Authors: Irving Wallace
With a tiny, audible gasp of elation, she ran to the stuffed leather briefcase. Kneeling, praying, she tugged at the heavy flap. It pulled up, the bag opening wide without resistance, and she wanted to cry with gratitude. The President had released the combination lock before leaving, probably intending to do some work while dressing for dinner.
Settling on the floor beside the enormous bed, lifting her skirts and tucking her legs sideways beneath her, she dipped one hand into the first partition of the briefcase. What she came up with were several green-covered pamphlets and booklets from the Department of Defense, on military weapons and equipment currently in use. With care she returned them to their slot, and then pulled a thick wad of papers out of the second partition. She skimmed the headings in haste, and saw that these consisted of the President’s speaking schedule around the country, with several rough drafts, marked with blunt pencil, of the addresses he would be delivering. Disappointed, she returned these to the briefcase too.
There was one partition remaining, and in it were more clipped sheets. She extracted them. The first two listed his tentative engagements for tomorrow. The next, bound in a light-blue folder, bore two block-lettered, ominous, rubber-stamped red-ink warnings upon it:
EYES ONLY
and
TOP SECRET
.
She opened the folder. The first page had the typewritten heading: “Following is a Transcript of the Conversation Between the President and Director Montgomery Scott, of CIA, from 3:15
p.m.
to 4:22
p.m.
Today. (Q means Question by the President; A means Answer by Mr. Scott.) Transcribed by E. F.”
A thrill of intrigue and accomplishment shot down Sally Watson’s bare and shaking arms, into her fingers holding the valuable document. How proud Arthur would be of her, she thought, how proud and pleased, as pleased as he had been after their first night of fulfilled love not many weeks ago.
She turned the pages one by one, counting them. There were seven in all, single-spaced, but with generous skips. Even though her shorthand was rudimentary—she had never had the patience to acquire such a menial skill—she had concocted a homemade shorthand of her own, employing mostly abbreviations and silly symbols that she understood. Unfortunately, her system, efficient as it was, would take considerable time, perhaps too much time to enable her to copy the entire document.
She squinted at the diminutive dial of her wristwatch, finally making out the minute and hour hands. Almost fifteen minutes had passed since the President had led his guests to the ground-floor projection room. They were watching a movie. If it wasn’t a spectacle, merely an ordinary movie, it would take an hour and a half. Then, when it was over, there would be some discussion of it, and there would be more time consumed bidding good night to the officers and their wives. At the least, based on past experience, this should take Dilman another half hour. So she had two hours, minus fifteen minutes, leaving one hour and forty-five minutes. But, assuming there was no lingering after the film had been shown, assuming the President was anxious to return to his homework, she had better shave off a half hour as a margin of safety for herself. That left one hour and fifteen minutes of assured privacy.
She weighed the folder and its precious pages. No, the time left to her might not be enough to copy everything, considering the amount to be done, the pressure, and, she had to admit, her some-what groggy condition. She decided upon a course of action: even if she did not completely understand the contents of these pages, she would copy out fully whatever looked important or factual, or concerned foreign affairs, especially whatever Scott had told Dilman. Then, if there was still time left, she would go back and fill in the rest, or what she could of it.
She came to her feet, folder in one hand, purse in the other, wobbled on her high-heeled pumps, then went hastily to the marble-opped circular table in the center of the room. Pulling up one of the velvet-covered chairs, she laid the folder on its face, snapped open her purse, and brought out her two dozen blank index cards and her gold pencil. Putting her purse aside, she turned over the bound transcript, flipped a page, and read:
Q. Mr. Scott, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see the original file of your daily reports and why I wanted to see you. Shortly after one o’clock today, from a private source, I learned that Vaduz Exporters, a Liechtenstein corporation with offices in Bethesda, is a Soviet Union Communist Front organization, operating illegally, shipping arms and ammunition through Liechtenstein to Iron Curtain countries, and from those countries to Africa. I have just now found this confirmed in the FBI file on foreign subversive organizations in this area.
A. Oh yes, Mr. President, we gave the FBI the lead on that two weeks ago, two weeks ago yesterday. Unlike Amtorg, the Vaduz people are unregistered enemy agents. Lombardi told me they were already under surveillance, but what came in from our Barazan operative was the first concrete evidence of what was actually going on here. I think the FBI intends to crack down any day now.
Q. Tomorrow. The FBI is rounding them up and closing them tomorrow.
A. Excellent. Of course, that’s no longer strictly a CIA matter.
Q. I’ll tell you what is a CIA matter, and a matter that seriously concerns me. How did you know that Vaduz weapons were pouring into Africa, the Baraza area, for native Communists?
A. It’s in the special daily report I sent you two weeks ago yesterday.
Q. Mr. Scott, I received no such report from you. It is not in my file here. Miss Foster brought my file in before you came—
Sally caught herself. She had become so absorbed in reading, she was forgetting to copy. Of course, most of this she had already relayed to Arthur, it being similar to what she had overheard in Dilman’s conversation with Miss Gibson, but nevertheless, Arthur would want the essence of it.
She slid the first of her small rectangular index cards next to the transcript, took up her gold pencil, and began to write clearly: “Q—Mr. Scott, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see the original file of your daily reports . . .”
She wrote on. The first part was tiresome, for she had read it and there were no surprises, but then, after she reached the new dialogue, it was more interesting and more sport, and her cramped writing hand hurt less and the time went more swiftly.
Once, as her filled index cards began to form an exhilarating pile—like a square slice of wedding cake—she glanced at the time. More than forty-five minutes of her allotted one hour and fifteen minutes had passed. She had, she realized, covered less than half the transcript, and there were fewer than thirty minutes remaining. What she had put down, she hoped, would be useful to Arthur, but she was being too meticulous, writing everything out in full, and much of what she had written out suddenly did not seem vital. With a pang, she wished that she possessed Miss Foster’s stenographic skill, and her knowledge of what was usable and what was chaff. But then, Arthur would not have been interested in a girl whose talents were so circumscribed.
She determined to resort to her own brand of shorthand, and hoped she would be able to decipher it later tonight. She also determined to skip ahead, setting down only what seemed to touch upon Arthur’s life and interests.
She resumed reading, copying nothing for a few minutes, then realized that Scott was orally filling in for the President what had been in some kind of missing report, and this she duplicated on her cards in detail. Then she skipped more, and then Arthur’s name leaped out at her in the transcription of the President’s words, and the words were threatening to Arthur, and she knew that she must capture them for his eyes. She reread the passage:
Q. What have you done about it since?
A. We’ve ordered our field men to continue probing for information.
Q. Not enough. 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.
The words blurred to her eyes, and the champagne’s bitter aftertaste was in her throat, and her writing hand was painful from spasms of cramp, but she knew that she must write this down too, and fully. She suspected it would be more important to Arthur than anything else. When one had knowledge of what other people thought of them, were planning against them, one was forewarned and as strong as one’s self and one’s opponent combined. How much she herself would want such a transcript of Arthur’s private conversations by long distance with his impossible wife. Armed with that, she would know how to behave to perfection. But then, she supposed, such information was superfluous. Every time Arthur lay in her embrace, peacefully asleep, his beautiful repose told her what he thought of Kay, what he thought of Sally, and what she herself could depend upon in the future.
She shook off the lassitude of drink, pulled a fresh index card before her, and began copying again.
Her wavering pencil had neared the bottom of the card, when abruptly it stopped, and hung there as if impaled.
There had been a sound outside the door.
Her head went up, her back arched, her heart thumped.
She listened.
Then there was a voice, and another voice, both muffled, barely audible, but as strident as fanfares against her ears, amplified and amplified again by her mortal terror.
Beyond the closed door, the voices seemed to converge upon her until they were recognizable, one that of Douglass Dilman, the other that of Beecher, his valet.
A cold sweat bathed her, and her clammy fingers tightened about the pencil as panic gripped her heart and head.
Impossible, was all that she could tell herself. But, simultaneously, the shock of fear cleared her head. She remembered for the first time since she had stood drinking her champagne after dinner: it was not an ordinary feature-length film they had seen, but two Signal Corps short subjects (running time, twenty-eight minutes) and one Air Force documentary (running time, seventeen minutes). No wonder it was over. No wonder the President was outside the door.
She was trapped, she and Arthur trapped, because of her stupid miscalculation, caught red-handed without prepared explanation or lie.
The voices, indistinct outside the door, rose and fell. Desperately her numb fingers sought help from her numbed brain. She threw the pencil into her purse, shoved the index cards together and jammed them haphazardly into the purse; then, holding the purse, she grabbed up the folder and stumbled out of the chair. Blindly, choking, she darted to the side of the bed. Casting the purse on the bed, she knelt, tore open the briefcase, and stuffed the folder into it.
She leaped to her feet, wildly searching the bedroom. Across the bed, past the towering headboard and Lincoln portrait on the wall, was another white door, the one leading into the adjoining Lincoln Sitting Room. It was her escape hatch, her only hope. If she could only get out before he came in. She went swiftly around the endless bed, half running, reached the door to safety, was about to open it, when she realized that she was empty-handed.
She spun back into the room, and then wanted to scream with anguish. There it was, the sonofabitching purse, the indicting purse fat with her notes for Arthur. There it was, glittering and mocking her, lying on the far side of the bed.
She bounded to the bed, reached over it for the purse, lost her balance, and fell across the blanket cover. She had snatched the purse and rolled over to regain her feet when she heard the creak, like the report of a firing squad, outside the corridor door. On an elbow, hypnotized, she watched the doorknob turn. She was lost.
In that living instant of horror, a flash of recollection was illuminated out of her past: she had got into José’s dingy flat in Greenwich Village, while he was playing with the band uptown, to rummage through his effects and find out if he had left a wife down in Puerto Rico. She was still on marijuana, and insanely jealous, and would not have an affair or marriage with a bigamist, and she would not take his word. She had heard his footsteps on the wooden boards outside, the key rattling in the unlocked door, and she had been trapped. She had thrown herself on his mattress, sprawled and in disarray, and pretended sleep. Thus he had found her, the first time in his room, and had accepted the fact that she had got drunk in the saloon downstairs waiting for him, and come up to sleep it off. It had deceived him completely, poor bewildered primitive, and she had blotted out his suspicions by giving herself to him. They had eloped the next day, the silly annulled episode, but the point was, he had not found out why she had been there, because of her cleverness. Had he found out, he would have cut her throat. He had been a nut, like herself in those sick days, and he would consent to any degradation except question of his word, his only wealth of pride.
The memory passed through her mind with the speed of enlightenment.
Her gaze remained riveted to the doorknob. It had turned once, yet the door had not opened. She heard Dilman’s voice call out something to his valet. Still the door did not open, as she heard the distant reply from Beecher.
Could she lift herself off the bed, retrieve her now fallen evening shoe, reach the second door, get through it and close it, before the President came inside? Maybe. She started to sit up, then saw the door beginning to open, and more clearly heard Dilman wearily relate the last of some instruction for the morning to his valet.
Too late.
Breath locked in her lungs, she kicked off her other pump, lifted her legs high, and rolled to the middle of the bed. Her hair was mussed, which was all right, and one of the thin straps that held up her green bodice had slipped loosely down her arm, and the skirt of her cocktail dress, a part of it, she knew, had caught to the blanket in her falling back and rolling, so that her garters and a portion of one thigh were exposed. She did not know which to cover first, her thigh or her lace brassiere, but then she covered neither, for the door was opening and she must pretend sleep, pretend to have passed out, and this way she would look it. Besides, in this privacy, he wasn’t a President or politician or any big shot at all, but just a poor, lonesome colored man who’d had no attractive woman around for weeks, and she was the best-looking female in the White House. Let him know, let him know. José had been diverted. The colored man would be diverted, too, diverted and flustered, and would not bother to reason and concern himself with why she was there. She’d make it, she was sure, confident now, if only the champagne didn’t make her nauseated. She released her taut muscles, threw one arm out limply, so that her bodice dropped even farther and one spidery cup of the white brassière was almost fully revealed.