Promise of Joy (30 page)

“A deal in which we hold the trumps,” the voice said, “so don’t delay, Mr. President. We would hate to have to kill your son and daughter-in-law just because you were too stubborn and bullheaded to listen to reason.”

“No reason,” he said. “Insanity.”

“Insanity or no,” the voice repeated, this time allowing itself a slight edge of anger, “we have them and we will do as we say unless you do as we say. So think it over, Mr. President. There is very little time.”

“How much?”

“See how fast you can move, Mr. President,” the voice suggested. “Give it a try. You may surprise yourself.”

“But—” he began, anger and desperation in his tone. The other hung up with a decisive click, the line went dead.

“I must go back to the Oval Office,” he said, mind whirling, certainty and conviction now far away. “I must decide what to do. Will you—?”

“We will take you over, sir,” the agents said as one, and he responded, “Thank you,” with a gratitude so humble and lost-sounding that they gave each other frightened glances behind his back.

But at his desk, after talking to Bill Abbott, to Bob and Dolly Munson, to Warren Strickland, to Cullee and Lafe and, finally, the call he dreaded, to Stanley Danta, Crystal’s father, he managed to regain a measure of control.

Aided most by Stanley’s reaction, which was of course greatly disturbed but quietly and courageously sympathetic and understanding, he thought it all out, entirely alone, for half an hour. Then he got his press secretary out of his bed across the river in Alexandria and dictated a brief statement for immediate release.

Then he went back once more along the arcade beside the Rose Garden, passed through the hushed corridors of the Mansion past the suddenly increased guards who now seemed to be everywhere, made his lonely ablutions and climbed into his lonely bed in the Lincoln Bedroom.

Throughout the house they marveled at his iron calm, but alone in the room he cried repeatedly, and did not sleep.

Kidnappers seize President’s son and daughter-in-law at ford’s theater. Threaten death unless war’s end and immediate peace conference is held.

Knox issues statement defying “inhuman blackmailers,” says he will accede to demands “only when there is genuine sign of true, peaceful cooperation from the communist powers.”

FBI reports “no valid clues as yet” to fate of young congressman and wife.

World appalled by danger to chief executive’s children.

“The world,” Walter Dobius wrote rapidly at “Salubria” in the ice-still afternoon, “is appalled today not only by the dreadful dangers that must be presumed to be faced by Rep. Harold Knox and his lovely young wife, but by his father’s apparently obdurate intention to risk the sacrifice of their lives so that he may continue to pursue his intransigent war policies in the face of almost universal condemnation—condemnation which has now, all too tragically, been brought home to his own doorstep. Only an Orrin Knox, it seems likely, would be so callous in the disregard of human life—in this case the human life which, presumably, is nearest and dearest to him.…”

“It does not surprise us,” the
Post
snapped, “when Orrin Knox callously sacrifices the lives of other people’s sons in the pursuit of his mad war policies. But it does both surprise and appall us when he appears ready to sacrifice the life of his own son, and that of his daughter-in-law as well. Not since Adolf Hitler, we suspect, has there been a world leader so ruthlessly determined to have his own way and so completely devoid of human feeling in the pursuit of it.…”

“Up to this point,” the
Times
remarked gravely, “there may have been some few left in the world who could still see the rationale for the policies of the new President. Now there must be very, very few—if any. His only son and that son’s charming wife are held hostage by individuals apparently driven to absolute frustration by the President’s stubborn and unyielding stand. Using a method which must be deplored but which nonetheless can be understood in the context of these unhappy times, they are seeking to make their point to the President in a way he cannot avoid. Apparently so far the attempt has failed and he intends to continue, at what dreadful danger to his own family only time can tell, the actions that have now brought retribution, with classical fury, upon his own house.…”

“At dreadful cost,” Frankly Unctuous solemnly told his millions of devoted listeners, “President Knox has clung to the wreck of his policies overseas. Now that cost, measured already in terms of the deaths of other men’s sons, appears likely to be measured in terms of the death of his own son and his son’s wife. That is the frightful option that has been presented him by those whose methods the decent must condemn, but whose motives must certainly arouse a sympathetic response in the hearts of many. Very few, it seems, want these foreign wars. Everyone wants peace. Orrin Knox has adamantly refused to accept these realities. Now he faces them on his own doorstep. Horrible tragedy may lie ahead for a family already shattered by the death last year of Mrs. Beth Knox. Are policies so universally challenged really worth these two innocent young lives? So far the President apparently believes they are. Yet not even Orrin Knox, the world must hope, can be quite that heartless and inhuman.…”

“I don’t think he cares for you very much,” the voice observed from the other side of the heavy oak door.

“He cares for us enough, you filthy bastard,” Hal retorted.

“My, my,” the voice said with some amusement. “The young tiger roars like the elder. But both, alas, are in the same cage.”

Hal uttered a scornful snort.

“Christ, you sound pompous. What guru book did you get that out of?”

“Listen, you fucking smart-ass,” the voice snapped, suddenly as young and bitter as he, “you’d damned well better watch your language. We’ve got you and your precious Crystal and we can do whatever we want with both of you. So keep that in mind, sonny boy. You’ll both be healthier if you do.”

“You don’t intend for us to be healthy,” Hal said, and at his side Crystal made the small stirring that he knew meant: take it easy. But he was too carried away by anger and disgust to respond to a gesture so clearly inspired by apprehension. He was consumed by rage and disgust, caught in the grip of a terrible contempt for all the scum of the recent earth, some of whom had apparently become their captors. He could not be conciliatory, though he knew perfectly well their lives might depend upon it. “You’ve made your demands and he isn’t listening, is he? He isn’t going to bow down to you dirt, is he? You insane psychotics have met your match, haven’t you?”

“Don’t you want him to bow down?” the voice inquired presently, obviously mastering itself to speak more calmly. “Maybe he would if you asked him.”

“Why should I ask him?” Hal demanded. “I agree with what he’s doing.”

“Oh, you do now,” the voice conceded. “But suppose we send one of Crystal’s ears to him, for instance? It’s been done. Or,” it added on a sudden note of inspiration, “some other portion of the anatomy? Would you ask him then, maybe?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, in a savage voice, though his heart felt that a cruel hand had twisted it in two, and beside him his wife shot him a glance in which terror, for the first time in the twelve hours since their kidnapping, clearly showed.

“No?” the voice inquired, its owner obviously feeling that he held the whip hand again. “What’s to stop?”

“He will never give in to you,” Hal said, forcing his voice to stay steady, “no matter what you do. And the world will never forgive you if you hurt us.”

“Most of the world thinks what we’re doing is great, man,” the voice assured him with considerable satisfaction. “Most of the world thinks it’s about time somebody put some sense into your old man. And what about you, honey child, Crystal baby? What if we send old Dad sonny boy’s ear? Or maybe”—it chuckled happily—“some part of him that you like better? Then what?”

“You can’t frighten me,” she said, though her voice trembled.

“Oh,” the voice said, “I think we can. Because it isn’t talk, you know. They absolutely don’t know where you are, and they absolutely aren’t going to find you. And if proud Mr. President doesn’t give in, that’s absolutely going to mean one big hell of a lot of trouble for you kids. Just be sure of that, okay…? Well,” it added with a sudden note of finality, “that’s enough talk about it for now. We’ll be serving you some food pretty soon, and you can watch the TV in there and find out how little is being done for you, and after a while we’ll talk again. And maybe if old Pops hasn’t done anything for us by that time, we’ll have to see what we can do for him. And for you kids, too, of course.”

“Run along, monster,” Hal said, trying, and managing, to sound unimpressed.

“Don’t think we won’t enjoy cutting you up, smart-ass,” the voice snarled, young and full of hatred again. “It will be a pleasure.”

“Shove off, Dracula,” Hal said coldly. “Go and scare old ladies.”

But after the voice’s owner, absorbing this in silence with an obviously great effort, had gone away, he and Crystal held each other very close while he stroked her hair gently and said, “Hush … hush … hush …” over and over again, in response to the terrified incoherent sounds that escaped, despite her most gallant efforts, from her shaking lips.

No word from kidnappers as second day passes. President apparently holding firm to refusal to deal with communists despite peril of children. New American reverses reported in Panama, Gorotoland. Joint naval task force believed ready to challenge panama blockade. NAWAC, other peace groups riot in major cities. Congressional leaders hint “dramatic action” in today’s session.

In the White House, gray-faced, stern but outwardly calm, he went about his duties and made no further public comment.

“Mr. Speaker!” Bronson Bernard cried in the House, his voice trembling with excitement but armored in righteousness, and, “Mr. President!” shouted the mint-new young Senator from Oregon, in tones equally insistent and portentous in the Senate, “I have a resolution to submit for immediate action!”

“The Clerk will read,” Jawbone Swarthman responded with an eager encouragement in the House, and, “The Clerk will read,” Cullee Hamilton responded with a cautious correctness in the Senate.

Both Clerks, grown gray in the service of their respective houses, proceeded to do so in voices that reflected the excitement and tension that quickly grew across the crowded floors and in the crowded galleries.

Four hours later after savagely bitter debate in both houses, the word went out that Orrin Knox had been pushed still further to the wall.

Impeachment resolution filed in House. Members vote 310-111 after wild debate to direct judiciary committee to start immediate preliminary investigation. Senate passes parallel resolution urging House to act, beats back attempt by small pro-Knox group to declare move unconstitutional. Vote of 68-31 apparently assures conviction if house acts favorably on first step.

And still he continued, increasingly strained, increasingly stern, but still with a businesslike and apparently unbreakable calm, to discharge the duties of the Presidency in his increasingly isolated house, issuing no further public comment.

“Mr. President,” Blair Hannah said, and his voice, like so many in these cataclysmic, on-rushing days, trembled with his effort to keep it calm. “My colleagues and I”—he gestured to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, aglitter with medals, standing almost as if at attention to his right—“feel that you must be told that we have very little extra reserves left to fight on with in Gorotoland and Panama unless you can persuade Congress to authorize an immediate appropriation for the Department of Defense.”

He looked up quietly, spoke with what appeared to be an unmoved matter-of-factness.

“How much equipment do we have mothballed and in storage?”

“A substantial amount, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “But it will take many weeks to bring most of it back into shape. And we may not have,” he added bleakly, “many weeks.”

“How long
do
we have?” he inquired bluntly. The Secretary of Defense and his colleagues exchanged a quick glance.

“Perhaps two weeks at present levels of demand,” Blair Hannah said.

“I should like you,” he said quietly, “to launch a massive counter-offensive on both battle fronts not later than four days from today.”

“But, Mr. President—!” the Joint Chiefs exclaimed as one man in stricken voices; and Blair Hannah gave him a look in which dismay, disbelief, compassion and something close to pity competed.

He did not flinch, nor did his level gaze drop from theirs.

“Can you do it?”

“At the cost of thousands of lives,” the Army Chief of Staff protested in a desperately unhappy voice.

“And hundreds of planes,” the Chief of the Air Force agreed in the same anguished way.

“And possibly hundreds of ships,” the Chief of Naval Operations concurred quietly. “Mr. President—” He hesitated and then went on with a dogged determination, “Is it really going to be worth it? Do you really think it will accomplish anything? Have you information that leads you to believe such an effort will have a productive effect upon the enemy?”

“I have approximately the same information you do,” he said quietly. “And a belief that they are weaker internally, and
vis-à-vis
each other, than we can know from the outside. I believe that if we keep up the pressure just a little longer, the Soviet Union and China will either suffer internal revolutions or begin fighting each other. That is what I believe.”

“But it is only a belief,” Blair Hannah said quietly. “You really have no proof.”

“Maybe ‘belief’ is too strong a word,” he agreed, but there was no indication whatsoever that he regarded the admission as weakening his position in any way. “Maybe ‘hope’ is the operative word. Therefore”—his tone hardened—“you will launch a massive counter-offensive on both battlefields not later than four days from today.”

He stood up, never having asked them to be seated, and moved toward the door to show them out. As he did so he turned back for a moment to his Secretary of Defense, his tone more relaxed and informal.