The Presence (37 page)

Bobby groaned. Silverwood waved him to silence, asked, “What does she want?”

“Secretary Edwards is in his office right now. They want to know if you can come over and shed some light on this issue. That's exactly what she said. ‘Shed some light on this issue.' ““They're looking for a scapegoat,” Bobby muttered.

“I'm nobody's goat—not even the President's,” Silverwood muttered back. Then to his secretary, “Tell them I'll be right there. Cancel my appointments for the rest of the morning.” He stood, said to Bobby, “Any idea what's going on in the hearing this afternoon?”

“I'd lay you odds the thing's canceled,” Bobby replied.

“You're joking.”

“You think you're the only one that's got this on their hands?” Bobby waved the slips again. “Take a minute, drop in a couple of the offices. Watch a few nervous breakdowns in action.”

Congressman Silverwood stared at him. “The whole nation?”

Bobby nodded. “You were right when you said this thing was a bomb.”

****

Silverwood had never been inside the West Wing before; he found himself trying hard not to rubberneck. This was definitely not a time to show how green he was. To give them more space, the three men moved next door to the Cabinet Room. Outside the room's large bay windows, unseasonably brilliant sunshine played across the bare trees and brown-green lawn. Silverwood saw no one moving.

“Sometimes I wonder if Americans haven't decided that they'll settle for the mediocre, just so long as it's pure.” Secretary of the Department of Education Phil Edwards rolled his cigar carefully around the edge of the ashtray, trimming the ash to a smoldering cone.

Norman Greenbaum snorted. “Pure by who's definition?”

Edwards gave his head a ponderous nod. “That's part of the problem, no doubt about it. People get so afraid of being seen as impure, they don't want to say anything at all. They're afraid to take a risk, stick their necks out. These religious whackos and their warrior tactics have 'em feeling like their backs're to the wall. They prefer to just melt into the crowd. And so the mediocre and the nut cases have a free reign.”

Greenbaum turned to Silverwood, said, “Your Mr. Case doesn't seem too concerned with being a part of our team.”

“He's not
my
anything,” Silverwood replied heatedly, furious that this was being hung around his neck. “You think I would've recommended him if I thought he'd pull a move like this?”

“The man is plain crazy,” Edwards said. “An uncontrollable maniac. The other side of the religious coin. Either they're mediocre or they're just plain whacko. That man's a menace, mark my words. He's bent on self-destruction, and aims on taking everybody within reach down with him.” He set his cigar in the ashtray and eyed Silverwood. “You didn't have any idea beforehand of his being totally off the wall?”

“None whatsoever. TJ Case was very active in my campaign. He did an excellent job of bringing in the black vote. He was fanatic about the need for better education for exceptionally gifted children. That's all.”

Secretary Edwards was not impressed. “Shoot, the man was in my office five minutes and I knew we had a major fruitcake on our hands. Know what he told me to do about shaping national policy? Pray. Can you imagine? The guy is something out of Loony Tunes.”

“He'll be very active in your destruction, if you're not careful.” The eyes behind Greenbaum's horn-rimmed glasses were hard as stone and staring right at Silverwood. “If that man's not put on a very short leash …”

“This is absurd!” Silverwood protested. “If I thought I was coming over here so you could pin the panic button on me, I'd have stayed in my office.” He stood up. “I've got better things to do with my time than play pass-the-blame with you gentlemen.”

“Sit down, Congressman.” Secretary Edwards did not seem the least bit put out by Silverwood's anger. If anything, he seemed to approve. “Norm, there's not a thing on earth we're gonna accomplish by panicking. What we've got here is one fiery-eyed jerk who doesn't know how to keep his mouth in line with official White House policy. The only thing that matters now is deciding what to do with him. I for one say the solution is easy as pie. Fire him.”

Chief of Staff Greenbaum was not so certain. “Do you have any idea how much publicity this thing has generated?”

“So what?” Secretary Edwards was adamant. “The guy's talking about ripping apart the nation's entire school system. Of course he's got publicity. The man's on the White House staff, he's supposed to be an expert, you think we're gonna let him stay on and just sweep this thing under the rug? I can't believe we're even discussing it. The man gets the chop. Period.”

Silverwood decided the best peace offering he could give Greenbaum was agreeing with his assessment. “Calls to our office are running ten to one in favor.”

“In favor of what?” Secretary Edwards' face began turning red. “In favor of the total destruction of our national system of education? You think just because a few other religious whackos agree with him, this guy Case should be left in place?”

“It's not just a few,” Silverwood said.

“As of nine o'clock this morning,” Greenbaum said, “the White House has received over eleven thousand calls.”

“You fellows can't be serious. This guy wants to atom bomb our schools, and you're sitting here talking about letting him stay on. I don't believe I'm hearing you say this.”

“I personally think we need some kind of counterproposal,” Greenbaum said. “Something we can offer at the same time that the President announces Case's resignation.”

An idea struck Silverwood like a bolt of lightning. “What if we could get Case to come out in favor of our own proposal?”

“You gotta be kidding,” Edwards said. “The only thing I want to see that guy come out for is his funeral.”

Greenbaum leaned forward. “What would make him agree to a thing like that?”

“A firm promise to put his gifted children policy into action.”

“Not on your life!” Edwards exploded.

But Greenbaum ignored him entirely. “You think all this could be just a publicity stunt to put our backs to the wall?”

Silverwood had not thought of that. “Before yesterday I would have said no way. The guy's too straightforward. Now,” he shrugged. “I don't see why he'd go to such an extreme. I mean, it's not like we've already axed his proposal or anything.”

“No, I suppose not,” Greenbaum mused. “You really think that might be enough to bring him around?”

“Over my dead body,” Edwards growled. “We're not catering to the whims of some fruitcake.”

Norman Greenbaum turned to Edwards, said soft and strong, “Nobody said anything about making this reality, Phil. Just calm down and think a minute. Do you really think I'd let somebody like this dictate national policy?”

Secretary Edwards grinned. “I get it. Yeah, it's great. Go ahead, Norm, promise this goof the moon. You got my full approval.”

“I want more than your approval,” Greenbaum told him. “I want a counterproposal we can present to the President, and the President can take to the people. Something to placate this outcry from the religious segment.”

“No problem,” Edwards said. “When do you need it?”

“Yesterday,” Greenbaum replied. “Immediately.”

“Give me two days,” Edwards said. “This'll take some work.”

“Forty-eight hours, not a second more,” Greenbaum said, and turned to Silverwood. “Who do you think should pitch this thing to Case, me or you?”

“Neither,” Silverwood replied. “If you want it to work, get him in with the President.”

John Nakamishi walked with him as far as the main doors leading from the OEOB to the West Wing. TJ stopped there, feeling very old and very afraid.

“Whatever happens,” Nak said quietly, “I just want you to know that I am absolutely certain you've done the right thing.”

TJ looked back at him, thankful yet again that the Lord had brought them together. “If I'm … if I leave, do you think it will affect your career?”

“Probably,” he said in his quiet bland voice. “I chose to join you, so I'll be suspect in their eyes. It doesn't matter, though. I wouldn't have missed this for the world.”

“Nor I,” TJ agreed, and stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Nak.”

John Nakamishi shook his hand, smiled briefly, said, “I know what Mr. Hughes would tell you right now.”

“What's that?”

“Don't be too hard on the boys. They're lost in the darkness and can't help themselves.”

TJ smiled back, wondered what on earth he would have done without these friends, patted Nak on the shoulder, turned, and hurried through the cold misty morning toward the White House.

The message from Norman Greenbaum had been waiting on TJ's desk when he arrived in his office on Thursday, still high from the morning's prayer session. The President's wife had been there again, along with no less than three Cabinet members, seven congressmen, and four senators. Senator Atterly was among them; the senator had not missed a session since coming upon TJ and Silverwood at lunch, and often as not arrived with several high-ranking friends in tow.

TJ had entered his office, read the slip, and felt the jubilation from the prayer session drain away. The President's Chief of Staff wanted to see him the instant he arrived. So little had been completed, and so much was left to do. It seemed as if he hadn't even had time to really get started.

TJ left, passed under the canopy and the silver Presidential seal and entered the West Wing. He stopped in front of the guard's desk, gave his name, showed his temporary pass—the FBI clearance was still not complete, so he did not have his permanent one and could not enter the West Wing unattended. The guard ticked his name off the day sheet, asked him to pass through the metal detector, and had him sit in an uncomfortable chair stationed farther down the narrow hall.

To his surprise it was not the man's secretary but Norman Greenbaum himself who came down to greet him. “Mr. Case?”

TJ rose quickly to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Norman Greenbaum,” he said, all smiles and outstretched hand. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

“It's very kind of you to come down for me,” TJ said, not wanting it to go unnoticed.

“No problem. Wanted to show you something before we got started. C'mon.” He turned and led him down the hall a few paces, paused, pointed out a set of stairs leading off and down to the right. “Ever had the chance to dine in the President's Mess?”

“No, I haven't.”

“We'll have to do something about that,” he said airily. “Real nice experience. Navy runs it, all the personnel are in uniform, very cozy atmosphere. They serve something called a John Marshall pie for dessert. Whipped cream, meringue, and chocolate.” Greenbaum patted his prominent bulge, said, “Eat too many of 'em myself.”

He led TJ past rows of pictures representing the President in various military settings—on the deck of an aircraft carrier, silhouetted at sunset with a row of fighter jets behind him, inspecting troops, a close-up of him in military jacket and visored cap with the Presidential seal. They walked up the stairs, down a short hallway, and entered a very elegant little sitting room.

“This used to be where people'd sit and wait to see the President. Press used it for a while too, oh, back fifty years or so ago. Couldn't fit them all in now even if we stuffed them in sideways. The President'll have photo sessions with visiting dignitaries here, or his senior staff can hold meetings here if they're looking for a more intimate atmosphere.”

Greenbaum made a sweeping gesture that took in several oil paintings and a couple of glass-fronted cabinets holding ceramic figures and historical artifacts. “If you're interested you ought to come through here on a tour one evening when the President's not in. All kinds of interesting stuff.”

They passed through another door, down another short hallway, then Greenbaum pushed open a soundproofed panel and ushered TJ in ahead of him.

“This is the press pool,” Norman Greenbaum said, no longer smiling. “They called it that because the floor's laid over Franklin Roosevelt's old swimming pool. He had it built because the doctors told him a swim every day would help keep his body from deteriorating. You know, he was confined to a wheelchair by polio.”

TJ nodded that he knew, and looked around the cramped little room. From the way it looked on television, he would have thought it to be much bigger. There were perhaps twenty rows of folding seats, maybe a dozen seats per row and very little leg room between them. Lights suspended from the low ceiling all pointed toward the narrow stage with its blue-curtained backdrop. The podium was dressed with the Presidential seal. The back of the room was slightly elevated and contained a forest of tripods and lights and television cameras. Boom mikes were stacked like mechanical logs in one corner.

“This is where it all happens,” Norman Greenbaum said quietly. “Or at least, where it
should
happen.”

He turned to face TJ directly, went on, “Our primary responsibility as White House staff is to help the President. The first way we do that is by making the President look good,
especially
where the media is concerned. Rightly or wrongly, the people of this nation believe what the press tell them. We have to be
extremely
careful that the media receives only the information that we want them to receive, and only the information that has been carefully screened. We have to be absolutely certain that it will portray this administration in the best possible light.” He paused, his eyes boring holes in TJ. “Is that clear?”