Capable of Honor (46 page)
Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Thrillers
But he did not reply, nor, for a while, did she dare glance at him. They sat for a while in silence, there before the fire, while in many places and many hearts others were determining what position, if any, Orrin Knox should occupy from now on in the peculiar but oddly magnificent history of his country.
***
Chapter 4
And so, he thinks as he steps out on the Truman balcony for a last moment in the soft spring air and his ritual look at the Washington Monument before bedtime, the deed is completed and Harley M. Hudson, an honorable man who has never yet broken his pledged word, has done so. There have been many opportunities in the past year to realize what is meant by the loneliness of the Presidency and its hard, cruel choices, but he knows that this is the sharpest and most poignant moment of them all. He had meant it with all his heart when he stood before the Senate a year ago and said, “I shall not be a candidate for the Presidency next year.” He had meant it up to three weeks, or even two, or maybe even two days, ago. Then he had changed and betrayed the hopes and plans of many men … betrayed himself.
But, he honestly believes, saved the United States, which is why Presidents do these things. He tells himself, as he sits down for a moment on one of the chaise lounges and lets himself relax a little from the great tensions of this most momentous day, that it is probably the height of egotism—or insanity—or something—to equate his own political fortunes with the preservation of the United States. And yet this, too, is something Presidents have to believe, if only to rationalize what they do through the imperatives of ambition.
There comes a point in this office, he realizes now, at which it is literally impossible for the occupant to distinguish any longer between his own interests and the interests of the United States. The White House in time, even for the most determinedly idealistic, gradually obliterates the line between self and service. Presidents after a while—and sometimes a much shorter while than in his case—reach a point where they simply cannot regard themselves objectively any more. A few have made the decision to retire, and stuck to it, but history does not record many; and none with the complication of problems that bedevil him, in a world that hourly grows more complex and more dangerous to every living thing.
So—pledges are broken. Decisions are reversed. Yesterday’s absolute becomes today’s maybe and tomorrow’s negative. History bends Presidents to its will as it bends other men. So be it.
Yet he cannot help but feel a sad regret for the self that used to exist until, at some time in recent days and hours, he had come finally, perhaps subconsciously, to the conviction that he had to run. He had wanted to keep his word, but events wouldn’t let him. People wouldn’t let him. The country wouldn’t let him.
He had known, when he set out upon the course that led through Gorotoland to the vetoes and then to Panama, what the reaction of certain very noisy segments of the populace would be. You could always count on the shouters, the joiners, the conveniently short-memoried idealists, and the professional phonies to clamor against every strong stand you might take anywhere. But though he had been prepared for the dimensions of their outcry, he had not been prepared for its extraordinary violence. It had created in him a real alarm that its practitioners would succeed in twisting the realities of Communist imperialism permanently out of shape in their countrymen’s minds, so that America would be even more confused than she was already in her appreciation of the dangers that beset her. The alarm in turn led directly to his decision to run. It came down to something as simple as the picture he had seen on the front page of The Greatest Publication just last week. It showed two Marines training their rifles upon a hut in Gorotoland. ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK FOR MARINES, the caption read, with a snide air of arch disapproval. “Two U. S. Marines get ready to respond to alleged ‘ambush’ in rebel-held Goroto town.”
“Good God!” he had exploded with a sudden uncharacteristic profanity to Lucille, “Why in the hell haven’t they got a right to respond if they’re being fired upon? And who the hell said it was an ‘alleged’ ambush?”
It is ten thousand little things like that, all adding up to one great big slanted misrepresentation of both Gorotoland and Panama, that have finally made him lose his last trace of tolerance for Walter’s world. Its members haven’t wanted him to run, but now he is going to, and lick them soundly. He hopes they are happy.
They probably are, he thinks with a contempt that is also unusual (the pressures must really be getting to Harley Hudson, he tells himself dryly, he is beginning to react like a nasty old man to his critics discomfiture), since he is giving them the sop of a contest for Vice President. On one level—their level—he does not have the slightest doubt that this is exactly what it is: a sop. He knows who his own choice is, and he has told him so frankly in their talk this afternoon. He does not believe for a second that the convention will select anyone else. His reasons for throwing the contest open are what they have all surmised and discussed with him during the day, plus one more reason locked in his own mind. He is counting on the implacable enmity of Ted Jason’s supporters toward himself to guarantee that they will fall into the trap, make an all-out fight for it—and lose, discredited and defeated and pushing their reluctant candidate willy-nilly into the discard along with them, all in one neat package.
Thus he has been able with a relatively clear conscience to take a step which he knew would greatly disappoint Orrin: because he is sure the disappointment will not last long. He is convinced Orrin will become Vice President, and four years from now will be another day. Certainly by that time Gorotoland and Panama will be long decided, or the world will be gone, one of the two; and he will be sixty-six, if he lives. Then he will retire, and no changes. Orrin will be the logical and only choice to succeed him. Or if he doesn’t live, Orrin will succeed him sooner. Either way, it is a good bargain he is offering the Secretary of State.
The whole thing, however, has to be done openly and democratically and in exactly the fashion he has announced. He has told Orrin truthfully that he has no intention of intervening. And he has not been disingenuous about the need for a safety valve, either. Out of it, he is certain, the country will get a needed catharsis for raw nerves and frantic emotions, and he will get the running mate he wants.
So he turns to go in, after his little ritual of looking at the Monument and pondering the choices of Presidents; a little startled but not surprised to find that Lucille is standing just inside the doorway watching him.
“How long have you been there, spying on your President?” he demands amicably.
“A few minutes. Have you got it all worked out?”
“I think so. Are you pleased with what I’m doing?”
“It’s exactly what I’ve wanted,” she says with her rosy smile. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” he replies with a rather grim humor as they walk along toward bed together. “Have you any concept of the number of places on this earth in which my name is mud tonight?”
But here, as the full weight of night descended upon Washington, the last woozy political argument ended at the Press Club bar, the last loudly arguing dinner party broke up in Georgetown, and all but one restless political heart succumbed at last to the even rhythms of sleep, he was perhaps a little harder on himself than the facts warranted. But there was no doubt that the world was thinking of little else.
I MUST RUN: THE PRESIDENT’S PLEDGE, the
Times
said in London. PRESIDENT CHANGES MIND, DECLARES HE WILL RUN, the
Times
said in New York. H.H. SAYS “I GOTTA,” the
Washington Daily News
reported cheerfully in the capital. VICE PRESIDENTIAL RACE WIDE OPEN, the other big news went. PRESIDENT INVITES BATTLE FOR SECOND PLACE; KNOX ANNOUNCES, PRESSURE GROWS ON JASON.
Endlessly the event was discussed, analyzed, turned inside out, taken apart, and put back together around the globe. Hardly a soul escaped it as the hours went by. Five in particular were enthralled.
In recaptured Molobangwe, sputtering through the night with sporadic exchanges of fire between rebels and Marines, His Royal Highness Terence Ajkaje, 137th M’Bulu of Mbuele, joined his top American military advisers at his ramshackle palace in a quiet unofficial toast to the President’s success; and then later, after his guests had gone, he slipped away, accompanied only by a single bodyguard, to the sacred baobab tree near the royal compound where, on a thunderous night when he was six, his mother had taken him to croon her successful prayer: “Make my son M’Bulu—make my son M’Bulu—make my son M’Bulu!” There was no storm now, only the great soft sky of Africa, and the M’Bulu’s words were not said aloud; but Harley M. Hudson was prayed for most sincerely this night by one who, in one more of life’s endless little ironies, had only six months ago been his spiteful and determined enemy.
In the ancient and no longer used (until he and his friends from beyond the Bosporus and the Yangtze had chosen to revive it as his official seat) capital of Mbuele in the highlands, another prayed too, in his own rather colorful way: the self-styled 138th M’Bulu of Mbuele, leader of the People’s Free Republic of Gorotoland, lover of liberty, fighter for democracy, small kernel of power caught, though he only dimly perceived it, between the millstone of Moscow and the nether millstone of Peking: His Royal Highness Obifumatta Ajkaje, cousin and bitter enemy of Terry who besought the gods in Molobangwe. Obi besought them too, with the ritual murder of a child, followed by suitable signs and incantations, while his advisers stood about in their dusty uniforms and self-consciously proletarian dungarees and wondered, a little fearfully and not for the first time, whether they might not be venturing into a world where they really did not belong. Harley M. Hudson was mentioned in prayers in Mbuele, too, and obscene little objects that represented him, or parts of him, were dipped in the blood of a dying child and destroyed while he slept peacefully far away in Washington.
And in Panama at “Suerte,” which he held and from which he directed his campaign, Felix Labaiya, a shrewd and pragmatic soul, killed no children, prayed no prayers, burned no filthy little objects. Instead he appraised, as cautiously and carefully as his half-Panamanian, half-American upbringing and background enabled him, the consequences of the decisions announced by the man, and in the capital, that he knew so well.
There were times when, to use his own phrase, he would deliberately put aside his native habits of thought and let himself drift into a state which he described to his friends as “thinking American.” In that frame of mind, which he was now inducing as he stood, very late, on the terrace at “Suerte” and listen to the murmurous jungle sounds of his home, he could appreciate Harley Hudson’s move as astutely as any would-be Vice President. Felix knew that the President’s decision meant a continuation of the drive to destroy him, and like the President he was convinced that Orrin Knox would become Vice President, and so the policy would be continued whatever happened. He must be even shrewder, Felix told himself, even more determined and alert to use all the means of publicity and international pressure that he could bring to bear upon America. The policy must not succeed: not in Panama, and not against Don Felix Labaiya-Sofra, oligarch of Panama of the new style, leader of the People’s Liberation Movement who did not, at that moment, know whether he could overcome his ravenous and never-resting allies, let alone the American enemy.
And in Washington and Sacramento, two men still lay awake. Now and again they prayed, though not for Harley Hudson.
***
Book Three
Ted Jason’s Book
***
Chapter 1
He is sure that sometime in the night he must have slept, though he has no memory of it: it has been the second such night he has known in two months, the first following the President’s announcement, the second now on the eve of the day he must put on his best clothes and his best smile, step into a limousine, and be driven from Sacramento to San Francisco, there to face his party in convention assembled. Apparently his wakeful hours have not disturbed Ceil, for glancing at the other bed he can see that she is curled up in her customary fashion, a pillow over her head and the well-worn scrap of black velvet she calls “my security blanket” jammed over her eyes to kill the light of dawn. He is glad one member of the family has been able to rest untroubled, and is not surprised, though some might be, that it should be his wife.
All he can remember of his own night is a constant turning, an endless battle of alternatives racing back and forth across the darkened ceiling, a little dance of unclear choices thumping and carousing on his head. It has left him exhausted and not as prepared as he would like to be to face the start of what he knows will be an extremely hectic and wearing week.
For a man as outwardly confident and self-possessed as the Governor of California, this is an unusual and uncomfortable state to be in. It does not go with the picture of the always assured, always calm, always competent executive his supporters like to believe in; the picture that has, in fact, usually existed until this latest, most confusing time in a life that heretofore has known little but the swift success that inherited wealth, plus ambition, plus charm can so easily confer in the catch-as-catch-can world of American politics.
He had been about five, as nearly as he can establish the period now, when he first began to realize that Jasons were different; that not everyone lived in four houses, two in California, one on Long Island, and one in Portofino, each with its permanent staff of maids, houseboys, and gardeners; that many people were not driven but had to drive their own cars; that many women were not as beautifully dressed or constantly publicized as his mother, that many men failed to command the instant respect, the automatic springing-to-assist and leaping-to-please that seemed to be accorded his father; that in many families there was often a noticeable and sometimes insurmountable gap between “I want” and “I’ve got”; and that as Jasons got, so were they expected to give, of their money, of their power, and of themselves.
This theme of service, happening as it did to coincide with the great energy and ambition that seemed to run in the family, was an easy one to follow. They were a relatively small clan, as the nation’s moneyed hierarchies went, but by the time he entered school he knew that the nation and the world knew that the Jasons were around. The family had dwindled from the old Spanish land-grant days to his father and mother, his sister Patsy and himself; his uncle, the thermonuclear scientist Herbert Jason; and his twin aunts, the painter Valuela Jason Randall and the one
Time
called “the First Lady of Philanthropy,” that peroxided, persistent party-giver-for-worthy-causes, Selena Jason Castleberry. But his father, managing with an iron hand the steadily growing number of Jason enterprises at home and abroad; his mother, constantly featured in society columns and national periodicals for her perfect clothes and stunning beauty; Herbert, recipient of award after award, culminating in the Nobel Prize six years ago, for his scientific contributions, recipient of headline after headline for his participation in parades, riots, and protests against practically everything the United States had ever stood for; Valuela, the flamboyant and repeated marrier who also happened to be a really excellent painter; and Selena, always in the papers either as Lady Bountiful or as wild-eyed, hair-askew partner with Herbert in his less scientific adventures—none was the silent or unnoticed type. All were good copy, and it was a rare day that there did not appear, somewhere in the United States or abroad, some reference to one or another of the Jasons.
With the mention there also went, inevitably, a mention of the family wealth and some reference to the romantic family history, both of which had begun long ago in Spain with the scrawl of a royal pen. Don Carlos Alvarado Montoya y Montoya had been an impoverished grandee with a wandering foot and a roving eye. The first took him to California and the second led him to the family’s most legendary figure, the Indian girl christened Valuela whom he discovered working in the fields managed by Mission Santa Barbara, conquered in a day, subsequently fell in love with, and, with a suitably dashing arrogance, defied his family and his King to wed. Six months later his King forgave him, recognizing in his lively spirit and firm abilities exactly what the stabilizing of California required. Within a year Don Carlos was possessor of a land-grant filled with oak-furred valleys, brown, tumbling hills, and gorgeous coastline that compared very favorably with anything held by Sepulveda, Duarte, Pio Pico, or the rest.
For perhaps twenty years an idyllic life prevailed on the great ranch “Vistazo” in the Santa Barbara range. Don Carlos settled in to cultivate his acres, participate in the government of the province, and rear two sons and four daughters, of whom one son and a daughter died of smallpox in infancy. The distant political upheavals in Spain and Mexico did not affect the family fortunes, which soon were solidly grounded in cattle, horses, sheep, and vines. The surviving children were sturdy and well, growing steadily toward a promising maturity; Valuela, largely self-taught, had become a lady not only of beauty but of dignity, grace, and great strength of character; Don Carlos was well respected, popular, and increasingly active in the affairs of the province, now a part of Mexico. In 1840 he became Governor of California, a fact which would be made much of in the next century when his descendant decided to seek the same title under a different dispensation. With a level head and steady hand he presided for a year and a half over the increasingly uneasy province, disturbed by the jealousies of its old families and the steady pressure of immigrants from the westward-growing United States. Then at fifty, no longer as quick as he used to be, he tried to break one wild stallion too many, was tossed against a rock, and died within the hour. Doña Valuela was left an enormously wealthy widow of forty-two with a son nearing his majority, three beautiful daughters, and holdings that comprised the original grant and some hundred thousand acres in addition that Don Carlos had managed to acquire by shrewd purchase and careful husbandry.
The daughters Doña Valuela had no difficulty in marrying off in rapid order, one to a collateral branch of the Sepulvedas, the other two to Americans. The son, Carlos Alvarado the Younger, was filled with dreams of the old life and an uneasy despair about the apparently inevitable approaching acquisition of the province by the lively and ambitious country of his brothers-in-law. On his twenty-first birthday he announced that he was going to Mexico and make his fortune there. His mother told him angrily that he was betraying the family, but added with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction that she could no doubt be woman of the house, and man, too, if he did not care to be. Then she softened, sold off five thousand acres to an enterprising young American speculator named Mathias Jason, gave Carlos Alvarado the proceeds, and sent him on his way with her blessing. (To this day, well over a century later, “the Montoya cousins” still come up at regular intervals to visit Ted in Sacramento and Patsy in Washington, arriving laden down with trunks and suitcases from Mexico City, where their branch of the family has successfully survived wars, revolutions, and economic upheavals. Young Carlos Alvarado’s stake from his mother has grown to encompass ranches in Sonora, mines in Yucatan, resort developments on both coasts, heavy industry in the middle states, and a combine of banks, investment companies, and real estate firms in the capital, together with joint ventures with the Jasons’ “JM Enterprises” in Panama, Chile, Argentina, France, West Germany, Italy, Israel, and Japan.)
For Doña Valuela, presiding alone two years later over her great estate, remarriage was at first an idea to dismiss with a shrug. But Mathias Jason, who was ten years her junior and sincerely stricken both with her still stunning beauty and her fantastic properties, set out to change her mind. Six months later he had succeeded, and at forty-four she took the Montoya Grant into the Jason family.
In 1846 John C. Fremont in his dashing way set about to precipitate the American conquest of California by starting the short-lived “Bear Flag War.” Three weeks later Captain John Sloat, somewhat more practical of nature, followed suit by raising the United States flag over Monterey and declaring the province to be a part of the Union. Two years after that a defeated Mexico ceded California to the United States. In 1850 Congress declared it a state.
By that time Mathias Jason was already in position to bring his wife’s inheritance and his own steadily expanding activities safely through the change. He had decided immediately after his marriage to establish the name “JM Enterprises,” the second initial a tribute to the Montoya holdings. The gold rush gave him his first great opportunity. Leaving “Vistazo” in the experienced hands of Doña Valuela, then pregnant with the future Mathias Edward Jason, he went north to San Francisco, opened a general merchandise store at the comer of Grant and Sutter, and proceeded to collect his share of the gold pouring into the city through the hands of the happy 49ers. With one of these, whose shrewdness and uncharacteristic care of his newfound money impressed him, he went shares on gold claims; the “New Reliable” near Marysville came in as one of the biggest strikes of the entire rush. When Mathias returned to “Vistazo,” leaving the store in the hands of his partner, he had cash in hand of sufficient amount to cause Doña Valuela to admit with a smile that now the “J” was almost as important as the “M.” He assured her the day would come when it would be equal, if not greater.
It came with the birth of Mathias Edward, for with his mother close to forty-nine it was clear that he would in all likelihood be the only child Doña Valuela would contribute to her second marriage. Her daughters she had taken care of with ample dowries when they married, Carlos Alvarado was far away and already successful in his own right, and nothing stood in the way of the future inheritance of the new child or of the love that could be lavished upon him by two middle-aged parents.
Then, as abruptly as it had taken Valuela’s first husband, death took the second.
Mathias was gone at forty-one of a heart attack, and almost simultaneously with his death the United States announced that it was establishing a special commission to review the tangled land-grant situation. Two things brought the Montoya Grant safely through: the fact that it had been given direct from Spain before the Mexican domination, and the fact that Doña Valuela fought for it through four bitter years with every ounce of character and almost every bit of fortune she possessed.
Her first reaction when the American government informed her that the grant was invalid and all her properties subject to suit and confiscation was one of stunned disbelief. The reaction lasted perhaps an hour, in a locked bedroom from which terrible sounds of anger and despair emerged to frighten the maids and mestizos who huddled outside on the broad patios of “Vistazo.” Then the sounds ceased, the door opened, and Doña Valuela, red-eyed but composed, emerged and went to work.
Her first move was to seek an injunction staying the government’s hand. It was granted in Santa Barbara, and later extended twice. With the pressure somewhat relieved, she then began the endless round of visits and conferences—the lobbying that would for four years consume her thoughts, her energies, and nearly all her fortune, necessitating the mortgaging of the “New Reliable” and the store in San Francisco before it was over.
But when it was over, she had won, partly through the merit of her case and partly through the sheer force of her personality, which had brought her support from many influential leaders in both Sacramento and Washington. The tall figure of Doña Valuela, striding down the corridors in traditional black dress, comb, lace mantilla, carrying an inevitable fan, was one of the sights of the decade in two capitals. The classic Indian simplicity of her face became traced with somber lines, something bright and happy left her eyes, but an iron that was in its way as beautiful replaced it. One of the family’s prized possessions now is the portrait painted of her a month after news came from Washington that all her claims were confirmed and the Montoya Grant would rest undisturbed thereafter. Somber, stately, and still stunning at fifty-five, she stares forth upon a world that has obviously met one of its conquerors, self-possessed, unyielding, indomitable.
Ted’s father had it copied for them all as a Christmas present twenty years ago, and now she looks out upon Ted’s uncertainties in Sacramento, Patsy’s whirligig of a life in Washington, Herbert as he lopes in and out of his apartment in San Francisco between demonstrations and scientific conferences, the present Valuela turning from canvases to men and back again in Portofino, Selena presiding with squawks of excitement over her motley crews and causes in New York. Whether they admit it or not—and at times they all do—she gives them something to this day: some strengthening, some assurance that underneath it all they are of a good blood and a fighting heritage.
“Even when we’re at our most crackpot, by God we’ve got style!” today’s Valuela once put it to a friend. They owe it to Valuela the First, and they know it.
There followed a California story similar to others in the second half of the nineteenth century. The threat removed, once again the man of the family, Doña Valuela concentrated her energy, shrewdness, and skill upon rebuilding JM as swiftly yet as soundly as she could. She moved into the financial worlds of California and New York as sure-footedly as she had moved into Sacramento and Washington. Within five years she had recovered her losses, paid off her mortgages, was launched upon new investments. The store in San Francisco grew rapidly into one of the city’s most popular and successful. The “New Reliable” continued in production until 1873 when it finally petered out after yielding to JM Enterprises close to eight million dollars as its share of the total profits. “Vistazo” continued to show a steadily increasing return from cattle, horses, sheep, and vineyards. There were opportunities to invest in banks, lending institutions, and land, to purchase a steamship company, to have a share in the railroad developments that were taking Leland Stanford and his friends to mansions on Nob Hill. By the time young Mathias Edward reached his majority already well trained by his mother, who shrewdly began giving him more and more responsibility from the age of sixteen onward, JM Enterprises was one of the four or five prime financial forces on the Western slope.
