Acts of Mercy (2 page)

We take our fingers from the typewriter keys, cease their clattering; then we rip the letter from the carriage, tear it into tiny pieces and drop the pieces into the wastebasket. It is too painful for us to write in the first-person singular because we are not singular. Other people think we are, of course—as
I
thinks we are—but
we
know differently. This is both good and bad. It allows us to observe and to plan in emotionless privacy, but it also hinders our ability to function in what I would call a normal fashion.

The idea of writing a letter was a poor one in the first place, we know that now. If it was not ignored completely, it would plant seeds of doubt and unease of the wrong type: vigilance for the existence of a “paranoid crank,” rather than vigilance for the true danger.

No, we must have more knowledge before we can take action of any kind. And when we have that knowledge, the action we take must not be the writing of letters. Nor personal appeals or any other sort of passive endeavor. We are beginning to understand that the strongest of measures are called for, and that we alone must carry them out. Only then can the threat to Nicholas Augustine be neutralized.

And we are beginning to understand too, as we sit here alone in this quiet room, what those measures must be. After all, as has been demonstrated throughout history, there is only one just way to deal with traitors.

They must be executed.

When Christopher Justice entered the Oval Office, Nicholas Augustine was standing at the French doors behind his desk, staring out at the White House grounds. He turned as Justice approached, gave him a wan smile. “Sit down, Christopher,” he said.

“Yes sir.”

Justice sat on one of the leather chairs facing the desk, buttocks resting on only half of the cushion, feet planted firmly. He felt vaguely ill at ease, as he always did when the President summoned him here. There was something about the Oval Office that instilled a sense of awe and humility in him: the great men who had occupied these premises, the momentous decisions that had been made here, the heads of state who had maybe sat on this very same chair. He put his hands flat on his knees, waiting quietly.

Augustine remained standing before the French doors, framed between the American flag and the blue-and-white President’s flag, backlit by the wash of hot May sunlight coming through the scrubbed glass. To Justice the President looked imposing in that aspect, larger than life. But then Augustine came forward in heavy movements and sat at the desk, and the illusion vanished and he was just a handsome man in his mid-fifties—cool, sharply drawn features, fine cheekbones, gentle gray eyes. A weary man, too, Justice thought. You could see that in the faint slump of his shoulders, in the crosshatched lines under the eyes and around the wide mouth, in the distracted motions of his hands as he began straightening the clutter of papers in front of him.

“Well, Christopher,” the President said finally, “I suppose you’ve read this morning’s papers.”

“Yes sir, I’ve read them.”

“Do you think my comments at the press conference yesterday were anti-Semitic?”

“No sir, of course not.”

“Of course not,” Augustine agreed, and there was heat in his deep baritone voice. “I said, quote, Israel’s decision to conduct their first atomic experiments on the Sinai is as regrettable as Egypt’s similar decision, and I am distressed by the automatic trend of American foreign policy to support Israel in any dispute between that nation and other Middle Eastern powers. It permits us potentially to be held hostage to another’s rather arbitrary actions. In the event of conflict I would not commit this administration at this time to the defense of Israel or
any
Middle Eastern nation. Unquote. If that is an anti-Semitic statement I’m a steam locomotive.”

The President shook his head, ran a hand over a fan of cables. “These are communications from the distinguished secretary of state.
He
thinks I made a dangerous error, but that he might be able to save the situation. That’s how he puts it in one of these cables: ‘I might be able to save the situation.’ Oberdorfer, you know, can be a horse’s ass without half-trying.”

Justice began to feel uncomfortable. He was, after all, only a Secret Service bodyguard; he was not sure it was proper for Augustine to be talking to him so candidly about issues and personalities. But more and more of late the President had taken to summoning him for brief, off-the-cuff discussions that had become increasingly confidential. Justice was flattered that the President would choose him as a confidante, but he simply did not feel qualified to share the more intimate details of political life.

Augustine plucked a folded section of the Washington
Post
from under a pile of folders. “The editorial in here is damned near libelous,” he said. “Did you see it, Christopher?”

“I skimmed it, yes sir.”

“They not only infer that I’m a racist, they say I’ve been ignoring foreign policy, implementing superficial domestic programs, and spending too much time at The Hollows. They say I’m retreating from responsibility and insulating myself from the realities of my office.” Irritably the President tossed the paper into his wastebasket. “They want us to believe those are the sentiments of the American people. Well I don’t believe it for a minute.”

“Neither do I, sir,” Justice said.

The President fell silent again, staring down at the desk top. The desk was massive, six feet long and four feet wide, made from the timbers of a British sailing barque, a present from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1879—the same desk President Kennedy and then President Carter had used. On one corner of it was a small O-scale brass model of a locomotive, one of several of his collection of railroad items that adorned the office; Augustine lifted it, looked at it for a long moment, put it down again and picked up a gold-framed photograph of the First Lady taken at the White House Inaugural Ball.

At length he sighed, set the photograph down carefully, and said in a perfunctory way, “I wonder if those media bastards understand what it’s really like for a man in my position, how
alone
it makes you feel sometimes. I wonder if anyone understands that except my predecessors in this office.”

“I think I have an idea, sir,” Justice said.

The President looked across at him again with interest. “Do you really?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe you do, at that,” Augustine said. “You’re so supportive, Christopher. I’ve noticed that before, though I suppose I marked it down to the nature of your job. But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“I can remember when I was thirty-nine,” the President said. “I was a lot like you are now. A simple man, a man of the people. But that’s all changed.” He paused speculatively. “Maybe you’d be a better person to sit in this chair than I am.”

Justice blinked. “I, sir?”

“Yes. A young man, self-contained, in tune with the needs of the people. And what a magnificent name for a President—Justice! Have you ever been politically ambitious, Christopher?”

“No sir. I’m qualified to be a police officer, that’s all.”

“And you’re proud of your position, proud to serve your country in this capacity.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You’d give your life for me, if it came to that.”

“You know I would, Mr. President.”

“That doesn’t seem just, now does it?” Augustine said. “Why should one common man die for another, eh?”

“Because if somebody like me dies, the world doesn’t lose much,” Justice said. “But you’re a great leader, the world needs you—”

“Does it?” Augustine said. “I wonder.”

Justice could not think of anything appropriate to say; he looked down at his hands. It grew quiet in the office, and when he glanced up again, the President’s head was bowed and he was wearily massaging his temples. Justice felt compassion stir inside him. It wasn’t fair what the media was doing to Nicholas Augustine, he thought; in fact, it was almost criminal.

Four years ago Augustine had risen from relative anonymity as junior senator from California to rally a party so badly split that it was given no hope of succeeding to power. When he had captured public favor with his low-key and old-fashioned campaign and won the election by an amazing four million popular votes, the press had been for the most part quietly supportive. And they had remained that way during the first half of his term. Only then relations had weakened with Russia and China, and energy and other important domestic policies had failed to be implemented, and the jobless rate had soared, and the media had finally turned on Augustine, had begun to criticize him with increasing vehemence as a weak, ineffectual leader, as an overly simplistic man with a superficial grasp of issues. As a result, the President’s popularity—over sixty percent for nearly the first three years—had begun to dip sharply during the past six months. Now, anything he did or said was subject to controversy, misinterpretation, and attack from all sides; even members of his own party, led by maverick Kentucky senator Peter Kineen, had opened another split and were vowing to keep Augustine from seeking a second term by wresting the nomination away from him at the forthcoming convention in Saint Louis.

It was terrible to see, Justice thought, what this constant pressure was doing to the President. He believed Nicholas Augustine had been and still was a strong leader. The world was at peace, the inflation rate had remained in a steady decline, the administration had been totally open and honest in every respect, and if no important domestic policies were being implemented, it was the fault of a hostile Congress. Augustine had made mistakes, yes—but was there ever a President who had not made mistakes? The ills of the country and of the world could not be laid to him; he had done all he could, and had tried to do more, and that was all anyone could expect of any President.

Justice said quietly, “Should I leave you alone now, sir?”

Augustine lowered his hands. “Yes,” he said, “maybe you should. I have an appointment with Mr. Harper in a few minutes and there are some papers I should look over before he gets here.”

Justice stood and nodded respectfully and went out of the office, past George Radebaugh, the appointments secretary, who did not look up from his desk, and into the outer corridor. The image of the President’s strained face hung heavily in his mind.

In the executive restroom down the hall from the Oval Office, Maxwell Harper was drying his hands on a towel when the door opened and the President’s favorite bodyguard stepped inside. He turned as the man, Justice, said, “Oh, good morning, Mr. Harper.”

“Justice.”

Harper watched him cross to one of the urinals, stand there in a stiff, almost military posture of attention. He wondered with dry humor if the Secret Service indoctrinated its men to urinate that way. They were a regimented lot, in any case, and while Harper felt little common ground with any of them—they were like bland sticks of furniture: necessary, functional, unobtrusive—he admitted to an admiration for their unshakable control. He was a controlled man himself; he believed that absolute control, at all times, in all circumstances, was the key to success. It had been the key to his own success, certainly: his rise from political science professor at Harvard to the Wilson chair at Northwestern to Nicholas Augustine’s foremost advisor on domestic affairs.

When Justice had finished at the urinal he came over to the row of washbasins, one removed from where Harper stood, and began to soap his hands. Harper studied him as he replaced the towel on its rack. Nondescript; average height, average weight, brown hair and brown eyes, no distinguishing features or marks. A cipher in every respect. He knew that the President had been spending a considerable amount of time with the man lately, discussing God knew what as if they were intimate friends, and he wished he understood what it was about Justice that inspired this confidence. That fawning deference of his, perhaps; Augustine had always had a weakness for people who told him he was right, strong, a great leader.

Harper said, “Have you talked to the President this morning, Justice?”

Justice straightened, as if coming to attention. “Yes sir,” he said. Colorless voice, too, full of servility. “I just left the Oval Office.”

“Did he say anything about the press conference yesterday?”

“Well, he feels people misunderstood his remark on Israel.”

“Of course. Which is exactly why he should not have made it.”

“Sir?”

“Suppose you were a Jew,” Harper said. “How would you feel about the President today?”

“I’m not a Jew, Mr. Harper.”

“Do you know any Jews?”

“Yes sir.”

“Have you talked to any of them this morning?”

“No sir.”

“Maybe you should, Justice. Maybe you should.”

Harper caught up his briefcase and went to the door. As he turned the knob he glanced back at Justice, saw him standing before the basin and frowning slightly into the mirror. An odd feeling of satisfaction touched Harper; he nodded once at Justice’s reflection and then opened the door and went out.