The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  “I hope you realize how much I appreciate that, but no thank you. It wouldn’t change things, really. It would only make matters worse for the treaty.”

  They moved on.

  “The hell of it is—I mean, I’ve never liked Reidy,” said Sadinauskas. “And Bob Moody’s no Santa Claus, either. They play rough and they play by their own rules, and no one even knows what they are. But the fact is, they’re on the side of the good guys. I don’t think Reidy likes this treaty very much, but he’s a party man, and he seems to be working his ass off for it. And Moody is as much a president’s man as I’ve ever seen in this town. A lot of chiefs of staff—Don Regan, Jim Baker, who was that guy Ike had, Sherman Adams?—they had their own private agendas. I swear Moody would take a bullet for the president.”

  They had walked nearly completely around the block. Showers’ Jeep Cherokee was at the curb. He halted.

  “I appreciate this, Waldemar. I count you as a friend.”

  “Anything I can do, Dave. Absolutely anything.” He reached into his pocket, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I forgot. Moody gave me a message for you. I don’t know what it says.”

  He handed Showers a small sealed envelope. It bore no markings of any kind. Showers tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It bore the words “You lose.”

  “Well?” said Sadinauskas.

  “It says I’m doing the right thing,” Showers said. He crumpled it up and dropped it in his pocket.

  Returning to his apartment, he found he had a visitor waiting for him—a tall, aging, good-looking man in an expensive but rumpled suit, sitting on the low concrete wall outside the apartment building entrance and looking like hell.

  “Hello, cousin,” said Jack Spencer. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Showers studied the man’s bleary face. “Are you sure you need another one?”

  “Don’t you? After today?”

  “All right. But save your money. I have some gin.”

  Upstairs, Spencer glanced around the small apartment, and at the harbor view from the balcony. “Not bad.”

  “I’m going to have to give it up. After today, I won’t be able to afford the rent, not if I’m going to keep up the farm. I’m not sure I can even do that.”

  “They gave you the sack?”

  “Not quite. They were going to send me to the Sudan, so I quit.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked the cuisine. My reward was a newsroom ass-chewing of the undignified sort that Stalin used to give editors at Pravda. I also have a new job. Politics, adieu. No more column. From now on I cover capital arts and culture. Also social life. The only way I’ll see the White House again is covering guest arrivals at state dinners.”

  Showers made simple drinks of gin and ice. “What you wrote was the truth.”

  “The truth is whatever gets on the evening news, old sport. This didn’t make it.”

  They took chairs on the balcony. Neither spoke for a while. A large sailing cruiser chattered along the channel on its auxiliary motor, the dying sun glinting on its metalwork. Spencer stared at it as he might at an unusually beautiful woman.

  “Why did you do it to me, Jack?”

  Spencer drank. “Why’d I do it? Because I’m a rotten sonofabitch, that’s why. And a damned fool. Never thought of myself as that. I always thought that I might be a little like you. But I’m not at all. I did it, David, because my masters had been leaning on me hard, complaining my columns were too ‘insubstantial,’ that I never had anything to say. I needed a big score. I thought you were in the clear. I didn’t think the White House would do anything more than issue a denial. I assumed people would think I got it from the Japanese, or one of the usual ‘reliable sources’ I occasionally drink with. Moody’s quite the smart fellow.” He stared after the boat until it had disappeared behind some others. “I screwed you, David. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. And that’s saying something.”

  “What did you tell your editors?”

  “That I couldn’t reveal my sources. I said they should stand by the story anyway. They didn’t. Our morning line lovingly embraces Mr. Moody’s little show-and-tell press briefing this morning.”

  “It’s all right. I think the treaty’s safe. There’s been no protest from the Japanese. Moody’s cover-up will probably work.”

  “Maybe so. But that doesn’t help you.” Spencer drained his glass, and got up to pour another drink.

  “I want to help you,” he said from the kitchen. “That’s why I’ve come by. I’m dead serious. God knows I’ll never make this up to you completely, but I want to give it the old prep school try. I’ll have a lot of time on my hands in this wonderful new assignment. As long as I turn out enough words about the pretty pictures in the National Gallery, no one’s going to worry about where I am. In fact, they’ll likely be happy to have me away from the newsroom as much as possible for a while.”

  He returned, leaning against the doorway. “I mean it, David. Anything. I still have a lot of resources in this town. Contacts, even friends. I know my way around. If you want to get back at the White House, I’ll find a way.”

  “That’s the last thing I want. Right now at least.”

  “Well, you name it. Blood is blood.”

  Showers watched the sun slip behind the trees of Potomac Park across the channel. It occurred to him that the day had not been entirely ruinous.

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to me because of what’s happened,” he said. “I never put you to your word not to say anything.”

  He turned in his chair to look at his cousin more directly. “If I ask your help, I don’t want it to be as penance of sin. I want you to do it for the family.”

  Spencer lifted his glass. “To the family. The holy family. What do you need done?”

  “Are you well acquainted with a man named Bernard Bloch?”

  “Only by reputation, and I can smell it from here.”

  “Let me tell you about a horse I just bought …”

  Fourteen

  For a week, Moody had the daily White House news summary brought to him as his first order of business every morning. He went through the thick compilation of Xeroxed news clips with great diligence. The Japan memo story disappeared after the first day. It became as dead an issue as Senator Everett Dirksen’s bill to make the marigold the national flower—a tiny little blip on the seismograph, come and gone, soon to be utterly forgotten. He’d seen Spencer at the Kennedy Center a couple of nights later, covering the opening of a bad play. Showers had completely vanished. Bernie Bloch had even stopped bothering him about the man. And that damned horse.

  Now came the hard part.

  The Japanese had not come to him. There’d been no word from them whatsoever. The White House congressional affairs office reported they’d gone to ground on Capitol Hill as well. At the same time, the Japanese Diet had not even scheduled ratification for debate. The president was getting curious as to why they had applied the brakes.

  Moody had learned a little about the Orient during his service in the military, enough to know that silence could be a loud message. He would have to go to them.

  He picked an odd piece of neutral ground for a meeting—a one-flight-up Asian restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue not far from the British embassy called Germaine’s, a place much favored by old China hands among Washington diplomats for its authentic and varied cuisine. It was favored most by secondary-level dips, however—sherpas, not summiteers—and Ambassador Aomori seemed a little uncomfortable to find himself in surroundings of such modest stature.

  But, what the hell, a White House chief of staff far outranked a mere ambassador, and Moody didn’t mind.

  The food was very good, and mollified the ambassador somewhat.

  “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Ambassador,” Moody said. “Are you satisfied now about that White House memo business, that it was all something carved out of a walnut shell?”

  Aomoro smiled politely. “We have taken not
e that press interest in the subject has become negligible.”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “Negligible. Yes.”

  “And?”

  “We find no interest in the subject among members of your Congress.”

  “Well, there you are. I’ve already explained to you the White House position on this.”

  The ambassador took a bite of stir-fried pork. He used a fork, not chopsticks.

  “Perhaps some clarification is still in order,” he said, wiping his mouth neatly but with great fuss.

  “What’s in order is a little Japanese action on ratification. Last report I had, your Diet has gone to sleep.”

  “Democracy is not an efficient process, Mr. Moody. Something of this magnitude requires much study.”

  “There have been draft copies of the treaty floating around the UN for more than a year. We’ve got sixty-two signatories. Your lobbyists on the Hill know more about its provisions than most of our congressmen.”

  Aomori shrugged, then took another bite. Once again he carefully wiped his lips, almost a ceremony.

  “My foreign minister would like to talk to your president. The prime minister is interested as well. Perhaps a visit in late summer.”

  “Save your yen. I can tell you exactly what he’ll say. I know the man as well as my own father.” (He knew him much better, actually. His father had deserted the family when Moody was a small boy. If his mother hadn’t moved in with the manager of the local coal mine, the family would have sunk into hopeless poverty, and Moody would not be sitting here now.)

  “He’ll tell you that the treaty isn’t negotiable. That there’s no linkage with anything else that might interest you, not as far as he’s concerned. It’s already been thrashed out in the United Nations and approved by a consensus committee vote—with your country among the notable abstentions. You have to vote it up or down. The president favors up. He won’t want to hear about anything else.”

  Another bite. The napkin again.

  “Let me put it this way, Mr. Ambassador. The president is one of those politicians who isn’t a politician. He sees himself as the country’s number-one public servant, noblesse oblige. A man of principle. He doesn’t bend. He’s not the kind of man you enjoy negotiating with.”

  “We have observed what you say.”

  “Your foreign minister, prime minister, emperor, whatever. They’re all welcome. But if you want to bring him around on anything, you’re going to have to deal with the people who know how to do it, the people who are close to him. His most trusted advisers.”

  “Yes?”

  “And, as one of his most trusted advisers, I can tell you you’re not going to bring him around on this treaty. He won’t give an inch.” He paused for emphasis, taking a sip of his Japanese beer. “However, there are some ancillary matters that you might find it useful to discuss—with the president’s close advisers.”

  “Linkage?”

  “It’s not that bad a word.”

  “In our earlier meeting, you mentioned the possibility of a more relaxed and generous trade climate.”

  “Yes I did. One that would encourage greater Japanese investment. We need more jobs in this country, Mr. Ambassador. We’re going to need more after this treaty goes into effect. I can sure as hell tell you I wouldn’t mind seeing an auto plant or two in West Virginia. That’s something I’d work like crazy for, if all the environmental standards are met.”

  “That would require the assistance of your Congress.”

  “You have a lot of friends there, as I’m sure you know. Majority Leader Reidy is certainly one.”

  “A very practical man.”

  “Look, Mr. Ambassador. There are few things that mean more to me right now than Japanese ratification of the treaty. I’d give my right arm, if you know what I mean.”

  “The treaty infringes on our sovereignty.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, this is just a vote. If you want to put it another way, a promise. It’ll take years to get all the machinery in gear to enforce the treaty. Who knows what’ll happen? Things change. The United States worked for more than twenty years to get the Law of the Sea Treaty on the books, and then Ronald Reagan came along and put it on the shelf.”

  “The Law of the Sea. It is a most neglected document.”

  “All you’re worried about is being told what to do, right? Foreign interference? Well, if you sit down with the president, he’s going to tell you what to do.”

  “What are you suggesting, Mr. Moody?”

  “I’m suggesting your foreign minister would find it a hell of a lot more productive to talk with one of the president’s close advisers—especially if there’s a chance you really will give us a yes vote on the treaty. And you know which adviser I have in mind.”

  “The foreign minister cannot make a formal visit to the United States merely to hold discussions with a presidential assistant.”

  “Of course not. But there’s always Tokyo. Nice big private hotel rooms. We’re all going to be going on vacation in a little while. The president loves his vacations. I’d welcome an opportunity to visit the Far East again. Of course, if I ended up having a lousy vacation, who knows? Maybe this Jack Spencer is a pretty sharp newsman after all. Maybe he’s got some good sources—maybe one close to the president. Maybe he was right after all, about the trade sanctions. Am I overcoming the language barrier, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Aomori finished his meal. After using his napkin, he folded it carefully into a neat square.

  “You are a very interesting man, Mr. Moody.”

  The president was posing for pictures with two more “blades of grass”—a retired couple from Cape Hatteras who had launched a successful campaign to ban dune buggies from a fifty-mile stretch of the Outer Banks. When the photo session was over, Moody went in for his regular afternoon one-on-one. He broached the subject of a Far East trip at once.

  “Send you, Bob? Just you?”

  “I’ve been over there before, sir—the hard way, if you’ll recall.”

  “I’m familiar with your war record. But that was Vietnam.”

  “I’ve been in on most of your meetings with those people, sir, and I’ve dealt with some of them on my own. Acting Secretary Richmond would go along as well, of course—as head of the delegation. We’d hit all the economic powers on the Pacific Rim, those that haven’t ratified yet—Taiwan, Korea, Japan, maybe China. Got to go to China if we’re going to talk pollution.”

  “But isn’t this something I should do?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Some would interpret it as a sign of weakness, that you’re going begging. Others might resent it, look on it as bullying—especially Japan. General MacArthur revisited. Anyway, sir, you deserve a good long rest after all you’ve done this year. I’d much rather see you charging up your batteries on your boat. Remember what happened to James K. Polk, sir. Died three months after leaving office. From exhaustion.”

  “Few presidents have mastered the ability of delegating authority.”

  “And none so well as you, sir. The big target of the trip would be Japan, of course. But with a tour like this, it wouldn’t be so obvious. In fact, I’d like to start with Korea. If we can get ratification out of them, it might get the Japanese moving. They’ve been sitting on their asses.”

  “They have been a disappointment. I thought we had a promising start.”

  “The Koreans could be moved pretty easily, but I’d need your permission to bring up a national security matter. They’ve been getting enough carrots out of us with all the aid we’re still sending. This would be a stick.”

  “What stick?”

  “The possibility of an American troop withdrawal.”

  “But you were the one who talked me out of that.”

  During the campaign, the president had called for a pullout of American forces on the Korean peninsula if Seoul didn’t behave more liberally toward its domestic political opposition. Moody had convinced him that the Korean government wou
ld only become more oppressive if that threat was carried out.

  “Yes sir. I’m not suggesting a reversal. Just a reminder that troop withdrawal remains a possibility. Get their attention.”

  The president looked at his watch. He had a tennis session on his schedule next. “It all sounds very sensible, Bob. What troubles me is the idea of your being gone for so long. I need you to deal with Congress. I’m still disturbed that the treaty vote has been put off until September.”

  “Senator Reidy seems to be doing everything that needs to be done. And a lot of the members are going to be home in their districts, or traveling. Anyway, getting some more countries signed up is probably the most useful thing I can do to get our own lawmakers moving. Especially if one of those countries is Japan. I’m sure Secretary Hollis would agree if he were here. You know how he felt about the Japanese.”

  “Poor Skip. The day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of him.”

  “Me too, sir.”

  “I don’t know, Bob. I want to think about it some more. We have the Mexicans coming and all. I’ll decide after they’ve gone.”

  “All right, sir.”

  “Something you should know, though. I’ve decided upon reflection that perhaps Richmond isn’t the right man for Skip’s job. I just don’t know him well enough.”

  “Yes sir. Have you chosen someone else?”

  The president glanced up. “I’m getting closer,” he said carefully. “I can tell you this, though. If I do let you go on this Far East trip, I’d certainly make no decision on replacing Skip until I’d seen the results of that.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you—make up your mind, that is?”

  “Just wait, Bob. Just wait. You must learn to control your impatience.”

  Showers experienced an odd feeling of metamorphosis as he put on his army fatigues. Not that he was changing into another person. Captain Showers was the same in or out of uniform, in the saddle, or at his bureaucratic desk. Rather, it was a feeling of anonymity, of invisibility. For two weeks, he would be just another line officer in just another National Guard company on just another summer maneuver—a serial number among hundreds of thousands of others in Pentagon computers, a tiny figure beyond the notice of the mighty powers in Washington, powers who supposedly kept their gaze on far horizons, with no concern for the little bugs beneath their feet. He was comfortable with that—for the time being.