Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Assassinations, #Thrillers
Promise of Joy (15 page)
Her eyes widened as she considered it. But there was no flinching in her tone.
“We’ve faced that at each major speech.”
“Why have you done it?” he asked, thinking back over the weeks since Labor Day, the days that suddenly seemed to stretch so far away into the past that they were almost beyond memory, so crowded were they with a blur of places, people, charge and countercharge, endless challenge, endless response.
“Because,” she replied with a gravity to match his own, “I do genuinely believe that Orrin Knox is best for this country. Believing that, I have felt I must help him.” She paused and thought, face earnest and concentrated like a little girl’s, and for a moment he could see the sunny, golden little child she must have been. “I have done it for my husband, because I felt that this was what he should have done. I don’t know whether he would have—but he should have. I thought I would do it, to—to give him back something in memory that I feel he had lost in life.”
“I told you she was the cream of the crop,” Valuela said into the silence that followed. He nodded, touched for a moment to the point where he could not trust himself to speak.
“You are so right,” he said finally, managing a smile. Outside there came the inevitable stir and bustle, the all too familiar approach of the world’s demands. “I think that means us,” he said, standing up. “Are we ready?”
“For whatever,” Ceil said with a sudden smile, linking her arm through one of his.
“For another grand appearance by two great people,” Valuela said firmly, linking her arm through the other.
“So armored,” he said with a chuckle, “how could I possibly fail?”
Yet there were several moments that bitter day when he thought he might. The first occurred as soon as they emerged from the doorway of the Hotel Laramie. Several hundred people, divided about equally between his supporters and the dissident, were waiting for them across the street, held back by police and sheriffs deputies. Their appearance brought an instant tumult of sound—clashing, chaotic, mostly indecipherable save for one member of NAWAC who carried a bull horn. Through it he began shouting obscenities at Ceil and Orrin. Instantly fighting broke out, in a moment the area across the street was a confusion of shoving bodies, flying stones, bricks, sticks, flailing arms and tangled legs. The fighting spilled over, broke the police line, surged toward them. Several of NAWAC’s black-jacketed bullies, taking advantage of the confusion, formed a flying wedge and started for them. Instinctively Ceil and Valuela flinched and drew back, he turned protectively toward them, their Secret Service cordon closed ranks and hurried them back into the lobby so swiftly that they were inside again before they knew it.
Outside the fighting abruptly stopped, hoots of angry derisive laughter rose from the demonstrators. Television, faithfully recording every moment, carried the spectacle to the world: Orrin Knox, Presidential candidate, driven off the street by a crowd of demonstrators, apparently fleeing in terror for his life. Five minutes later, the street finally cleared, they were hurried into their limousine. A motorcycle escort roared into action. What had been planned as a leisurely triumphal parade through the streets of Laramie turned into a high-speed, furtive scurrying to the rally.
There they were hurried through massed police to the platform. Ten thousand of the faithful were on their feet, chanting and applauding with defiant enthusiasm. But the day had turned sour, the edge had been taken off.
Score one for NAWAC, he thought grimly.
Ceil, visibly upset, introduced him with half her usual effectiveness; the determined shouts of his supporters mingled with the continuing hoots of the dissident, off on the edges of the crowd. He stepped forward, took a deep breath, launched into a powerful attack on violence, called for the defeat of Fred Van Ackerman, began a measured exposition of his views on foreign policy. An object came hurtling through the air, landed at his feet, exploded with a loud
bang!
Instinctively, again, they all shrank back. It turned out to be a plastic bag filled with water; the bang had been contributed by someone else, apparently firing a blank. Again a roar of derisive ridicule broke through the valiant attempts of his supporters to counteract it with their applause: the mood of the day was further shattered. Mocking, evil child’s tricks appeared to be succeeding where more serious onslaughts had not.
Yet in the long run, as he concluded later, it probably helped to stem the sapping tide reported in the polls. He finished his speech on a note of rising anger that culminated in a cold denunciation of the violent and all who sought to profit from their support.
At the end of it he let his voice drop to an almost conversational tone. “Mrs. Jason and I,” he said, “have been subjected here today to the most recent of a series of deliberate humiliations, some designed to be seriously dangerous, others, like today’s, meant simply to cast ridicule and scorn upon the things for which we stand.
“I say to you, my friends, whether they be dangerous or mocking, they have but one purpose and one hoped-for result. The purpose is to intimidate and discredit all who attempt to advocate a firm and even-handed policy toward the Communist powers, and particularly the Soviet Union. The hoped-for result is to turn that policy around and transform it into one of weakness, appeasement, retreat and defeat.
“We are nearing the end of a long and bitter campaign. A week from now we will vote. The events of this day, as of many unhappy days since the campaign began, state the issue very clearly: do Americans wish to cast their lot with those who want to destroy freedom and democracy—those who want, essentially, to destroy America herself by destroying her strength in the face of her enemies—or do Americans want to preserve the freedom and democracy they have, and by using their power constructively, work for a world stable and free from the fear of war?
“It is a very simple issue, though the future of freedom everywhere may be wrapped up in how you decide it.”
After that, in the last hurrying days, he had some sense that the trend had been halted, that his chances were again improving; that somehow what had happened in Laramie had brought home, in a way that more awful events had not, the fragile nature of the fundamental decencies and safeguards he believed himself to be defending. Apparently a majority of his countrymen had made up their minds in his favor on that day. A week later they gave him permission to direct their destinies—the first step on a long road whose desperate conclusion not he, nor anyone, could then foresee.
Knox elected president by slim margin. Electoral vote is 273 to 262, popular tally 85,114,000 to 81,783,000 for Senator Strickland. Knox gets nominal control of both houses of congress but many peace candidates elected, sharp battles foreseen over foreign policy. Abbott, Hal Knox win house seats. Van Ackerman, defeated for senate in Wyoming, pledges continued NAWAC fight.
And pushed to the bottom of the front page in the tide of election news, but augury of many things to come:
Vasily Tashikov named head of Soviet government in surprise Kremlin shake-up. Ambassador to U.S. believed tapped because knowledge of America makes him best equipped to deal with new administration in Washington.
Hardening of Soviet line seen likely following Knox victory.
6
And although the assumption was only a headlined guess and its confirmation came to him far from the public view, it was rapidly made clear that a hardening Soviet line was indeed what he faced.
Three days after election, sitting in the temporary office the President had kindly offered him in the Executive Office Building across the street from the White House, he received a call from Dolly Munson.
The wife of the Senate Majority Leader looked beautiful as always when she appeared on the Picturephone. She also looked excited and as though she were the possessor of a big secret. She positively sparkled with it, in fact—so much so that he could not resist a little gentle kidding of the sort Dolly often invited from her friends.
“Orrin!” she said. “Guess what!”
“You and Bob are going to have a baby,” he said gravely. “Dearest Dolly, how marvelous.”
“My goodness,” she said, dissolving into a gurgle of laughter, “wouldn’t that be a score for the geriatric set! No, it’s nothing as dramatic as that. Although,” she added with a mischievous expression, “it is
rather
dramatic, I must admit. Yes, I’d say it’s
quite
dramatic. Orrin, I want you to come to lunch tomorrow at ‘Vagaries.’”
“I always love to come to anything at ‘Vagaries,’” he said, thinking with reminiscent affection of the Munsons’ beautiful old house, stately and secret among its trees at the edge of Rock Creek Park, “but I’m not sure I can make it at the moment. You see, I hate to inject a practical note into the social schedule of Washington’s most famous hostess, but I have just been elected President of the United States, you know, and—”
“You love to say that, don’t you?” she interrupted with the cheerful impudence of a dear friend.
“Sure,” he agreed with amiable promptness. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Considering all the headaches you’re going to be taking on, I’m not so sure, Orrin. I’m not so sure.” She gave him a shrewd, quizzical look. “Are you?”
“I have to be,” he said. “I’m it. Too late to worry about it, now. Isn’t that right?”
“Lucky man,” she remarked, “if you can tackle it
without
worrying. Knowing you, I don’t believe it. But, anyway—I’m glad it’s you doing the worrying, and not somebody else. What are you going to appoint Ceil to?”
“Oh,” he said with mock surprise. “Must I?”
“You certainly must,” she said firmly. “You owe her a great deal. Besides which, she is a lovely lady and a very intelligent one. You’d be foolish not to. Despite what they say,
I
know Orrin Knox isn’t foolish. So what’s it going to be?”
“What would you suggest?”
“Ambassador to the UN She’s a natural. Am I right?”
He chuckled.
“Dolly,” he said, “you are uncanny. Also infallible. And you are hereby sworn to absolute secrecy.”
She gave him a pleased smile.
“I can’t even tell Bob?”
“Not even Bob.”
“Oh,
good.
That makes it a real secret. Now, about lunch tomorrow—”
“Dolly dearest,” he said patiently, “I really can’t. It’s impossible. I’ve got to put together a Cabinet and a White House staff, I’ve got endless planning to do—”
“Bob doesn’t know this secret, either,” she said. “So how about
that?”
“Well, I’ll admit that’s intriguing, but—”
“It’s very important, really,” she assured him, suddenly solemn. “It’s rather like a certain time—when certain people met at ‘Vagaries’—to discuss a certain appointment. Do you remember that?”
He stared at her thoughtfully, mind leaping back almost two years: the annual “Spring Party” at “Vagaries”—Bob, himself, several other members of the Senate, several ambassadors, disappearing quietly upstairs to discuss the first nomination of Robert A. Leffingwell to be Secretary of State—one ambassador in particular—… light broke.
“That’s very clever of him,” he said. “To ask you to set it up at ‘Vagaries.’ No one would ever know, or guess.”
“Washington’s most famous hostess,” she said with some satisfaction, “has her uses. I gather you are now persuaded.”
“I may be,” he agreed. “What are the conditions?”
“I’m to send a car to pick you both up—I suggested the station wagon instead of the Rolls, figuring that would be less conspicuous—”
He smiled.
“Possibly.”
“It has to be tomorrow because he has to leave for home tomorrow night. No time limit, no holds barred. Approximate time of pickup twelve-thirty. Lunch upstairs in the study. No servants around the house—you’ll have to eat my cooking. Both of you to come alone. No one else to know.”
He gave her a thoughtful look.
“I’ll buy everything but the last two. I have got to have my Secretary of State with me, and I think the President should be fully informed. After all,
his
colleagues are going to know. And Bill is still going to be President until January.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “I don’t know. He seemed awfully positive.”
“So am I awfully positive. Everybody knows that. Tell him and call me back.”
“I have to wait until I hear from him,” she said. “He’s supposed to check back with me within the hour.”
“I’ll be right here,” he said, turning to the papers on his desk with a matter-of-fact air. “Let me know.”
“Well—all right.”
Half an hour later his secretary announced she was calling again.
“Well?”
“You can tell the President,” she said, “but he insists you both be alone.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Maybe it’s better that way. After all, in the last analysis that’s what it’s going to come down to if anything happens—his will against mine. Maybe it’s a good idea to take each other’s measure, right now.”
“He seems to think so,” she said. “And I agree. After all, I’m not worried about Orrin Knox’s will.”
“Neither is Orrin Knox,” he said crisply. “See you tomorrow, Dolly. You and ‘Vagaries’ may go down in the history books yet.”
“If we can help straighten out this world,” she said, suddenly serious, “I don’t care whether we’re in the history books or not.”
“A worthy sentiment,” he said. He chuckled. “Tell me:
are
you a good cook?”
“You may not believe it of Washington’s leading hostess,” she said, cheerful again, “but I am.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to get indigestion on top of everything else.”
But if indigestion were going to come, he told himself as the station wagon, undistinguished and unnoticed in the rush of noon-time traffic as they wanted it to be, approached the Soviet Embassy, it would come from his luncheon partner, not from Dolly’s cooking.
Vasily Tashikov looked somber and forbidding as he came quickly out of the iron gates. He glanced neither left nor right, hopped quickly in alongside Orrin, drew himself stiffly back into the corner. Why are they so ostentatiously grim, Orrin thought with an annoyance echoing that of a thousand Western statesmen on a thousand occasions. Why can’t they ever act genuinely like human beings? Or did it really matter whether they frowned or smiled? It was all play-acting anyway. The basic attitude and purpose never changed, however many momentary “détentes” came and went in the course of their ruthless imperialism’s unrelenting onward drive.
He debated for a moment whether to speak, decided at first against it, his attitude, spurred by annoyance, summed up in the tart reaction: let the bastard make the first move or to hell with him.
Then he thought better of it, for while this might be the way for the new Chairman of the Council of Ministers to act, it was no way for the next President of the United States to act—were he to conduct himself with any kind of responsibility toward his own country and humanity.
He touched the button that raised the window between the chauffeur and the back seat—Dolly’s station wagon, like “Vagaries,” the Rolls and everything else arising from her very substantial wealth, had all the amenities—and turned in a relaxed and conversational way toward his companion.
“Well, Vasily,” he said, “congratulations on your new appointment. It could mean great things for our two countries.”
For a moment Tashikov did not reply. Then he shot Orrin a sudden sharp glance from his darkly hooded little eyes and shrugged.
“I would say that depends on you, Mr. President.”
“Oh?” Orrin said, annoyance instantly re-established by Vasily’s tone. “You don’t bear any responsibility, I take it?”
“We are not responsible for the tense condition of the world,” Tashikov said, almost indifferently. “We must assume responsibility for trying to straighten it out, however.”
“And you can do that best by immediately offending me, is that it?” Orrin asked. He, too, shrugged, and decided suddenly on the only course he felt would impress this small, bullying man who had been Soviet Ambassador in Washington long enough to know better than to try to browbeat Orrin Knox: so why was he trying?
He reached for the button again, rolled down the window.
“Driver,” he said calmly, “take me back to the White House, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and automatically began signaling for a turn which would bring him back onto Connecticut Avenue headed downtown.
This, Orrin noted with a satisfaction suddenly grim, brought results. Tashikov leaned forward hastily, an expression of genuine consternation momentarily flaring, as hastily banished, in his eyes.
“This is not necessary!” he said sharply. “Let us proceed, if you please.”
“You heard me,” Orrin said to the driver.
“No!” said Vasily Tashikov.
“Mr. Secretary,” the driver said, beseeching help. “Mr. President—”
“Very well,” Orrin said, sitting back, looking with disinterest out the window. “You may proceed.”
“Thank you, sir,” the driver said in a relieved voice. “I was getting a little confused.”
“I think Mr. Tashikov was, too,” Orrin remarked. “Carry on.”
And again he raised the window, though he continued to stare out with no further attempt to communicate with his companion.
Five silent minutes passed while the station wagon, trailed discreetly by two carefully ordinary sedans, one containing the Secret Service men the President had insisted upon, the other containing four equally sedate, business-suited security guards from the Soviet Embassy, moved on up Connecticut toward Woodley Road.
“Mr. President,” Tashikov said stiffly at last, “I do not believe I have congratulated you.”
“No,” Orrin agreed, not turning his head.
“Then permit me,” Tashikov said with a bland little smile which Orrin saw when he became aware of a pressure against his arm and turned to find a hand extended.
“Thank you,” he said, returning the pressure with a cordiality exactly matching Tashikov’s own, which was not much. “I understand you go home this evening.”
“I fly from Dulles at seven,” Tashikov said. “There are many things to be decided in Moscow.”
“I am surprised you lingered so long.”
“Our simultaneous elevations,” Tashikov said with a dry little smile, “have provided a fortuitous opportunity. I decided I must not leave without talking to you. It did not seem that I should intrude the very hour after your triumph, for you have obviously been very busy. Nor could I afford to wait very long, either, for matters press upon me, too. This was the latest I could delay. I am glad you have been able to see me.”
“I thought it would be of value,” Orrin said. He paused and then went on in a deliberate tone. “Providing we can talk sense and not nonsense. Otherwise it will be a useless exercise.”
“I would not want our charming hostess to waste her time on a useless exercise,” Tashikov said as they turned up Woodley Road and headed for the park. “I shall do everything in my power to make our discussion pertinent.”
“I hope so,” Orrin said, his tone not yielding much. “Because I shall not have time for anything else.”
And to this, though he could not refrain from a scowl, quickly come and quickly banished, his small dark companion attempted no rejoinder until they came within sight of the gleaming white columns of “Vagaries,” secret in the trees.
“Well,” he said, rather vaguely. “We must see how the time goes.…”
For the next half hour or so, it went noncommittally and with a reasonable matter-of-factness on both sides.
Dolly greeted them, her usual charming ease not altogether masking the real excitement generated by her role in this historic occasion; the Secret Service and the Soviet security guards were posted about the grounds with the not altogether humorous suggestion from Tashikov that they be careful and not shoot one another; their hostess took them upstairs to the study, where a small table had been set up; they invited her to join them during the repast; she refused, brought them soup, a casserole from which they could serve themselves, a bottle of wine; bade them farewell, closed the door firmly behind her; and they were alone.
With a certain dogged determination, interrupted only when they asked one another to pass things or offered one another seconds, they plowed through the light but delicious meal, carefully drinking exactly one glass of wine apiece. Then they pushed back their plates, Orrin poured them both another glassful and they sat back and stared at one another for several moments, during which neither spoke, averted his gaze or revealed any particular reaction at all. Then they both spoke at once.
“Mr. Chairman—”
“Mr. President—”
They both laughed without much humor.
“You requested the meeting,” Orrin said. “Which,” he added quickly, “implies nothing invidious, on your part or mine, it’s just the fact. Why don’t you begin? You obviously have something on your mind.”
“Many things,” Tashikov said thoughtfully. “Many things.…” He leaned forward suddenly, hunched low over the table. “Mr. President, are you going to continue the foolish United States policy of trying to stem the tide of history which is running inevitably toward the people’s revolution everywhere?”
For a split second Orrin almost let his temper take over in response to this tiresome and familiar ploy. Fortunately better judgment prevailed.
“I regard myself,” he said calmly, “as about to become the custodian of the oldest genuine people’s revolution in history. I would like to think that the tide of history is running our way, yes.”
