Authors: Irving Wallace
“We’ve ordered our field men to continue probing for information.”
“Not enough,” said President Dilman firmly. He stood up, stared at the windows behind him, then slowly turned back to Scott. “Whatever Talley or Eaton determined—whether they kept this information from me because they decided it was unimportant or because they refused to trust me—I am not yet ready to let them usurp my powers, the powers of this office, and make decisions for me. This can be serious, serious beyond belief. Mr. Scott, I persuaded President Amboko to relax his guard against Communism, give the Russians a freer hand in Baraza. Five days ago I received Premier Kasatkin’s assurance that this democratic freedom we had insisted upon in Baraza would not be misused by the Soviet Union. No matter how others in our country may feel about Baraza, I will not break faith with Amboko or with other African leaders who trust us and depend upon us. Nor will I let Russia deceive us, play us for fools, make us keep hands off while they are getting ready to take over the independent, underdeveloped nations of Africa through intimidation and terror. Mr. Scott—”
Montgomery Scott had come to his feet. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“We’re way behind, and Baraza may be in danger and we may be in danger. I want to make up for lost time. I want the number of undercover CIA agents in Baraza doubled, and redoubled, if necessary, and at once. I want the secret funds committed to this investigation doubled, tripled. Hereafter I want every CIA report on Baraza brought to me, by you in person. Let Talley and Eaton keep their heads in the sand. I cannot, and shall not. I want a final report on Baraza rated up to 1 or down to 6. Whatever it becomes, I want the truth, and I want it fast!”
By five minutes after ten o’clock that evening, Sally Watson, fortified by the three Bloody Marys before dinner, the two glasses of wine and one full-grain energizing pill during dinner, the second refill of champagne in her hand now after dinner, felt at last possessed of the daring to go through with her scheme.
Her bare shoulders backed against the striped satin wallpaper of the Blue Room, Sally Watson stood removed from the clutter of military guests some feet away. The informal reception and dinner for the Pentagon crowd, in the State Dining Room, had gone off smoothly. There had been no last-minute dropouts, no ostracizing of Dilman, since the military needed the President’s support in their next budget battle. Now the thirty-two guests, the beribboned, bemedaled men in their brown, blue, gray, green uniforms, and their wives in semiformal dress, were enjoying their after-dinner drinks, a choice of champagne or brandy.
Sally drank, and through the tipped curve of her champagne glass, somewhat distorted, she could make out President Dilman, surrounded by Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner (a clod), Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Fortney (a lecher), Admiral Rivard (a bore), Air Force General Ormsby (a social climber). Undoubtedly, she guessed, they were discussing with the President the trip he would be leaving upon late tomorrow, a one-week swing around the nation to visit military installations and deliver three speeches: on his Chantilly accord with the Soviets, on defense spending, on the forthcoming culmination of Project Apollo with the three-man orbital flight and moon reconnaissance under the direction of that attractive young General Leo Jaskawich.
It was interesting, to Sally, to watch how the President made a pretense of attentiveness, when she could see how disinterested he really was—in fact, how self-absorbed and moody he was, as he had been throughout the evening. He’s bugged, absolutely neurotic, about that telephone call he received during lunch, she decided. She knew that she was right. It takes one to know one. For she was bugged too, absolutely psycho, about what she had overheard and had reported to Arthur Eaton, and about how Arthur had reacted and what she had promised him.
With quiet desperation, before she lost her courage, before she became undone again, she wished that the damn after-dinner drinking would cease, and that they would all go down to the projection room for that Air Force film and leave her alone. Instead they stood there, lapping up the free booze. She considered her own empty glass: not that she was one to protest.
She peered down at her sea-green chiffon cocktail gown and wished that she had worn something less provocative. The next thing, General Pitt Fortney would be leering over at her again, and trying to make her come down to the projection room as his partner so that he could put his hand on her knee in the dark. She had her speech all made up for Dilman. She did not want any Texas lunk-head spoiling it.
From the top brass in the drawing room, her thoughts careened to the golden Galahad splendor of her lover. Tonight she was putting it all on the line for Arthur Eaton. Not that she had not already put plenty on the line for him, but tonight would cinch it. After tonight he would know for sure that she was not only good in bed, but good for a wife, a perfect wife for an entire life. After all, where had that snotty Kay Varney, his wife in name only, been during this crisis in Arthur’s life? What had Kay ever given him but a bank account and a cold in bed? As for herself, Sally was giving him more—everything, in fact. She was giving him an excitement in loving that he had never known before—he had admitted it the last time—and now she was preparing to undergo any risk to protect and elevate him.
The issues at stake were cloudy to her. She had no mind, she was the first to admit, for politics. She knew only that what was going on was of life-and-death importance to her Arthur, and that if she saved him, he would save her. He would have to, whether he wanted to or not, and he would want to anyway. They were together in this. Besides, they were in love, not kid love, lifetime love.
In front of her, some jazzed-up darky was starting to splash more champagne into her glass, and she pulled it away and let the rest of the champagne pour on the rug. She did not want to be intoxicated. Too much at stake. What at stake? She relived the highlights of the hectic afternoon.
During lunch, after leading Dilman to his Miss Gibson on the telephone, after leaving him, Sally had deliberately left the door slightly ajar. Why? She did not know. Why not? She had heard what she had heard, not comprehending fully, knowing only that it was something terribly surprising to the President, terribly involved with foreign affairs, and that she must convey to Arthur what she had learned. Whew, it had been close, getting away just in the nick of time. She was certain that Dilman suspected nothing. He was a dimwit, nice but a dimwit, through and through.
The second that she was back in the privacy of her office, she had telephoned Arthur at the Department of State. She did not get far. Brusquely, he had cut her short, asking her not to tell him any more on the telephone, but to come over at once. Pleased to have struck a spark, she had made some excuse to Diane about an errand, and hastened downstairs to her sports car.
When she had arrived at the Department of State and entered Arthur’s marvelous office, she was dismayed. She and Arthur were not alone, as she had expected they would be. A third party, Wayne Talley, was also present. At once, Arthur, perceiving her embarrassment, considerately had placed an arm around her, assuring her that she could speak as freely before Talley as with him.
She had recounted everything that she could recall having “accidentally” overheard of the President’s conversation with Miss Wanda Gibson. When she had mentioned that the President had said he had not “seen any special CIA report like that one,” Arthur’s face darkened and there was a rapid exchange between Talley and himself.
Arthur had said, “Dilman knows. He’ll try to see that CIA report now.”
Talley had said, “There’s none to see.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Arthur, I am positive.”
“Good . . . I know we have acted in the right. T. C. would have commended us.”
“No question, Arthur. How could we let someone like Dilman have that information—and possibly misuse it? He’d not think of what was best for us, only what would be best for his African friends.”
Then Sally had resumed her story, and when she finished with the news that Dilman was meeting with Scott this afternoon, Arthur had turned to Talley once more.
“Wayne, I’m worried. This could be dynamite.”
“We’ve got the percussion cap.”
“I’m not so sure. Depends on what Scott tells him. I’d give anything to know.”
After promising to meet with Arthur again in the evening, Talley had departed. For Sally, being alone with Arthur was reward enough, but when he also embraced her and kissed her, it was almost too much to bear.
Before leaving, Sally had clung to Arthur briefly. “Honey,” she had whispered, “did you mean it, what you told Governor Talley, about giving anything to know what Dilman and Scott are going to discuss this afternoon?”
“It would be of inestimable importance to me, yes.”
“What if I could find out for you?”
“You find out? How?”
“Never mind—what if I could? That’s something your wife wouldn’t do for you, would she?”
“Kay?” He had smiled wanly. “If she saw a tree about to fall on me, she probably wouldn’t raise her voice.”
“There, then,” Sally had said triumphantly. “You can see I’m not Kay. To me, you’re the most precious person on earth—”
“Darling, I—”
“I mean it, Arthur. Anyway, let me go after this for you.”
“Sally, I wouldn’t want you attempting anything foolish or risky.”
“I wouldn’t be. I’m only saying, I can try to help you, I want to, because I love you.”
“I love you, too, darling.”
“If—if I find out anything, I’ll see you tonight.”
He did not stop her, she remembered. He had told her not to attempt anything risky. He had not told her that he preferred she do nothing at all. Therefore it was important to him, whatever she could learn—and therefore it was equally important to her to learn something for him, for both of them.
She looked up from her glass, and was glad to note, while she was still keyed up, that the after-dinner drinking was coming to an end. There was a spontaneous breaking up of groups, a realigning into couples, a general movement in her direction, toward the exit beside her. They were streaming out of the room now, going down to the East Wing projection room, with its front row of soft armchairs and seven rows of stiffer chairs behind, which they would not more than half fill.
The stocky figure of President Dilman, momentarily separated from General Fortney, drew nearer. He glanced at her, and she stared blearily at him.
“Coming, Miss Watson?” he inquired.
“ ’Fraid not,” she murmured beneath her breath, a trick of underplaying that usually brought her prey, unable to hear her, closer to her to find out what she had said. It worked.
Dilman was beside her. “I didn’t catch what—?”
“Mr. President, do you mind if I skip the movie? I—I’m embarrassed, but ’fraid I drank too much, an’ I feel a bit woozy. Maybe I’d better lie down somewhere, an’ come in for the end of it.”
“Not necessary, Miss Watson. If you don’t feel well, you go home, go to bed.”
“Thank you. Matter of fact, I’m not up to that either yet. Really, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to find a place to rest a few minutes, and then—”
His military aides were cluttering the doorway, and Dilman said absently, “Whatever you think best, Miss Watson. Come down and join us later, if you like. You did a fine job with the dinner. Thank you.”
He was gone. The others were gone. In seconds, the Blue Room was emptied of all but herself and two white-coated waiters retrieving the empty glasses. She waited a short interval, until there was no more sound in the Main Hall outside. Then, setting down her champagne glass, taking up her beaded evening purse, she started to leave the room. At the doorway one of her knees buckled, she staggered, but she quickly recovered, surprised to realize that she was really a trifle woozy after all.
She intended to climb the state staircase, go up the quiet red carpet to the second floor, but then remembered that the glass doors at the top were automatically locked on the inside to anyone approaching from below. Immediately she took the President’s private elevator and, seconds later, emerged into the upstairs foyer.
Cautiously she made her way into the West Hall. She expected to come upon the valet, Beecher, or the housekeeper, Mrs. Crail, and she had her professional excuses prepared. She was almost disappointed when neither one was in sight. She turned left, going past the Yellow Oval Room, going more briskly, ready for any Secret Service man who might accost her and then recognize her. In her brief passage up the corridor she neither saw, nor was seen by, any other person.
At the door of the Lincoln Bedroom, which Dilman had recently converted into his permanent night study as well as sleeping quarters, she paused. Lightly, she knocked, to learn if the valet was inside, readying the room for the night. There was no response. Satisfied, she looked up the corridor, then down it, to confirm once more that there were no witnesses to her adventure. There were none.
Swiftly, heartbeat quickening, she opened the door and stepped inside, shutting the door silently behind her.
The somber stillness of the chamber quelled her rising nervousness. The valet had been here and gone. The white trapunto coverlet had been removed from Lincoln’s rosewood bedstead, and the pillows were in place, with a corner of the blanket cover folded back diagonally. The President’s pajamas were laid out neatly across the foot of the bed, and below, on the rug, were his misshapen brown bedroom slippers. The room was shadowy, lit dimly by only the round glass-shaded lamps on either side of the bed, and by the one on the marble-topped circular table.
Holding her beaded purse tightly, she went slowly around the bedroom, examining the tops of the bureau and the Victorian table against the wall, the couch, the end tables, the slipper chairs for the object of her search. They offered her no help. Distress, yet positive that it must be in this room (if it existed at all), for she knew the President read and studied and made notes late into the night, Sally continued around the bedroom. Then, on the figured carpet, propped against the leg of the end table on the opposite side of the bed, she saw it.