Irving Wallace - The Man

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.

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.