Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  Then at last she crossed her arms on her chest, nodded to herself, and stated emphatically, “Well, you know what?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I think history is important!”

  And at that moment Yale Templeton knew the true meaning of love.

  XVII

  The five men met in a seedy bar only a few blocks from the Capitol. They came in disguise, as the President had instructed. The President himself was dressed very fashionably in a grass green ruched silk cocktail dress by Yves St. Laurent with matching strappy sandals. He wore small diamond stud earrings and carried a silver evening bag. A non-partisan observer might have suggested that he had used a touch too much mascara, but then he was always a bit heavy-handed with makeup.

  The Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs came as Captain Hook. He wore a scarlet frock coat with gold brocade, a large tri-cornered hat with ostrich plumes, a white blouse with jabot and ruffles at the wrists, tight-fitting orange pants, and jewelled rings on his left hand. Fearful that his companions would ridicule him for appropriating, in exact detail, the costume that Cyril Ritchard had worn in the Broadway production of Peter Pan, he had added two original touches: a wooden peg leg and a stuffed parrot taped to his shoulder that screeched “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” when its beak was squeezed.

  The Director of the CIA was dressed as the Director of the FBI. He had gone to great lengths to produce the appropriate effect, having electrolysis to clear a bald spot at the back of his head, dying his hair bluish-grey, adding putty to his nose and earlobes, and wearing a false moustache, trimmed unevenly, the left side longer than the right. He also carried a bucket of water.

  Not to be outdone, the Director of the FBI came as the Director of the CIA, wearing a custom-made mask from an upscale costume house in Georgetown. A sandy coloured wig, the hair matted on the sides and in front, sat slightly askew on top of his head and he had four-inch lifts in his shoes. He walked around with his hand in his pocket, tightly gripping a Beretta.

  As for the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, he was dressed in a conventional charcoal grey three-piece suit.

  The President scowled when he saw the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “You were supposed to come in disguise,” he groused, his voice grating with irritation.

  “I am in disguise,” replied the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “Normally I wear my navy suit on Tuesdays.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” snorted the President. “Good thing I stopped at Lord & Taylor on the way over.” And reaching into a shopping bag at his feet, he pulled out a pink feather boa. “Here, put this on,” he ordered. And the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation obediently wrapped the boa around his neck.

  “That’s better,” said the President, nodding his head in approval. “Now let’s get down to business. As you know we’re here to talk about the latest developments in the Templeton case.”

  “Why didn’t we just meet in the secret room at the White House?” asked the Director of the CIA.

  “The plumbing backed up again,” replied the President. “Someone’s been flushing Tampax down the toilet.” And he stared accusingly at the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, who threw up his arms in bewilderment while the other men at the table shook their heads at him in a collective rebuke.

  “Just remember, Lowell,” the President cautioned, “we’re still holding your children as hostages.”

  “And my wife, too?” asked the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  The President looked at the Director of the FBI, who nodded.

  “Yes,” said the President. “Your wife, too.”

  “If you must,” sighed the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, who then ordered drinks for everyone in the bar, everyone at that moment consisting of the President and his four companions, a hooker fast asleep at the counter with her head resting in a bowl of assorted nuts, and two black men doing a drug deal in one of the corner booths.

  “All right. Back to the reason we’re here,” said the President. “The little undertaking we discussed at our last meeting. It didn’t work out exactly as we had hoped. I’ll leave it to Clyde to fill in the details. Clyde?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” responded the Director of the FBI and the Director of the CIA simultaneously.

  “I said ‘Clyde,’” the President snapped at the Director of the FBI.

  “Yes, but we’re in disguise, remember?”

  “Well, I know, but …”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President. If we don’t stick to our assumed identities we risk compromising the entire enterprise.”

  The President considered the argument for a moment and glanced around. The drug dealers were huddling in the booth, seemingly oblivious to anything but their own negotiations. The hooker was snoring gently into the assorted nuts. “You’re right,” whispered the President. “It has all the earmarks of a sophisticated espionage operation. We’d better stay in character.” Upon which, the Director of the CIA got up from his chair and stepped into the bucket of water, while the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs bellowed “Shiver me timbers!” He whapped the parrot on the beak with his hook until it squawked, “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”

  “Very good,” whispered the President, and now, elevating his voice to an octave that would have allowed him to sing coloratura, he said loudly enough for the drug dealers to hear, “All right, Clyde, you go ahead now,” and he gave the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA) a surreptitious wink.

  The Director of the FBI nodded, then sat in silence.

  “I said go ahead now, Clyde,” the President repeated, once again giving a wink.

  The Director of the FBI remained silent.

  “Clyde?”

  “I don’t know what it says in the report,” he whispered.

  “Ah, yes,” said the President. “I see the problem.” And he pondered for a moment.

  “Maybe I’d better make the presentation,” whispered the Director of the CIA.

  “No, no,” whispered the Director of the FBI. “You’re standing in a bucket of water. It would be a dead giveaway.”

  “I have a suggestion,” interjected the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  “Go ahead,” said the President.

  “Why doesn’t Clyde whisper his report to Raymond, and then Raymond can repeat it to the rest of us?”

  The President reflected for a moment. “Why, that’s very good, Lowell.” Then he turned to the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI) and ordered, “Release one of his children after the meeting.”

  And so, with the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI) intermittently leaning over to tell him what to say, the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA) made the following report:

  “Initially everything went as expected. The operative assigned to the case, Bobbi Jo Jackson—”

  “Ah, Bobbi Jo Jackson!” sighed the Director of the CIA and the President in chorus.

  “… as I was saying,” continued the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA), “the operative assigned to the case, Bobbi Jo Jackson, made contact with the subject at the Faculty Club in Toronto and lured him to a motel out near the airport. She lured him out to the motel and arranged for our photographers to come in just at the right moment—”

  “Ah,” interrupted the President again, and again he sounded wistful, “I think I know that moment.”

  “… and the photographers took several reels of film and made a video and passed everything along to the man we assigned to approach Templeton. Klein is his name, Mr. President. I think you know of him from his brilliant work in Afri
ca.”

  The President nodded.

  “So Klein met Templeton, showed him the photographs and tape, and said he was going to turn everything over to the university administration unless Templeton gave him the evidence on Lincoln. Templeton begged him not to do it …”

  “Excellent,” interjected the President.

  “Please let me finish, Mr. President,” said the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA). “He begged him not to turn the material over to the administration because …”

  At this point the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI) slipped him a piece of paper with something scrawled on it. The Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA) took out his glasses and read the note, then continued.

  “It appears that I wrote down his exact words. Templeton said, and I quote, ‘Please don’t let the administration get their hands on the pictures. They can’t keep track of anything over at Graves Hall.’ Unquote. Then he asked for six-by-ten glossies of all the photographs as well as a duplicate of the videotape. To send to his mother.”

  “To his mother!” cried the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  “Well, she was born in Canada,” muttered the President.

  “And that’s not necessarily the worst of it,” blurted out the Director of the CIA.

  “Hey, remember. You’re supposed to be the Director of the FBI,” warned the President under his breath.

  “Oh … um … what I mean is …” stammered the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI), looking around worriedly and rubbing his forehead. Then suddenly he brightened and announced loudly, “What I meant to say was, as the Director of the CIA was telling me on the way over here,” and he gestured toward the Director of the FBI, “that’s not necessarily the worst of it.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA), trying to be helpful. “I said, ‘That’s not necessarily the worst of it.’ Now, uh, remind me, Clyde …”

  “Raymond.”

  “Remind me, Raymond. What else did I say?”

  “You said,” replied the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI), “there has been no further word from Bobbi Jo Jackson.”

  “You don’t think Professor Templeton did away with her?!” exclaimed the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  “Oh, no,” replied the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI). “On the contrary. She’s moved in with him.”

  “Moved in with him?!” exclaimed the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA).

  “Yes. Don’t you remember? That’s what you told me,” said the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI), glaring at the Director of the FBI.

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “You also said that there are rumours she has been seen in the university library reading works of history.”

  “Good Lord!” said the President to the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA). “You don’t suppose she was a double agent all along?!”

  The Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA) looked at the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI), who just shrugged. Then the Director of the FBI turned to the President and shrugged.

  “So what do we do next?” asked the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  “Well, I’d be glad to han … I mean, Clyde could handle it, Mr. President,” said the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI), and he gave a slight nod of his head to the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA). The Director of the FBI was momentarily baffled, but then, with dawning understanding, added, “Yes, I could handle it.” And he took out his Beretta and slapped the barrel against the palm of his hand.

  “Thank you, Clyde. As I’ve indicated before, your personal intervention may well become necessary at some point. But for the time being I think there is a simpler, if admittedly more expensive, way of getting the information we want from Templeton.”

  “You mean a bribe, Mr. President?” asked the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  “Exactly. A bribe,” replied the President.

  “Uh, Mr. President,” said the Director of the FBI, “I hate to have to tell you this, but I’ve been through the Templeton file many times, and there isn’t a scrap of evidence to suggest that he cares about material possessions. I don’t believe he can be bought off.”

  “Of course he can be bought off!” roared the President. “He’s an American, isn’t he?”

  “Well, he was born here, that’s true,” replied the Director of the FBI. “But his mother took him to England before his first birthday and renounced his American citizenship. According to our files he’s only made one trip to the United States since then, and that was to spend a weekend at a history convention in Chicago. Apparently it didn’t turn out well for him. He was charged with sexual harassment and someone stole both his watches.”

  “Yes, yes. I know all that. But this is a matter of simple biology. Natural selection. Survival of the fittest. His American genes would have wiped out his Canadian genes long ago. And keep in mind, his ancestors were Templetons. Why, along with Biddle, Morgan, and Mellon, they practically invented banking in this country. Hell, look at his own father. His own father spent every sane moment of his life chasing the almighty dollar. Talk about a patriot. He even died mugging welfare recipients in Harlem. Deplorable, I grant you. But in a way curiously inspiring.” And he removed a scented handkerchief from his handbag and dabbed at his eyes.

  “So will Clyde handle it, then? The bribe, I mean,” said the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA).

  “You are Clyde,” whispered the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI).

  “Oh … er … right. So will I handle it?”

  “No, no,” said the President. “I have a personal acquaintance who is especially qualified to look after these sorts of financial arrangements.”

  “You mean the Sicilian gentleman we brought in to take care of that little misunderstanding with the manicurist back when you were governor?” said the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  The President froze him with a stare, then turned to the Director of the CIA (disguised as the Director of the FBI). “What I told you about releasing one of his children?” The Director of the CIA nodded. “Well, forget it.” The President paused a moment, eyed the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation closely, then added, “Release his wife instead.” And the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation slumped in his chair, his head falling forward on his chest.

  “Sex didn’t work, so we go after Templeton with money,” mused the Director of the CIA. “I like it.”

  “Money makes the world go around,” observed the Director of the FBI.

  “Like the song says in Cabaret,” answered the Director of the CIA.

  “Oh, yes,” said the President, clapping his hands gleefully. “Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey. Didn’t you just love them.” And he got up from the table, grabbed the pink feather boa off the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, wrapped it around his neck, and started bumping and grinding across the floor, singing in the most convincing soprano he could manage, “Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world go around. Money makes the world go around, of that you can be sure …” Upon which the Director of the CIA and the Director of the FBI sprang up in tandem and, along with the President, bent over, stuck out their tongues, blew hard while making rude blattering noises, and finished the verse “… on being poor.” After that all three men linked arms and started slinking around the bar chanting: “Money, money, money, money. Money, money, money,
money …”

  Now, while all this had been going on, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs was sitting silently in his chair. Not that he was indifferent to the question of how to deal with the troublesome Professor Templeton. It was just that, with his ankle pulled back and strapped to his thigh and a wooden peg leg attached to his knee, he was in excruciating pain. But, perhaps buoyed by the singing, or maybe just because he had to do something to take his mind off his agony, he pulled himself up out of his seat and shouted loudly, “Avast ye mateys! Let’s keelhaul the blackguard!” At which precise moment his wooden leg cracked and he started to topple over, slamming his hook into the table to break his fall (and almost surgically removing the right baby finger of the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation). His sudden wrenching movement caused the stuffed parrot taped to his shoulder to tear loose and go hurtling through the air, screeching “Pieces of Eight! Pieces of Eight! Squawk!!” until the Director of the FBI (disguised as the Director of the CIA) pulled the Beretta out of his pocket and coolly brought the bird down with one carefully directed shot to its beak.

  After which the bartender made them all leave because they were disturbing the drug dealers.

  XVIII

  H. Avery Duck was head of the Faculty Union at the university. An authority on monasticism in late medieval Russia, he was fluent in twenty-four languages, all of which he had invented himself. While to a casual observer he might have appeared a surpassingly ordinary, even boring man, he prided himself on his adherence to the very highest of moral and intellectual standards. Principle dictated his every decision, from whether to support university policy on investment in countries with repressive regimes, to which flavour of jam to use on his toast each morning. It was his unwavering sense of integrity that so attracted his wife to him. “You are a man of great principle, H. Avery Duck,” she would sigh every night as he wrestled with the ethical dilemma of which pair of pyjamas to wear to bed. They had no children but did keep a pet turtle named after the leader of an obscure heretical sect in thirteenth-century Kiev.