“My God,” said O’Malley. He recoiled as if struck across the mouth. “Do you know what you’re saying? I’m a ruined man politically. The country would never accept any move that would put me in the White House. It’s unthinkable.”
“You’re the Vice-President,” said Karper. “You’re the only man who can act. It’s as simple as that.”
O’Malley slumped in his chair. The look of incredulity on his face resembled that of the convicted man who cannot accept the sentence the judge has just passed upon him.
Griscom, watching the Vice-President, spoke hurriedly. “We can go into all that later. The thing to do now is to get the text of the agreement over here, so we can study it. Can you get it, Pat?”
O’Malley nodded, as though in a stupor. “It’s at my house on the Hill. I’ll go get it.” And he walked slowly from the room, his head bent, his sagging face sad and lined.
Griscom turned to Arnold Brothers. “Now, chief,” he said, “you’d better go over to D.C. General and fetch Jim MacVeagh back here.”
Brothers squirmed slightly in his chair. His ordinarily bland face looked perplexed, and he dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief, as though fearing a return of the spring cold which had dampened him for several weeks.
“I’m not sure of my duty here,” he said.
“Just what does that mean?” asked Griscom.
“I’m the agent of the President,” said Brothers in a pleading tone. “We detained the Senator because we had reason to fear he might harm the President.”
“But you did that on our recommendation,” countered Griscom. “Now, certainly, any reasonable man would say MacVeagh was picked up without justifiable cause.”
“How about those knives at MacVeagh’s home?” asked Brothers doggedly.
“Coincidence,” said Griscom.
Brothers said nothing and Karper leveled a finger at him. “Good God, man, don’t you realize what’s involved here? The President’s mind is unbalanced. Jim MacVeagh is as sane as you are. Do you want us to resort to a writ of habeas corpus—with Justice Cavanaugh here signing the writ? Do you want to make a federal case out of this, and have the Service the laughingstock of the country?”
Brothers kneaded his hands and frowned. A pension less than a year away…
“Does everyone here agree with the Secretary?” asked Brothers plaintively. He was playing for time.
There were several nods from men about the room, and then Speaker Nicholson said quite formally: “If any question arises, Arnold, you have us as your authority for acting. This looks like a long night, but whatever happens, I think Senator MacVeagh should be here for it.”
Brothers, his face reflecting his discomfort, rose and walked toward the hallway. “In that case,” he said, “I’d better do the job myself.”
The Secret Service chief was back in half an hour, entering the house with MacVeagh just ahead of the returning Pat O’Malley. Brothers delivered MacVeagh to the group like a man washing his hands after carrying a messy package. Karper quickly explained the suddenly altered circumstances to Jim.
“We’re sorry, Jimmy,” said Joe Donovan. “You’re not really nuts. You just act that way.”
“Thanks, pal,” said Jim, but his laugh was less than cheerful. He had been boiling for more than three hours since Luther Smith and another Secret Service agent had registered him at the hospital’s mental ward and then escorted him to a private room. First had come a nurse, solicitous and patronizing, to bring him a white gown. When he refused to don it, she merely smiled angelically and took his temperature and pulse rate. Then came a young, serious, white-coated hospital staff doctor with a clipboard and two pages of questions which he put to MacVeagh apologetically but firmly. Jim was advised to get a good night’s sleep, call for a sedative if he needed one, and be prepared for his first session with a staff psychiatrist at nine o’clock the next morning. Then came dinner on a tray, the food tasting as though it had been stolen the day before from a cafeteria. More solicitude from the nurse and a grudging agreement to bring him the late edition of the Washington Star. He considered demanding a lawyer, thought better of it, wondered what Secretary Karper did when he arrived at the White House gate, decided against calling Martha, damned Chief Brothers, and glowered at the locked door and at the wire mesh at his bedroom window. In all, by the time Arnold Brothers arrived to end his detention, Jim was seething with frustration and anger. Brothers’ guarded apologies on the ride to O Street did nothing to appease him.
But his ire ebbed in Griscom’s living room as he was swept into the discussion. MacVeagh had arrived late at many Washington conferences, but never at one where the mood was as unrelievedly somber as this one. There was no jesting after Joe Donovan’s remark and few wasted words.
Griscom asked Chief Brothers to step into an adjoining room, explaining that a question of Democratic party policy had to be determined and that Brothers, as a civil servant, would feel more comfortable out of hearing. Brothers, mirroring relief for the first time that night, agreed. Then Griscom asked O’Malley for the text of the presidential disability agreement and read it aloud.
“The whole emphasis of this agreement,” he said, “is on speed. O’Malley is required to act ‘promptly’ upon ‘clear evidence’ and in no case is he to delay more than twenty-four hours in setting the legal procedure in motion. Now I would suggest that this entire group should draft and sign a statement, urging O’Malley to assume the presidency because of President Hollenbach’s disabled condition. Then O’Malley should summon the Cabinet, get written statements from a majority stating that he should take over, and then request TV time to explain it to the nation. After that, we get him sworn in.”
“That’s an awful lot of drastic action all at once, Paul,” observed Speaker Nicholson. He was obviously loath to entertain such a sweep of movement.
O’Malley, who had been unwrapping a cigar, now lighted it and puffed reflectively. He had recovered his composure, but his great drooping jowls seemed to accentuate the fatigue etched in his face.
“Before there’s much discussion of this thing,” said O’Malley, “let me say my piece. I thought about this riding to and from my house. No man here is under any illusions that I’m the kind of man who could fill Mark Hollenbach’s shoes—the old Mark Hollenbach, that is. I can handle the job all right, but we all know public confidence in me would be down below the zero mark. What’s more, it would be disastrous for the party if people thought I would become a candidate for president this summer.
“Therefore, I want to make it crystal clear right now that if I’m forced to take over at the White House, under no conditions would I become a candidate for an elected term as president. That would be plainly and irrevocably stated to the country over television. Anything else, with my background in the arena case, would murder us. I just think you all should know that in advance.”
“Thanks, Pat,” said Karper. “Enough said. We all understand.”
MacVeagh spoke for the first time. “Not that anybody cares much, but the same thing goes for me on vice-president. After my part in this—well, this investigation of the President—I could never be a candidate for vice-president. It would be presumptuous to include the presidency in that, but of course, it’s included too.”
Fred Odium’s small pale-gray eyes darted from man to man. He had said nothing so far, an unusual restraint on his part. Now he spoke, his voice as barbed as a trolling hook.
“These great renunciations are very magnanimous on your part, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to O’Malley and MacVeagh, “but I’m a lot more interested in what we’re going to tell the country. I’m not anxious to enter a campaign in which we’ve just told the people that they’ve been governed by an insane man. The voters might get the idea it’s some contagious Democratic disease.”
“I agree,” said Karper, somewhat to Odium’s surprise. “Fred is right. B
ut it’s not domestic politics that bothers me. Such an admission could be terrifically damaging abroad, especially with this conference with Zuchek coming up.” He whistled through his quill toothpick, then shook his head. “I’m not sure, but perhaps the way out would be through General Leppert. Perhaps we could persuade him to certify that the President is suffering from a physical ailment. And maybe, who knows, there is some tissue damage to the brain.”
“Now just a minute,” said Sterling Gullion. “How do we know that General Leppert will concede that the President is ailing, either mentally or physically? How do we know that he won’t claim, after hearing everything, that Hollenbach is sane?”
They all looked at the Negro senator in surprise. His large, moist eyes returned their gaze, and he smiled softly.
“Good God, man,” exploded Karper. “How could anyone doubt evidence like this? Do you?”
“No,” said Gullion, “but I’m a layman, not a physician. Leppert might demand all kinds of medical proof, psychiatric examinations and that sort of thing, before he’d lay his own reputation as a doctor on the line.”
“I think that’s a strong possibility, Sterling,” said Speaker Nicholson. He spoke in measured, rhythmic tones as though rendering a parliamentary decision in the House of Representatives. “You all know I didn’t believe this at first. Now I’ve come to the reluctant conclusion that perhaps something is wrong with the President’s mind. But who knows how bad it is? Maybe it’s only temporary. Maybe, unbeknownst to us, it has already cleared up. Who can be sure just what a professional man would certify?”
“Gentlemen,” said Karper, “this condition of the President’s has been under way for at least six months. There is just no blinking the facts.” His voice grew harsh, almost brutal in intensity. “I live with this nuclear decision day and night, and I just could not face my children or yours if I didn’t do everything in my power to get Mark Hollenbach away from the go-code. It is sheer folly to have that man anywhere near the command and control machinery. It might lead to wholesale murder.”
Karper’s stand provoked an argument that lasted more than an hour. Odium, Nicholson and Gullion maintained that the chance of a decision requiring firing of the massive atomic arsenal was exceedingly remote. Karper, backed by Cavanaugh, O’Malley, Griscom and MacVeagh, contended that the threat always hung over the nation, especially now that the Red Chinese had detonated five hydrogen bombs of frightening power and had exhibited the missiles needed to carry the warheads. Gullion inquired how the go-code of the National Command Authorities actually functioned. Karper begged off on security grounds, explaining that it was the most tightly held secret in government and that he would be subject to imprisonment if he revealed it. But, he added, it was common knowledge that the basic atomic law stipulated that only the President could authorize use of nuclear weapons.
“Men,” pleaded Karper, “we just can’t temporize with this situation. There is no compromise. Mark Hollenbach’s hand must be removed from the button. And if this group refuses to act behind the scenes, then I’ll just have to take the case to the country—with all that that involves.”
“You couldn’t,” said Odium. “Think what it would do to the party.”
“I’d chance that,” said Karper grimly. “This is bigger than party.”
“That’s easily said by a man who doesn’t have to face the voters,” said Odium. His pinched face appeared wizened under the lights of the chandelier and his hawklike eyes seemed to accuse Karper.
“I live with the bomb decision,” said Karper. “You don’t.”
“Let’s get this straight, Sid,” said Odium sharply. “As I get it, you’re willing to wreck the Democratic Party over this issue.”
Color swept over Karper’s bronzed face. “I mean precisely that,” he blazed. He shot a warning finger at Odium. “And I think it’s a damned outrage that Louisiana sends the kind of senator to Washington who has the gall even to mention party advantage in the same breath with a madman’s finger on the trigger.”
Odium’s pinched face hardened until the grooves stood out like cracks in a rock. “I think you’d better retract that statement, Mr. Secretary,” he said. His tone was frigid.
“Retract, hell,” roared Karper. “Your kind of approach to life and death on this planet disgusts me deep down in my belly.”
“I might point out to the morally indignant Secretary of Defense,” said Odium with exaggerated gravity, “that if President Hollenbach is removed, Mr. Sidney Karper would become one of the leading candidates for the Democratic nomination.” His tone taunted now. “And I’d like to know whether that cheap political thought has ever crossed the Secretary’s mind?”
“Are you accusing me of trying to get rid of Mark Hollenbach because of personal political ambition?” bellowed Karper.
Odium glared at him without flinching. “Please lower your voice, Mr. Secretary,” he said, “or people may begin to wonder just whose mind it is that’s disturbed.”
Karper sprang to his feet. “Damn you, Odium. I’ve had about enough.”
Griscom rose quickly and thrust his body in front of Karper. Odium had risen too, and Griscom placed a hand on each man’s chest.
“That’s enough, gentlemen,” said Griscom. “That’s quite enough. I think a double apology is in order here.”
The little senator and the huge Cabinet officer stood glaring at each other. The room was so still that the heavy breathing of Speaker Nicholson could be heard. Karper clenched his fists at his sides and Odium’s mouth looked as though he had just bit into a lemon. Joe Donovan broke the silence. He got up from a sofa and put his arm around Odium’s shoulder.
“Come on, Fred,” he said. “He’s got seventy-five pounds and at least four inches of reach on you. Pick on somebody your own size.”
Odium smiled faintly. “I will accept an apology from the Secretary,” he said. His tone was as starched as a boiled shirt front.
“I apologize,” said Karper archly. “I lost my temper.”
“So did I. Please be kind enough to overlook it.”
Joe Donovan grinned and held an arm of each man aloft.
“Now shake on it,” said Donovan.
They did so. Jim MacVeagh, knowing Odium’s acid temperament, had a fleeting fear that the Louisiana senator would remind Karper that another man, under similar circumstances, once lost his temper with his hand on a White House inkwell. The opening, thought Jim, was too obvious for Odium to ignore. But Odium merely smiled, nodded his head at Karper, and went back to his chair.
“God, it’s hot in here, Paul,” said Grady Cavanaugh. “Can’t you open a window?”
“I’ll turn on the air conditioning,” said Griscom. “I’d rather not take a chance on open windows.”
The hum of the cooling machinery seemed to calm the atmosphere. Tension ebbed and the discussion resumed in a normal key. Nicholson urged that the group recess and continue the talk in the morning. MacVeagh insisted that no one knew the extent of the President’s mental disturbance, and that they should continue through the night, if necessary, until some plan of action was evolved. Gullion suggested that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff be brought into the meeting because of his stature with the country and his intimate knowledge of the nuclear decision mechanism. Cavanaugh countered that the issue of presidential removal was a purely civilian one in which a military officer should have no part. And so the talk went on for an hour, with no definitive course of action emerging.
It was past midnight when Griscom answered the ring of the doorbell after carefully closing the oak doors behind him. Mark Hollenbach, Jr., stood on the stoop.
“What’s cooking, Uncle Paul?” The boy’s voice jested, but worry lines in his face showed his concern.
“I’ll tell you upstairs,” said Griscom. “There’s a meeting on down here.”
He led young Hollenbach to an up
stairs bedroom.
“Did you bring the letters?” asked Griscom.
Mark nodded and held out two envelopes. Griscom read the three letters, ran his eyes again over several passages, then handed the sheets back to the boy.
“Mark,” said Griscom, “this is going to be hard to take. A number of us have come to the conclusion that your father is suffering some kind of mental ailment, just how severe we don’t know. A group of party leaders is meeting downstairs now, trying to decide just what to do.”
“I guess I knew there was something like that.” Young Mark went to a back window and stood gazing into the night. “Does Mother know?”
“I don’t think so,” said Griscom. “Things have happened so fast today we haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
Griscom briefly reviewed the gathering evidence while young Mark slouched on a bed and listened.
“I guess I’m not really surprised,” said Mark when Griscom had finished. “Dad’s a complex guy with all that tension and the drive for excellence. I used to wonder sometimes why he didn’t crack.” The boy chewed moodily on his lower lip. His handsome features, with the delicate bone structure, showed his strain. “It’s a sad break, Uncle Paul. I was just getting to the age where I could appreciate the old man, talk to him on his level, I guess you’d say…and now this.”
Griscom put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I know,” he said.
“I suppose it means he’ll have to give up the presidency,” said Mark.
“Yes. I don’t see any other way out. But, of course, Mark, we have to face the fact that he may refuse to relinquish the office. In that case—and this will be rough, kid—we’ll have to use those letters of yours. I sincerely hope not.”
“I understand,” said Mark. “You go on back to the meeting. I’ll try to get some shut-eye. And listen, Uncle Paul, don’t worry about me. I’ll do whatever you say has to be done.”
Griscom came back to the living room to find that a consensus had been reached. As Grady Cavanaugh explained it, all agreed that whatever else was done, the only logical next step was to summon General Leppert and quiz him in detail on the President’s mental and physical condition. The chore of calling the doctor fell to the man who knew him best, Fred Odium, who observed sourly, after glancing at his watch, that he hadn’t heard of a physician in thirty years who would make a house call at 12:45 in the morning.
Night of Camp David Page 30