“He talked about it again to me later,” said Jim. “He referred vaguely to the days that might have been except for ‘them.’ The ‘them,’ I guess, were the plotters he imagines, although for some reason at the last minute he excluded me.”
“The conspiracy thing is the key,” said Karper. He shook his great head sadly. “Millions of ordinary people like to imagine there’s a conspiracy behind everything, from the Kennedy assassination to the fluoridation of water. But when a man of Mark’s caliber and education imagines there’s a cabal operating to persecute and to destroy him personally, well, there’s only one word for it—paranoia.”
“Still,” said Jim, “the strange part is that he seems to recognize it himself. Didn’t he indicate pretty plainly to us that he thought he had suffered a temporary mental disturbance?”
Karper nodded in assent.
“Well,” said Jim, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was only temporary. They call it a paranoid state, I think.”
“Temporary?” asked Karper. “When he was still hinting at some mysterious ‘they’ last night? Anyway, when he comes back from his vacation, we have to face the same thing all over again. Just imagine. We’d be studying his every move, wondering whether it was the act of a sane man or not.”
Karper struck the table with the palm of his hand. “Jim, you just can’t run a government like that.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Jim. “Still, this vacation of Mark’s gives us all a breathing spell. We can figure out a course of action while keeping in close touch with General Leppert. After last night, you can bet the doctor will be on the alert for any signs of mental trouble. Then, later, if it ever comes to another showdown, we’ve always got those letters of Mark Jr. as a final card to play.”
Karper shook his head. “You mean Mark Jr. has them. And suppose he decides later that his father is mentally sound, even if the President actually isn’t? And suppose he refuses to let us use the letters? Then where are we?”
“I think Paul probably could persuade the boy,” said Jim, but he said it without conviction.
Karper sipped at his coffee, then pushed the dishes aside and leaned his elbows on the card table.
“Jim,” he said, “this whole affair has convinced me of one thing. The mental business is almost impossible to handle at the apex of government. We thought the disability problem was solved when the succession amendment was passed and ratified in the Johnson administration. But it isn’t, is it? If Mark comes back and claims he’s normal, but we have evidence he isn’t, then the fight would rip the government apart—with God knows what dangerous results abroad.”
“But there ought to be some mechanism,” said Jim, “especially now when mental ailments can be diagnosed and catalogued almost as well as a lot of physical illnesses.”
Karper shook his head moodily. “I don’t think so. We went all through that with the CACTUS committee. And I keep remembering something General Trumbull told Butch Andrate—that nobody in this country can tell a president of the United States that his mind is sick.”
Jim was about to protest, but the doorbell rang and Martha called: “Jim, it’s Craig Spence to see you.”
The columnist came loping into the TV room before Jim could intercept him. Spence was startled to see Karper there.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was barging into a private breakfast conference. Could I see you alone for a minute, Jim? There’s something I need to check.”
Jim glanced at his wrist watch and shook his head. It’ll have to wait. The President is going on the air in two minutes.”
“The President?” Spence scratched his bald head and looked at MacVeagh with a puzzled frown. “What’s that all about? I’ve been out of touch with my office….I hadn’t heard that the White House had announced any speech.”
“I think he got the time just an hour or so ago,” said MacVeagh. He called to his wife, then drew the window draperies and turned on the TV set to Channel 4.
In the darkened room, a handsome male visage slowly took form on the screen. The man was speaking.
“The regular Friday morning Monica and Muriel show,” the announcer was saying, “is being pre-empted today to bring you an important message from the President of the United States. The White House asked for this time only a short while ago and very few newsmen have been alerted as yet. We do not know the nature of the President’s talk, so we simply take you now to the fish room of the White House in Washington.”
The camera focused on the blue and gold seal of the President and then moved upward to show Mark Hollenbach standing behind a podium which reached barely to his waist. The long, thin face, delicately boned, wore no smile, but it appeared fresh, even youthful under the sturdy crew cut with its mixture of sandy and gray hair. Behind the President on his right stood his wife, Evelyn, and Jim was immediately struck by her sad, haggard look. It was the face of a woman who might have been crying recently. To the left in the rear stood Mark Hollenbach, Jr., handsome, forcibly restrained, obviously saddened. Then the camera panned over not more than a dozen newspapermen who were sitting in chairs with open notebooks ready.
“Good morning, fellow citizens,” said Hollenbach. His tone was pleasantly conversational. “While it is unusual to come to you so early in the day, I thought it best to speak to you at this hour, so that you could know the facts at once and not be harassed with gossip and rumor throughout the day. I wish to read a brief announcement.”
President Hollenbach took a sheet of paper from the podium, held it before him, and began reading:
“My fellow Americans, for some time I have been bothered by palpitations of the heart. My physician, General Maury Leppert, has advised me repeatedly either to slow down or to take a vacation of some length, but I declined to do either. In these crucial times, I felt the nation could not afford a president who either had to work part-time at the job or who had to leave Washington for extended periods. I had hoped, naively, that the heart irregularity would improve. In recent days, however, I have become aware of an increased heart tremor.”
He stopped and sipped at a glass of water.
“Accordingly,” he resumed, “after consulting with General Leppert and others, I have decided to resign this office.”
In the McLean home, MacVeagh and Karper exchanged amazed glances.
“Did he say ‘resign’?” asked Jim.
Karper nodded, a bewildered look on his face. Martha gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. Craig Spence stared at the television screen as though he had seen an apparition.
“I am,” continued Hollenbach, “resigning the presidency under the law and the Constitution and under the terms of the disability agreement signed by Vice-President Patrick O’Malley and myself shortly after the inauguration.”
To the rear of the screen, the camera caught Mrs. Hollenbach quickly dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Young Mark’s lips were pressed tightly together.
“My family,” said the President, “has been informed of my decision and both my wife and my son approve of it. Democratic leaders, who met through most of the night, have gone over the situation thoroughly.
“While Vice-President O’Malley was understandably reluctant to undertake the burdens of this office, he is a man who knows his duty and his responsibility, and he has agreed to take the oath of office at twelve noon today in the Cabinet room. I am hopeful the Chief Justice of the United States will be able to administer the oath. I understand that after taking the oath, President O’Malley will have an important announcement as to his own future plans in this election year, plans to which Democratic leaders gave their assent last night. I urge my countrymen to give the new President every ounce of encouragement and support for such time as he holds the presidency.
“The first clause of our disability agreement requires Vice-President O’Malley to act promptly to initiate succe
ssion procedures upon clear evidence that I am no longer able to discharge the duties of this office. While the clear evidence may be lacking in this case, there is no indication that my condition will improve in the future, and it would only contribute to confusion and chaos in the nation’s affairs should there remain any uncertainty as to whether I could again take up the reins of authority. Therefore, in the interest of a smooth and orderly transfer of government, I am tendering my permanent resignation. The official papers, under the law and the Constitution as we understand them, are now being prepared by the Attorney General and will be signed shortly.”
The President paused. His eyes appeared to mist slightly and he coughed, then cleared his throat before resuming.
“I cannot leave this great office of responsibility and trust, which I sought to conduct in the best interests of all the people, without thanking you, my fellow countrymen, for your support and your faith in me. You showed it first in the voting booths, and then by letter, telegram, phone calls, and word of mouth as the months passed. You have heeded my summons to excellence and you have proved that every citizen can share the American dream in all its beauty if he but puts forth the effort. I have an abiding faith in the destiny of this immense and wonderful country.
“I hate to leave you, but I must. Thank you, God bless you—and God be with us all.”
The camera showed the President slowly lowering his paper, then caught the pack of reporters bursting for the door of the fish room. Mark Jr., with obvious tears in his eyes, stepped forward and shook his father’s hand. Evelyn Hollenbach slipped her arm protectively through that of the President and, as the picture faded, she was turning him gently away from the podium.
Jim MacVeagh switched off the set, and as the picture contracted to a vanishing dot of light he exchanged a look of wonderment and relief with Sidney Karper.
“I can’t believe it,” said Martha.
“I can’t either,” said Karper. He got to his feet. “I have to get to the office right away. I’ll call you later, Jim.”
“Did either of you have any inkling this was coming?” asked Spence.
Karper shook his big head. “Not a word. He spoke with some of us early this morning, but it was my understanding he merely intended to take a vacation.”
MacVeagh nodded agreement. “A long vacation is the way he put it.”
“Long is right,” said Spence.
Karper walked from the room and out of the house, his bearing erect and resolute, and Jim wondered if he was watching the exit of the next Democratic candidate for president. As Martha accompanied Karper to the driveway, Spence spoke in a low voice to MacVeagh.
“Jim,” he said, “I really came here this morning on the damnedest story. I got a tip that you were apprehended by the Secret Service and taken to D.C. General yesterday.”
MacVeagh laughed. “God, how things get exaggerated! Craig, I was due at the White House to meet Secretary Karper for a joint appointment, the nature of which doesn’t really matter now. Suddenly I felt faint on the sidewalk by the east entrance. Agent Luther Smith was there and he was kind enough to drive me to the hospital.”
“But,” protested Spence, “my source over there claims you were taken to the psychiatric section.”
“Well, there are times when I think I ought to go there on purpose.” Jim grinned. “But yesterday it was just a mistake. Smith got mixed up on where he was taking me.”
Spence eyed him closely. “Are you okay now?”
“Oh, sure,” said MacVeagh. “I felt much better in a few hours, and I’m completely back to normal this morning. After all, Craig, I’ve been under a lot of conflicting pressures lately, what with running and not running for vice-president. But I’m glad it’s all over, and I can go back to being the junior senator from Iowa again.”
Spence, apparently convinced, hurried off for the White House and a newspaperman’s long day of digging into the background of President Hollenbach’s startling resignation.
When the door closed, Jim and Martha found each other’s arms and clung together in a tight embrace. Jim thought wryly that Washington was the only city in the nation where events of state could trigger romantic impulses in the inhabitants. He held Martha close, he felt a surge of affection, and he did not once think of Rita.
Martha brushed his chin with a kiss, then pushed him away.
“Now that it’s all over, Jim,” she asked, her eyes searching his face, “what do you think? The President looked so calm, poised, and so sure of himself just now. Do you still believe he was suffering from a mental breakdown?”
“I don’t know for sure,” he said, “and I hope to God I never have cause to find out.”
“But what about his heart?” she asked.
Jim grinned down at her and, in the recess of his coat pocket his fingers toyed with a silver fountain pen.
“Mark Hollenbach’s heart?” he asked. “I was never quite sure about it until right up to the end this morning. Now I believe he has the finest heart in America.”
About the Author
From 1937 to 1964, Fletcher Knebel worked as a Washington correspondent for numerous publications, including Cleveland’s The Plain Dealer, Cowles Publications’ newspapers, and Look magazine. His work in journalism was interrupted by World War II for three years of service as an air combat intelligence officer in the U.S. Navy. After the war, he returned to journalism, and from 1951 to 1964, he wrote a popular humorous nationally published daily column, “Potomac Fever,” which satirized national politics and government. He is the source of the quotation “Smoking is one of the leading causes of statistics.”
In 1960, he wrote a chapter on John F. Kennedy for the book Candidates 1960. Mr. Knebel’s first book, written in collaboration with Charles W. Bailey II, was No High Ground (1960), an exposé of the political, military, and scientific conflicts and confusion that culminated in our dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. He and Mr. Bailey then went on to spectacular success with two bestselling novels, Seven Days in May (1962) and Convention (1964). Seven Days in May was number one on the New York Times bestseller list for almost a year and was made into a movie in 1964 starring Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas, Fredric March, and Ava Gardner. After the success of Seven Days in May, Mr. Knebel semiretired from journalism and devoted his time to writing his own novels. His follow-up was the bestselling political thriller Night of Camp David (1965). He wrote more than fourteen books, including his last novel, Sabotage, in 1986.
Mr. Knebel was born in Dayton, Ohio, in 1911, studied in Tours and Paris for two years after finishing high school, and graduated from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. In 1964, he was named the president of Washington’s Gridiron Club, whose annual banquet sets the opening scene of his novel Night of Camp David. He died in 1993 at the age of eighty-one.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
Night of Camp David Page 33