Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Thrillers
“Rarely, perhaps, has any American statesman faced so difficult a choice.
“Rarely, also, perhaps, has any had so great an opportunity.
“Now the nation’s eyes—the world’s eyes—rest upon Edward Montoya Jason. The measure of what he is will be found in the next few days and weeks.
“There, too, quite possibly, will be found the measure of what America is, and what, in so fearful and tragic a time, she may yet become has she but the courage to choose a leader worthy of her heritage and her purposes.
“Honor has been made much of, here in San Francisco. It remains to be seen, now, what it means to the Governor of California upon whose shoulders rest the hopes of so many of his heartsick and fearful fellow citizens of this sad, unhappy planet.”
But even as he wrote, three thousand miles away in Manhattan the first crack was appearing in Walter’s wonderful world. Someone else was writing, too, old and tired, still shaken and quivering after a violent pre-dawn argument with his rebellious juniors, but triumphant at last. (There had been a sizable group who had favored an editorial on the sudden worldwide up springing of the Booker T. Saunders Clubs. It would have been entitled HEALTHY SIGN, and it was to have begun: “Another of those spontaneous democratic movements so characteristic of a world in ferment has found in a simple American boy its symbol of articulated comment on the tragic issues of our times.…”)
It had been quite a while since he had written an editorial, and his fingers were rusty on the keys, but tomorrow morning The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was would carry a statement that would make the nations pause, and echo quite as far around the globe as Walter’s:
“While it is too early to determine who would be the best choices for election in November, it seems to us that it is time, now, for their party to close ranks behind the candidates chosen by the convention in San Francisco.
“Whether one agrees with the policies of the President and Secretary Knox or not, one must concede the candor and courage with which they have expressed, and are expressing, them.
“For anyone to interject a third element into the campaign would, we believe, serve only to confuse and divide America at a time when her choices must be firm and clear-cut.
“There is some element of sour grapes and bad sportsmanship in a third-party candidacy that Americans just don’t like. We, along with many of his fellow citizens, would feel regret if one whose qualities, character, and abilities we have always admired should fall into such an error.
“It would not, we believe, do him honor or his country service.”
It was short and hasty and not quite as punchy as he could have turned out ten years ago, but The G.P.’s executive chairman told himself as he pulled it out of the machine and prepared to take it down personally to the city room that it would be heard from. Oh, yes, he thought with a satisfaction he had not felt for a long, long time: it would be heard from.
Alone in his room at the Mark Hopkins, knowing nothing of these comments on his future that so accurately reflected the divergent pressures that were threatening to tear him apart, the Governor of California stared at his great-grandmother. He said nothing, she said nothing. It was six o’clock in the morning. In the past hour the phone had rung twice.
Once it was Rufus Kleinfert, saying in his heavy, oddly accented voice, “Mr. Shelby and Senator Van Ackerman and I, we would like to talk to you. Governor—” whereupon the Governor had hung up.
Half an hour later it had been Fred Van Ackerman, saying, “Now, look, God damn it, Ted, we’ve got to get moving on this third-party idea—” and he had not hung up. He had waited, not saying a word, while Fred went on:
“You can’t just sit on your fat ass, it’s time to move fast and get everybody lined up before they all leave San Francisco. We’re calling a pre-convention organizing meeting for 6 P.M. in the Hilton ballroom for the walk-out delegates and the press. Now, damn it,
you be there.”
Still he had remained silent, until Fred had cried with a savage impatience,
“God damn it, Ted, do you hear me? Answer me! I said we need you there, do you hear me? Will you be there?”
And he had responded at last with two words, very low and as though dredged up from some infinite well of pain,
“All right.”
“All right!” Fred had crowed triumphantly. “You’re God-damned right, all right!”
Now he was just sitting, all alone, staring at Doña Valuela. He had been doing this for quite a long time before a strange strangled sound occurred in the room and he realized in an oddly disbelieving way. Why, I’m crying. Think of that, I haven’t done that in twenty years, I’ll bet. I’m crying.
***
Chapter 9
And now the suddenly melancholic, nostalgic mood of leave-taking was everywhere, and everywhere could be heard the tender cries of old friends bidding one another fond adieu:
“Y’all come see us now, hear?… You jus’ swing that old state into line and we’ll be seein’ you four years from now, y’hear?…We’re counting on you to hold New Jersey for us, boy!…Let me know what we can do for you in Washington on that Rural Electrification matter, if it’ll be any help in November.…Give my love to all those wonderful people of yours at headquarters, now. You tell them we’ll be working with them every moment.…Well, it was just
lovely
seeing you folks, too, and hasn’t it been a great convention? We’ll certainly remember this one, won’t we?”
Away were going Mary Buttner Baffleburg, Lizzie Hanson McWharter, Esmé Harbellow Stryke, away Anna Hooper Bigelow, her good work done. Away the Senators, away the Congressmen, away the Cabinet members, away Joe Smitters, Bill Smatters, Bob Smutters, John Smotters, Buddy Smetters, away their Belle, Mary-Clare, Lulie, Susie, and Vangie, too. Away National Committeemen and -women, away state chairmen, local chairman, rank-and-file, second-level and up-top. Away, away, all away. At the Cow Palace the last debris was being cleared to make room for the Small Boat Show due in on Monday. In Union Square the gentle doves of Roger P. Croy were once more defecating undisturbed upon the citizenry. In Gump’s and Omar’s sank the fire. Once again her calm and leisurely pace was about to reclaim the lovely city.
Had there really been such passion and such agony?
Could it possibly have existed?
At the Mark Hopkins, standing in the midst of mountains of luggage awaiting haulage, jostled this way and that by the crowds pushing out through the still-jammed lobby, the junior Senator from Iowa was saying goodbye to the widow of the late junior Senator from Utah with a tension increased by the fact that neither had slept for more than twenty hours. Certainly they had not slept with each other, Lafe Smith thought with a rather grim humor, maybe that accounted for the way in which their sudden understanding of three days ago seemed to have as suddenly disappeared in this hectic, hasty hour of departure in which the head ached, the eyes stung, and every bone in the body seemed to have its own individual exhaustion.
“Well,” he said, with a nervousness that surprised him even as he realized he was powerless to stop it, “I hope you have a good trip home.”
“Oh, I think we will,” Mabel Anderson said politely, while Pidge tugged and bobbed and jumped beside them, staring eagerly about, trying to see everything, saying goodbye to everyone.
“I expect I’ll be coming out your way in the campaign before long,” he said, hating his platitudinous words.
“I hope you will,” she said. “Let us know.”
“I’ll let
you
know,” he said; and with a sudden rush of urgency, “Mabel, what’s the matter? What’s gone wrong? I haven’t done anything, have I?”
“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Heavens, no.” Her eyes darkened with an abrupt sadness that quite devastated him. “It’s just that—”
“What?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low, his expression no more than politely concerned as the departing delegates shoved and pushed and elbowed past with a noisy, relaxing exuberance.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said, “nothing’s your fault. It’s just that—”
“What?” he said gently.
“It’s the same thing I told you yesterday—or day before—or whenever it was.” She brushed a hand across her eyes with a tired smile. “One loses track so quickly, in a convention. When the ugliness started and they—they hurt Crystal, it was just like being back in the same old nightmare. It was like what they did to Brig.” She turned her head away and he realized she was actually shivering. “Lafe,” she said, turning back and staring at him from haunted eyes, “politics is so
awful.”
“No, it isn’t,” he protested lamely, knowing how inadequate the words were in the face of what she, and many another, must consider the unanswerable evidence. “It isn’t any more awful than people let it be.”
“But good people can’t seem to do anything about it,” she said in the same sad tone. “It’s always the bad ones who seem to run things.”
“You can’t let the past stand in your way forever,” he said, realizing that now Pidge had been attracted by their tone and was staring up at them with round, solemn eyes. “Some things have to be forgotten. You have to have faith that what comes next will be better. You have to give yourself a chance. Remember what you told me about Jimmy,” he reminded her desperately. “You may get hurt out in the world, but that’s part of living. That’s what you told me, you can’t just hide.”
“I don’t see how you can stand it,” she said in a musing tone, appearing to be far away, as indeed she was, back a year ago in all the horror of her husband’s suicide. “I just don’t see how you do it.”
“At least let me see you when I’m in Utah,” he said. “We have so much to talk about—Jimmy—and ourselves—and Pidge—and all. Can’t I do that? Please, Mabel!” he said, so loudly that now a couple of delegates did stop for a second in their headlong farewell rush to give them startled looks.
“I’m sorry,” she said, coming back suddenly, placing a hand on his arm, giving him a beseeching look and a shy, sad smile. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Do come to see me. We will talk. Maybe you can persuade me to feel differently, once we’re out of this—this
evil
here.” She placed her hands suddenly against his face, drew it down to her, and kissed him. “Dear Lafe,” she said gently. “Don’t stop trying. I hope you can persuade me.”
“I won’t,” he promised, as earnestly as though his life depended upon it, as perhaps it did. “I won’t. I want you to help me with Jimmy and with the campaign and with—so many things. I want you to help me with myself,” he said simply, “so don’t go away.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said. She looked down at her luggage and counted the pieces once again. “We’ve really got to go. Write me or call. Come to Salt Lake soon.”
“I will,” he said, while the crowd pushed and shoved and chattered all about. “You can be sure I will.”
“Uncle Lafe,” Pidge said earnestly, tugging at his hand. “We like you.”
“Thanks, Pidge,” he said in a shaky voice, not daring to glance at either of them, turning away and moving from them even as he spoke. “I hope somebody does.”
“Hi, buddy,” Cullee said quietly at his elbow a moment later when he had arrived, somehow, at the other side of the lobby. “No soap, hmm?”
“Oh, you saw,” he said lamely. Cullee sighed.
“In this game, somebody sees everything. I hope it isn’t all over.”
“Oh, no,” he said with a weary bitterness. “It isn’t over, it isn’t on. It’s just—there. And I’m tired,” he said with a determined change of subject, managing a reasonably humorous tone, “and you’re tired and everybody’s tired, and what the hell’s going to happen next?”
“We’re going to elect a President.”
“The same one we think we are?”
“I think so. There’s going to be the start of a rump convention at the Hilton tonight, but I don’t think it’s going to matter. They say Ted’s going to go for it, but I can’t conceive of him being such a fool.”
“He may believe in what he stands for, you know,” Lafe said, forcing himself to concentrate on the political situation and not be too hurt by the two figures he could just catch a glimpse of across the lobby, going out the door. “An awful lot of people believe he does. In which case, he could mean a lot of trouble for Harley and Orrin. He might very well succeed in splitting the vote enough to throw the election into the House.”
Cullee shook his head, studying the hastening leave-takers with thoughtful eyes, waving at several who called his name as they hurried by.
“The worst he could do would be to throw it to Warren Strickland on the other ticket.”
“I was talking to Beth a little while ago,” Lafe said—“I called to ask about Crystal, who’s coming along O.K., and also to ask how the old war-horse himself is feeling, now he’s on the ticket—and she indicated that they’ve heard from Warren. A personal note to Harley, apparently. She doesn’t know just what, but evidently some pledge on foreign policy designed to create a solid front against Ted if he does run. Something for Harley to keep in reserve.”
“I just can’t conceive of Ted being so foolish,” Cullee repeated. “But ambition is a fearful thing—” he said, as he prepared to run for the Senate and probably take the licking of his life.
“You’ll make it,” Lafe said more lightly. “How’s
your
love life?”
Cullee smiled.
“Simple. And happy. And going to stay that way, I think.…When you going back to D.C.?”
“I understand Harley would be happy to have both of us fly back with him,” Lafe said, “but I don’t think I can make it. I’ve got to make a speech tomorrow night in Houston.”
“Me, either. I’ve got to stay here and get my campaign moving. Is Orrin going with him?”
“Different planes, I believe, which is wise enough.”
Cullee nodded soberly.
“Yes, I think so. Accidents do happen.”
“More than accidents, sometimes,” Lafe said grimly, “considering how bitter some of Ted’s supporters are.”
“Have you read Walter Dobius today?” Cullee asked dryly. “He’s keeping it hot.”
“The bastard never learns,” Lafe remarked. His expression changed to one of ironic humor as he saw a familiar face. “There’s the man who can tell us all about it. K.K.” he called, raising his voice across the jabbering lobby to the spot where the Indian Ambassador stood deep in obviously portentous conversation with his colleagues from France and Britain. They all turned and waved and the Americans went over.
“Well, dear friends,” Lafe said, “and what do you think of the great Republic now?”
“Fascinating,” Krishna Khaleel said with a hiss. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“We know that,” Lafe said, “But what’s going to happen?”
“Rather difficult to estimate at this point, isn’t it, old boy?” Lord Maudulayne suggested. “Looks somewhat like a Hudson-Knox victory, doesn’t it?”
“A little somewhat,” Cullee remarked. “Not a great big somewhat.”
“If Governor Jason wins,” Raoul Barre said politely, “it will create quite a dilemma, will it not?”
“It could create a contested election, yes,” Cullee said. “Which I don’t suppose would disappoint our good friends overseas. Nothing quite so delicious as seeing the United States all tied up in knots, is there?”
“Oh, now,” Krishna Khaleel protested. “Oh, now, Cullee, you mustn’t say bitter things like that. We all want the United States to succeed, so much depends upon her succeeding. We all want her to have a peaceable election and a new President—that is,” he added hastily in a flustered voice, “I mean a new President in the sense of one newly elected to take office next January. I do not mean in the sense—”
“We know what you mean, K.K.,” Lafe said dryly. “It’s clear enough. So you really think Ted Jason would lead the United States in the way you want her led, do you? You might be surprised.”
“I think perhaps he has created for himself—or allowed to be created for him,” Raoul Barre said thoughtfully, “I am not, at this point, sure exactly which—a psychological and political prison within which it would not be possible for us to be surprised. His hands would be effectively tied, his choices very much limited, I should think.”
“Presidents’ hands are never tied if they really want to break out,” Lafe said, “that’s one of the intriguing things about the office. Don’t be too sure of what he would do. The office might change him—if he got it,” he concluded firmly, “which I do not believe he will.”
“Still, you are not sure,” the French Ambassador said grimly.
“No,” Cullee conceded somberly. “We are not sure.”
Nor were they, really, in the penthouse at the Huntington, whose temporary tenants, like all the other temporaries of the convention, were surrounded by luggage, ready to leave. The First Lady and Dolly Munson had already departed half an hour ago to go to “Main Chance” for a week of rest, recuperation, and reconstruction; they would rejoin their husbands in Washington for the campaign’s opening strategy meeting. Bob Munson and Stanley Danta had come in and chatted for a while, assessed the prospects for the campaign with a shrewd and undaunted realism, and gone out to catch the
California Zephyr
back East, describing a train ride as the best decompression chamber they knew for the fearful tensions of a hard-fought convention. Bob Leffingwell had called to pay his respects and say that he and his wife were going to fly out to the Hana-Maui for a short vacation and then would be reporting in to Washington “for whatever you would like me to do.” The Speaker had come by for a moment to wish them luck, made no pretense about considering the task ahead easy, pledged his help in every way possible and then left for a week with his sister and brother-in-law at their cabin at Lake Tahoe. The last visitor, the Governor of Nebraska, came and went, the phone at last fell silent, there was a little delay before time for departure to the airport. The candidate for President and the candidate for Vice President at last had a few moments to talk.
“Any regrets?” the President asked quietly, looking for the last time over the beautiful Bay. An unhappy grimace crossed the face of the Secretary of State.
“Crystal, of course. And the bitterness of the whole thing.…I have a curious feeling we will be a long time recovering from this convention. I think it’s done something to us, and perhaps to America. It could,” he said slowly, “be something permanent, if we are not lucky.”
“These things come and go,” the President said. “For a people who like to think of themselves as calm and easygoing, we are apt to be surprisingly violent, at times. But we have been before, and it has passed. Sensibility reasserts itself. I think it will now.”
“I wish I were as sure as you are,” the Secretary said. “I never told you about the bomb somebody planted at my house a couple of months ago, I didn’t want to worry you. And of course you know what both of us get in the mail. The threats will be even more violent and fantastic now.”
“As Calvin Coolidge once remarked,” the President said, “‘Any well-dressed man who wants to give his own life can kill the President.’” His expression became both sad and ironic for a moment. “Nowadays, they don’t even have to be well-dressed. And someday, of course,” he added quietly, “somebody may succeed, with me, or with you, or with anyone else who seems to some unhappy mind to be a worthwhile target. But … one can’t stop for that.”