was a good man. Probably the best in the Service. Now.

  “I’m convinced, beyond any doubt, that there was a second gun and that it was fired from the base of the Slocum statue,” Kreski said. “I don’t understand why it wasn’t noticed by at least one of the four agents there, especially Ballard.”

  “What about the roof of the museum? The La Puño flag? Storch should have noticed that.”

  “That confuses me. But it doesn’t diminish my belief in the Slocum statue as the firing point. These bastards may have been all over the place, although it’s not very logical.”

  “The FBI found no powder traces on that statue.” Hammond drank thirstily from his cup of coffee. It was, to Kreski’s knowledge, the man’s only vice.

  “The rain and wind took care of that,” Kreski said.

  “No expended shells. And no footprints leading to where shells would have fallen.”

  Kreski shrugged. The two sat silent for a long moment.

  “My impulse is to give them all polygraph tests,” Kreski said, finally. “I can’t remember the last time I did anything like that.”

  “That’s precisely why you can’t test them, at least now, director. Everyone’s looking for a scapegoat. If it got out that you yourself thought something was funny in the White House detail, you’d hand them the Service on a meat platter. Anyway, sir, I think all these guys are straight, including Evans and Ajemian.”

  “There’ve been times in all this when I haven’t even trusted myself, Dick. It shouldn’t have happened. There’s no way this should have happened, if everyone did their job, did it right.”

  “There’s no way the Reagan attempt should have happened, or the Ford attempt in 1975. Everyone did his job, Director. Huerta was dead within seconds. Al Berger did his job. He probably saved the president’s life.”

  “But the second shooter escaped.”

  “For now, Director. The FBI’s interviewing everyone who lives on Baltimore Pike, at least down to the Maryland line.”

  “And no doubt taking aerial photographs of every one of their roofs.” Kreski glanced over the map spread out on his coffee table for a last time, then began carefully folding it. “All right, Dick, let’s have lunch. When stuck, have lunch. The Washington way. We’ll go to Dominque’s.”

  Atherton and his group came into the morning cabinet meeting embarrassed that they had even less to discuss than they’d had the previous day. Ten minutes later, all this changed. The president’s faction, led by Defense Secretary George Moran, trooped in, unannounced. They entered as though it were just a routine session, smiling and nodding in greeting, but taking their seats in order, as though they had lined up outside the door. Atherton felt like asking if they had come in a bus.

  “We’ve been hearing about the fate of the farm bill,” he said to Moran. “I’m so pleased you could join us.” Moran ignored the darkness of his look.

  “I’ll cut it short and get to the point,” said the agriculture secretary, closing the folder in front of him. “The farm bill is dead. The dairy lobby rides again. As things stand, all the old subsidies remain intact.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Moran said. “The president had high hopes.”

  Atherton cleared his throat. “You’ve talked to him?”

  “Yes,” said Moran, glancing around the table. “A number of us have. That’s why we’re here.”

  He opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. The cabinet secretary came forward and, at Moran’s nod, began distribu
ting them around the table.

  “It’s a directive from the president,” Moran said. “On how government is to be conducted during his, er, convalescence. I’ll just go over the main points.”

  He waited until everyone had received his or her copy.

  “The president didn’t want to confer on this first?” Atherton asked, his voice as brittle as frozen metal. “Not even with me?”

  “The president isn’t able to do much conferring. The bullet that hit him nicked his left bronchial passage. The wound hurts like hell. For a while they’ve had a tube down his throat to help with breathing.”

  “But he’s recovering?”

  “He’s just fine.”

  “If he was hurt that badly, why did Bushy Ambrose drive him twenty miles to Camp David?”

  “Panic. Your driver might panic, too, if you got shot that way.”

  “But he needed a hospital.”

  “The hospital came to him. The best field hospital in the Eighty-second Airborne Division.”

  Atherton read the directive twice, the second time slowly.

  “Each member of the cabinet is to continue to run his or her agency on a day-to-day basis,” he said.

  “That is correct.”

  “And I and my staff are to supervise the day-to-day operations of the White House.”

  “Right.”

  “And the military operations in Central America?”

  “I will continue to run the Department of Defense on a day-to-day basis. The president will be apprised of any and all military developments—in Honduras and anywhere else. You will be briefed as well.”

  “And all contact is to be through Bushy Ambrose?”

  “Much as it was in the White House before this horrible shooting.”

  “What about the arms control talks in Geneva?”

  “They are to continue.”

  “What if there’s a breakthrough?”

  “I assume,” said Moran, looking at Secretary of State Crosby, “that the president would be immediately informed.”

  “Through Bushy Ambrose,” Atherton said. He leaned far back in his chair and folded his arms somewhat belligerently across his chest. No one else spoke. Atherton and Moran stared at each other like gunfighters.

  Then Atherton smiled, though the expression did not reach his dark eyes. “You’re sure you don’t want to make use of the Twenty-fifth Amendment?”

  Its language had come to be very certain in his mind, especially Section Three: “Whenever the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that he is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, and until he transmits to them a written declaration to the contrary, such powers and duties shall be discharged by the Vice President as Acting President.”

  Moran’s face turned almost crimson. “My answer to that question, Mr. Vice President, is, hell no!”

  Atherton unfolded his arms, frowning. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I was thinking of the best interests of the country.”

  “The president is very pleased with the way you’ve handled things, thus far,” Moran said, calming. “Let’s just keep it that way.”

  “How soon do we get to see him?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “That means when?”

  “Just as soon as it’s possible.”

  Atherton sighed. “How about Bushy Ambrose?”

  “Probably sooner.”

  The vice president leaned forward, glancing at the papers on the table before him. “There’s a matter that’s come up concerning Nicaragua that we’re going to discuss at the next National Security Council meeting. Will you be attending National Security Council meetings?”

  “That’s something that wasn’t put into the directive. For the time being, there will be no National Security Council meetings.”

  “What?”

  “We will direct national security from up there. For the duration of the emergency. Until further notice.”

  Senator Rollins met Reuben Jackson at a discreet side door a distance down the corridor from the main entrance to Senator Dubarry’s office suite. Without speaking beyond pleasantries, they went out a rear exit of the Dirksen Building, crossed the street and traversed a parking lot that abutted the rear of a nondescript building that housed the Monocle, a restaurant so favored by the powers on Capitol Hill that some called it the third house of Congress. It was here that they should have erected the security barricades. It was not too much of an exaggeration to say that more business was transacted in the Monocle’s bar in a single day than was accomplished in a month of Senate committee hearings.

  Rollins and Jackson were considered among the most powerful individuals in Congress and were instantly recognized by an immediately deferential maître d’. Rollins’s secretary had made very definite reservations. As was Rollins’s habit, they were exactly on time. But they were requested to wait a few minutes in the bar. The establishment was that popular and crowded. Such were the processes of government.

  “Do you want to tell me now?” said Jackson, as a diffident bartender set down their Bloody Marys.

  “No. I want to wait until you’re pinned against the wall and I can shove a table into your gut in case you get antsy.”

  “Big stuff.”

  “Big stuff. The biggest.”

  The maître d’ all but dragged two lingering congressional wives from their coffee and table, then waved frantically.

  “Gird thy loins,” said Rollins, taking up his glass. When they were seated, with Jackson’s back to the wall, Rollins carefully glanced about the nearby tables. They were mostly familiar faces—familiar lobbyists—but they paid him no unusual attention. This was the most public place on Capitol Hill outside of the Rotunda, and it was altogether natural for Rollins to be meeting Jackson there. It would be assumed that their conversation was routine business. Rollins hunched forward and spoke softly.

  “It’s been two hours since I put out the word, Reuben. What have you heard?”

  “Jake Owens stays majority leader.”

  Rollins nodded.

  “Mose Goode becomes the first black majority whip in history.”

  Rollins nodded again, this time adding a slight smile.

  “Carl Pfeiffer gets Armed Services.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we get fucked.”

  Rollins smiled again. “I’m told that happens to Meathead twice a day.”

  “Not like this. From what I hear, you guys are up to Spanish Inquisition fucking.”

  “Nothing of the sort, Reuben. But you’ve got the general idea. Maitland steps down as congressional honcho of the American military.”

  “Why?”

  “Wrong question.”

  “All right. What. What do we get in return?”

  “Maitland becomes Senate president pro tempore. He keeps the subcommittee on military construction. You get to be staff director of Armed Services, which is better than chairman.”

  “Pfeiffer agreed to that?”

  “For now. In the Congress after this, he may try to bump you, but that’s two years away.”

  “What else do we get?”

  “Just about anything. Except the ambassadorship to Guinea-Bisseau. That’s been promised.”

  “A ride for my wife in Air Force One?”

  “A trip around the world in Air Force One.”

  “I’ll write that down in blood.” He paused, reminded of the president’s blood. “Back to question one. Why?”

  “I’ll say this much. The honorable gentleman from Louisiana is about the most loyal supporter the president has, after me, Bushy Ambrose, and Mrs. Hampton. At least when Meathead’s sober.”

  “I keep him that way. If not sober, loyal.”

  “As president pro tem, he will sit astride the presidential succession.”

  “Jesus, Andy, is the president critical? Dead? We’re getting a few whispers.�
��

  “I can assure you on the most direct firsthand knowledge that he’s not, and that he’s not likely to be, as long as he stays up at Camp David until this is cleared up. Believe me, Reuben. He’s as alive as you and I. But he got shot up, and Ambrose is scared shitless, and he’s got to stay there.”

  “And?”

  “And, the vice president, who’s scared shitless himself, seems interested in invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment. As president pro tem, Meathead would have to rule on any such action, along with the speaker of the House.”

  “The speaker is our sworn enemy. He wouldn’t side with the vice president.”

  “Who knows what he’d do if he decided to screw us up. The present confused situation is certainly a golden opportunity for him. With Meathead in there, he’d have no chance to try anything.”

  “I wish you’d speak more respectfully of the Saviour of the Republic. As president pro tem, Meathead, uh, my boss, would be third in line for the presidency.”

  “I said the president’s fine, Reuben. We just don’t want any fun and games.”

  The waiter came to take their order. Rollins chose a seafood platter and Jackson decided on the restaurant’s largest steak. When the salads arrived Jackson began eating his hurriedly, a man forever pressed for time.

  “Have you heard all the rumors?” he asked, between mouthfuls.

  “Most of them, I guess,” said Rollins. “The one about the coup seems to have faded away.”

  “There’s one that’s really for real. The Judiciary Committee is going to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate the Secret Service.”

  Rollins stared at his plate. “I’m not sure that’s such a bad idea.”

  “Bonnie Greer’s death shall not go unavenged. Some good people are going overboard. You can’t shoot network correspondents.”

  The entrées came. Jackson began carving into the steak. A blond woman lobbyist and a young staff aide on the Environment Committee seated themselves at the table next to them. Jackson waited until the two had resumed their conversation; the boyish staff aide was very excited and talked in loud squeaks.

  “We’ve left out a part of the equation,” Jackson said. “Monsieur Meathead lui-meme.”