Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (69 page)

 
          
 
"I called the Russian ambassador and told
him what we'd found—a courtesy call, you might say, since I have reason to
believe that when they found out we were feeding 'em bogus intelligence, they
were the ones called ABC and sicced 'em on our trail—and of course he denied
everything."

 
          
 
Sam Donaldson couldn't contain himself.
Beet-red, he jumped to his feet and preempted Sally's follow-up question. *'Are
you saying ABC was used by the Russians? Sir."

 
          
 
The President turned slowly toward Donaldson,
a placid smile on his face. "Why hello, Sam," he said. "Used?
Gosh, I'd hate to think that sophisticated journalists could be used. Deceived,
maybe."

 
          
 
"And could you tell us . . . Sir . . .
what's happened to your . . . secret agent?"

 
          
 
"That, I am pleased to say, is none of
your business." The President turned to face the cameras. "He is an
American of untarnished patriotism, happy to work without public recognition in
the service of his country. I wish we had more like him. Suffice it to
say—"

 
          
 
The cameras closed on the President's face.
His eyes were moist.

 
          
 
Burnham held his breath.

 
          
 
"—that this man I will not name has been
awarded a medal I will not name, a medal he will never see. Next."

 
          
 
The President pointed at a reporter in the
back of the room, who rose to ask a question about the deficit.

 
          
 
Eva squeezed Burnham's hand. "He's either
a hell of actor," she said, "or he really loved you."

 
          
 
"Let's go," was all Burnham could
say.

 
          
 
Evelyn Witt didn't see the letter until she
uncovered her typewriter. The unmarked white envelope had been slipped between
the paper bale and the platen. Her name was written on the envelope in ink, in
a handwriting she didn't recognize.

 
          
 
She slit open the envelope. Inside was a sheet
of yellow legal paper wrapped around another, smaller envelope on which was
written 'The President."

 
          
 
She unfolded the yellow paper and read:

 
          
 
Dear Evelyn:

 
          
 
If you'll be so kind as to give the enclosed
to the President, I'll be forever in your debt.

 
          
 
I'm already in your debt more than you will
ever know, but that's another story.

 
          
 
If ever you think of me, I hope it will be
with a scintilla of the affection with which I think of you.

 
          
 
Timothy Burnham

 
          
 
Dear Timothy, she thought. She had warned him
that the life of a presidential favorite was spectacular but short, like the
life of a moth. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. She wondered what
had happened to him. It was all very mysterious.

 
          
 
But her years in the White House had
accustomed her to mysteries without resolutions.

 
          
 
She picked up the smaller envelope and took it
into the Oval Office.

 
          
 
The President was leaning back in his chair,
with his feet on the desk, reading the editorial page of the Post.

 
          
 
“Morning, Mr. President," Evelyn said.

 
          
 
"Morning, Evie. Seen the Post?"

 
          
 
“Not yet. Good news?"

 
          
 
"Better'n a spot on the lung." The
President swung his feet to the floor. "
Honduras
pitched out all their Soviet advisors. Even
Boy George concedes it's just as well we didn't start World War Three over a
bunch of bananas." Boy George was the President's nickname for George
Will.

 
          
 
"This was on my typewriter," Evelyn
said, and she passed the envelope to the President. "I don't know how it
got there."

 
          
 
"What is it?"

 
          
 
"It's from Timothy Burnham."

 
          
 
"Oh yeah?" The President smiled as
he tore the end off the envelope. "Where's he at?"

 
          
 
"I don't know. Like some coffee?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Yes, thanks." The President
kicked his feet up again and leaned back.

 
          
 
He had thought of Burnham at least once a day
in the two weeks since he had disappeared. Normally, the President's mind was
disciplined enough to keep him from dwelling on what had been or what might
have been: Enough new problems surfaced every minute to keep him fully
occupied. But it was those new problems that brought Burnham to mind— minor
things, mostly, things on which a fresh, unbiased, honest and unafraid opinion
could cast a helpful perspective. Cut through the bullshit.

 
          
 
The new fellow Epstein had given him,
nominally as his Appointments Secretary, was as useful as a third nostril. An
ass-kisser, scared of everybody.

 
          
 
The President never stopped long enough to
realize it, let alone articulate it, but he missed old Tim.

 
          
 
He had been right about Tim all along, and he
accepted Tim's sudden departure as part of the price he (and all Americans) had
to pay for maintaining the nation's security. It had been worth it just for the
pleasure of watching Mario eat crow, sit there looking all splotchy and nervous
and having to admit that Tim was better wired than he was.

 
          
 
The President smoothed the sheet of yellow
paper on his thigh.

 
          
 
Nice handwriting, for a man, he thought idly.
Most men's handwriting looked like scrambled eggs.

 
          
 
Dear Mr. President:

 
          
 
It's better that you don't know ,where I am or
what I'm doing, but I wanted to let you know that you were right—about a great
many things.

 
          
 
You suspected that I had an "in"
with the Russians, and you were right, though it's a different kind of
"in" than I, for one, realized.

 
          
 
You felt that we should not go off half-cocked
and invade Honduras—I didn't tell you, you knew it, all I did was show you that
you knew it—and you were right. By now I imagine the rest of the world is
catching up with you. But you were first.

 
          
 
You helped me, in ways you'll never know, to
discover what's right about myself, and for that I thank you.

 
          
 
As time goes by, you may hear things about me
that make you question the faith you had in me. For what it's worth, I flatter
myself that you were right to have that faith.

 
          
 
If the fur does fly about me, I hope you'll
remember what my friend Samuel Johnson said: "As I know more of mankind I
expect less of them, and am ready now to call a man a good man, upon easier
terms than I was formerly."

 
          
 
With respect and gratitude,

 
          
 
TYB

 
          
 
The President read the letter again. Then he
leaned forward and pushed the intercom button on his desk.

 
          
 
"Evie," he said, "this Samuel
Johnson Tim refers to. Who does he work for?"

 
          
 
After graduating from Harvard, Peter Benchley

 
          
 
went on to become a journalist and a
speechwriter for

 
          
 
Lyndon Johnson, His novel Jaws was published

 
          
 
in 1974, followed by The Deep (1976), The
Island

 
          
 
(1979) and The Girl of the
Sea
of
Cortez
(1982).

 
          
 
In addition to his novels, he has written for

 
          
 
magazines including Newsweek

 
          
 
and National Geographic.