Irving Wallace - The Man

Eaton stepped forward. “No need going into that now, Sally.”

“Hey, now, Arthur, one minute, now. Goldarn, this sounds like something big,” said Miller. He touched Sally’s knee. “Are you saying that the President of the United States, Nigra or not, the President of America has been living clandestinely with a Nigra female who’s working for the Soviet Russians?”

“That’s right.”

Miller had become transformed into a quivering hunting dog. “Hey, now, if those are the facts-”

“They are the facts,” said Sally fervently. She pointed to Talley. “He’s holding some more of the evidence on those cards, copied directly from a meeting Dilman had this afternoon with Mr. Scott. It’s all there.”

Miller turned to Talley, eyes gleaming. “True, Governor?”

Talley fanned the cards nervously. “Well-uh-in so far as Vaduz Exporters being a Red Front-yes-it’s been uncovered that they’ve been shipping arms to-to Soviet countries, who dispose of them mainly in Africa. And the President evidently has a woman friend who has been working in that firm, Miss Gibson-yes-but, of course, I’d have no knowledge about their relationship.”

Miller held his palms apart and then smacked them together vigorously. “Open-and-shut!” he announced. “You want treason, bribery, and high crimes, Arthur? Okay, what’s this? The President of this country consorting regularly with a lady friend who works for the Communists, talking bedroom talk, letting out secrets on purpose or inadvertently, on purpose to help his fellow niggers in Africa or inadvertently because he’s trading secrets for sex. If that’s not treason, what is? The President delaying prosecution of nigger extremists like the Turnerites in return for them not squealing about his son being a member, and then a pure white judge getting killed as a result. If that’s not bribery by blackmail, what is? High crimes and misdemeanors? Meaning loose morals, maladministration, intemperate habits? If the President’s fornicating with a mistress, trying to seduce his helpless white social secretary, added on to his record for drunkenness, if that doesn’t qualify him, what does? Arthur, it’s open-and-shut. The Nigra goes out, and you come in.”

For Eaton, it was rolling too fast now. He wanted time to think. “We’ll see,” he said quietly, “we’ll have to see.”

Talley stood up. “I’m afraid Dilman won’t give us much time, Arthur.” He indicated the index cards in his hand. “Miss Watson recorded most of the private meeting with Scott. Dilman knows everything. He knows for certain we withheld the report from CIA on Baraza. He knows what was in that report, because Scott was able to tell him. Dilman was apparently angry as hell, and ordered more agents and funds to be allotted to investigate the situation in Baraza. He told Scott to bypass us from now on and come straight to him. He said from now on he’s running the government, not letting us do it for him.” Talley massaged his jowls worriedly. “I tell you, Arthur, we’re in for trouble from that man.”

“What kind of trouble can he give us?” said Eaton testily. “Be realistic. What has he got on us now-considering what we’ve got on him? After tonight, that incident with Sally, he knows what he’s in for. He won’t lift his voice to us. He won’t dare say a word.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Talley.

“I know I’m right,” said Eaton.

He could see that Miller and Sally had been holding a whispered conversation, and that now Sally was trying to rise and Miller was assisting her. Eaton hastened to them, and took Sally’s other arm.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked solicitously.

“Arthur, Arthur,” she said, “I’m suddenly so sleepy. Did you give me something? I forget. Did you give me pills?”

“Yes, I wanted you to rest. I’ll take you into the library-”

Zeke Miller blocked them from leaving. “Only one thing, Arthur, and I’ve asked Miss Sally and she’s agreed, fully agreed. I’m notifying Casper Wine and his boys to come on the double right over here. I want to dictate everything Sally told us as it came straight from her lips. He’ll type it up as a legal affidavit, and then Miss Sally said we could waken her and she’d sign. She’s cooperating to the limit.”

“Whatever she wishes is agreeable to me,” said Eaton.

Sally was leaning heavily on his shoulder now, and Eaton’s arm encircled her as he began to lead her from the room.

He heard the telephone ringing-strange, at this improbable hour-and he waved at Talley to take it. Then he waited, propping Sally up, watching Talley on the telephone, unable to hear him. The call lasted no more than twenty seconds, and then Talley slowly hung up.

Eaton’s gaze stayed on Talley as he came from the telephone and approached them. Talley’s face was drawn and grave, a portrait of apprehension.

“Arthur,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that was Edna Foster, from the White House. She’s just left the President. He ordered her to call you, to wake you if necessary. Dilman wants you in his office at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. He wants to talk to you about an important and personal matter. She hit the personal matter. She hit the personal matter pretty hard.”

“I see.”

“I think this is it, Arthur. The fat’s in the fire. I think this is the showdown. He’s got the gun now.”

“So have we-now,” said Eaton grimly. “Only what we possess is not a gun but a howitzer.” He freed himself from Sally Watson, who was half asleep, and offered her limp arm to Talley. “Here, Wayne, you take her to the library, and see that she is comfortable. Treat her with care. She may be worth her weight in ammunition.”

He remained immobilized, deep in thought, until Talley had led Sally Watson out of the living room. Then Eaton turned and walked slowly to the couch, where both Zeke Miller and Bruce Hankins were busily scratching notes, one in an address book, the other on the back of an envelope.

Eaton stood over them until first Miller, then Senator Hankins, looked up inquiringly.

“Gentlemen,” Eaton said, “I have changed my mind. I don’t believe that I can stand by idly, as a neutral, any longer, and allow you and the Party to fight this man alone. I’m with you tonight, and all the way.”

Miller beamed, and his hand tugged at Hankins, who was also smiling happily. “By God!” Miller exclaimed. “I knew you’d see it right!”

“However, there is one thing I want both of you to understand,” Eaton went on. “If I fight Dilman, join with you in forcing his resignation, it is not because he is a Negro but because he is a fool.”

At one minute past nine o’clock the following morning, President Douglass Dilman stared through the rear windows of his Oval Office at the barren trees scattered across the south lawn, and at the cloudy, overcast November sky. He tried to equate his inner spleen with the threatening turbulence of the new day.

At last he swung his swivel chair back to the telephones, lifted one, and buzzed.

“All right, Miss Foster,” he said, “send him in.”

He girded himself, and waited.

The door opened, closed, and Secretary of State Arthur Eaton entered, solemnly greeted him, and carefully arranged his topcoat and homburg across the back of the sofa. Dilman, who had not spoken yet, was satisfied that Eaton’s features were as severe as his own. But there, he suspected, their similarity of mood, as reflected in their countenances and carriage, ended. If Eaton was concerned, then the emotion was camouflaged by the pale, bloodless pallor of his aristocratic negotiator’s mask and his easy, elegant Saville Row attire. Dilman felt that his own emotion, that of persistent displeasure, showed in the rigid lines along his tired eyes and bitter mouth. After Sally Watson’s disgusting behavior last night, after his rereading of the Scott interview and his realization of what must be done, he had slept fitfully.