Irving Wallace - The Man

This was different. If the danger to which Wanda had alerted him had any reality-and she was not one to panic, to convert rumor into fact, to exaggerate-then he had not cut himself adrift from his crew by his own choice, but had been forced into the helpless isolation of an open boat by hostile mutineers. His own crew had conspired against him, to take over the ship of state and to let him sink.

For the first time, the full realization of what might be happening struck him: he was President in name only, while those around him, without his knowledge, were at the helm, performing the functions of high command.

If this was the case-and now his strength was revived by growing anger-he would not go down, and let the country go down, because other hands had tried to heave him overboard and themselves take control. He was still President of the United States, possessed of the total authority of the executive branch, and he still had enough of a crew at his beck and call to use this authority.

He lifted the telephone from the hook, identified himself to the White House operator, and asked for Edna Foster.

“Miss Foster? Two things. Confidential. Contact Bob Lombardi at the FBI. Notify him I want to see the complete files on every foreign subversive organization, and especially those under suspicion of being Communist Fronts, located in this immediate area. Do you have that?

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I want the information on my desk by two-thirty today. Second thing-” He thought about it. He had met the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency only three times, and never once in private. He wondered if he could trust him, or if the Director was in the conspiracy against him, if such there was, and then he decided that he had no choice of action. If he could not trust the CIA, he was lost anyway. “Get hold of Montgomery Scott at Central Intelligence. Tell him I want to see the original, unedited daily reports, for every day of the past month, on every one of the African Unity Pact countries, especially those on Baraza.”

“Mr. President, if I may say so, we do have a complete file of these CIA reports in our-”

“I know we have copies, Miss Foster. And I know the Secretary of State has copies. I need the originals. Tell Scott I want to see him personally, along with the original reports, in my office at three o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll have to rearrange your appointments. And I want to leave you time to rest up before tonight’s dinner-”

“Do whatever you have to. But Scott is top priority. Understand?”

He hung up, then recalled that he had left the United Nations delegation in Eaton’s hands. He was in no mood for the delegates now, especially when he was less certain about the durability of the worldwide peace he had achieved at Chantilly, but he must return to the table. At least they must be prompted to remember that he was President.

Quickly he crossed the Red Room, and as he reached out to open the door, he realized that it had not been entirely closed during his telephone conversation. He must remind Miss Watson to be less hasty and slipshod in the future. He would hate to have had the valet or the other servants overhear any of his conversation with Wanda, and then use it as fodder for their backstairs gossip.

He looked down the vast hall, and in the distance he could see a girl in a white blouse and blue skirt rushing to her work. Not until she had gone around the corner and out of sight did he remember that Sally Watson had worn a white blouse and blue skirt today. It was too late to call out to her and reprimand her. It was also unimportant, considering what was on his mind and what the afternoon ahead held for him.

Bemused, he started back to the Family Dining Room to take his place at the head of the table.

Edna Foster brushed the limp brown strands of hair from her eyes, left the President once more buried in the heap of files delivered to his desk by the FBI twenty minutes earlier, and unhappily returned to her own office to get the disagreeable task over with.

The instant that she returned, before she could prepare herself for him, Leroy Poole was out of his chair, forehead perspiring, swollen eyes moist, black porcine face beseeching her. She tried to escape behind the moat of her desk, but doggedly he trudged after her and hung over her electric typewriter.

“What did he say, Miss Foster?” Poole begged to know. “Did you tell the President that the Federal judge of that lousy U.S. District Court sentenced Jeff Hurley to death, to be executed in the lethal gas chamber?”

Edna Foster squirmed. “Yes, the President had heard the news from Mr. Lombardi.” She hated this scene, and tried to avert her gaze from Poole. It was evident that the grotesque little Negro had been crying all morning, and over the death sentence of a man, not even one of his family, a man crying over another man. It embarrassed her and made her slightly ill.

“Will he see me, or is he still sore at me?” Poole asked.

Edna summoned a vestige of dignity. “I really can’t say if the President is-is sore at you, as you put it-but he definitely cannot see you, even for a minute. This is honestly one of his busiest days. I can vouch for that.”

Leroy Poole seemed to sag into some emotional morass, nodding, nodding, and then whining, “What about my request that he commute the sentence? He has that power. I have new evidence, and we’ve filled out the application for executive clemency in the Justice Department. If I have to wait for all those investigations and recommendations from the pardon attorney and the Attorney General, Jeff Hurley will be dead and buried before my appeal gets to Dilman’s desk. Did you tell him that?”

“Everything, Mr. Poole.” She flipped a page of her shorthand pad. “I passed on to him everything you asked me to, and the President answered-I have it here word for word-‘Inform Mr. Poole to go through proper channels at the Department of Justice on his appeal for executive clemency in the case of Jefferson Hurley. For my part, I will personally contact Attorney General Kemmler and request that he cut the red tape and expedite the appeal. When I have the new evidence, and the Attorney General’s recommendation, I shall review the appeal and summon Mr. Poole to hear my final decision. I promise him this will be done before Mr. Hurley can go to the gas chamber.’ ” Edna looked up. “That’s all.”

A gust of air escaped Poole’s mouth, as from the neck of a balloon, yet his puffed features did not deflate. “Okay, fair enough,” Poole said. “I’ll go ahead. I’ll see the appeal is in order. You just see that I’m here to talk it over with the President and hear his pardon before Jeff Hurley is gone.”

“You have the President’s word, Mr. Poole.”

“Okay. Goddam them down there, legalizing murder of the best, most decent human being in the country. I won’t let them, and Dilman won’t either, once he reviews the facts and hears what I have to say… Okay, I know you’re busy, Miss Foster. Just remember to call me.”

Temporarily appeased, Leroy Poole shuffled across the office, out the door and out of her sight, and Edna Foster dropped into her hard swivel chair with a sigh of relief. She laid her notebook aside, and waited to see if the pinch behind her eyes was going to develop into another migraine headache. It was getting worse and worse, all this pressure, and all these people, like just now, a black man in here, a black man in there, and all their anger and self-pity.

Why had she fastened on Dilman’s color again? She tried to think. Was it the tension of the job, created by Dilman’s color, or simply, simply the discomfort of being secretary to a Negro? How far had she come since that first day when she had agreed to work for Dilman, just as she had so long ago for T. C.?