Irving Wallace - The Man

He hesitated to separate them, yet knew that he must. Before he could move to do so, Eaton’s head turned toward Dilman, and Dilman was able to summon him. Eaton whispered something to his partner and came to Dilman at once, an inquiry on his features.

Dilman led his Secretary of State to the red silk Empire sofa against the wall, where they could have relative privacy. “I’ve finished with Amboko,” Dilman said. “He’s agreed to everything-everything.”

Eaton’s long diplomat’s face, used to shrouding reaction, this time could not conceal his surprise. “Really? Splendid, Mr. President. How did you accomplish it?”

Dilman would never let one like Eaton know the truth. He said, “Oh, we’d talked so much, and then suddenly, a few minutes ago, he threw in the towel. He said that he would put his entire trust in us, to protect him against his native Communists and Soviet meddling.”

“And we shall,” said Eaton. “I’ll speak to Monty Scott tomorrow. I’ll see that he has his best Central Intelligence agents over there. Were there any reservations?”

“Not one,” said Dilman. Then he snapped his fingers as he had an afterthought. “Except this. He wants our news release to be optimistic but ambiguous. He doesn’t want his concession made public until he’s had time to return home and secure his position there. Also, he thinks we should be silent about his concession so we can spring it on the Russians as a bargaining point.”

“Of course, of course,” agreed Eaton with a trace of impatience. “I suggested from the start that if we won this agreement from Baraza, we withhold it until we sit down with Premier Kasatkin. When Kasatkin begins to rave and rant about our ratification of the African Unity Pact, we hand him this concession to prove our good will. Will you sign the AUP?”

“Tonight.”

“Excellent, Mr. President. I’ll reopen negotiations for resumption of the Roemer Conference at once. The Russians seem to be agreeable to holding the talks in France, in Chantilly. Are you?”

“Perfectly.”

“Consider it done.”

“One thing, Mr. Secretary.” Dilman was conscious of his continuing formality with Arthur Eaton. Try as he would, he simply could not call this formidable person Arthur. “Edna Foster and Tim Flannery are standing by downstairs. Could you slip away for a few minutes and notify them? I promised Amboko a rough draft of our joint press statement at Blair House tonight. If he has any amendments, we can incorporate them in the morning. You can tell Flannery to let the press gang know they can go home and get some sleep. We’ll have nothing for them until nine in the morning.”

“I’ll do that at once, Mr. President. I’ll go upstairs and call Edna and Tim immediately.” He did not leave. He said, “I think we can agree, then, your first State Dinner has been a success.”

“In some respects,” said Dilman. He decided to say no more. “I’d better get to the East Room. They may be waiting for me.”

“I shall not be long,” said Eaton.

He left the room without a glance at Sally Watson.

Sally Watson had remained stationary in the corner of the Red Room, watching Arthur Eaton go into the Main Hall. He was moving purposefully, with concentration, and so she guessed that he was not yet on his way to the entertainment in the East Room. Restlessly she stayed on, waiting for the room to be emptied of all but herself. The moment that she saw President Dilman take his leave she gathered her long skirt a few inches from the floor for greater mobility. Just as Dilman disappeared into the Green Room, she hastened into the Main Hall.

She had the briefest glimpse of Arthur Eaton, beyond the central pillars, as he turned off to the wide staircase that led to the private apartments on the second floor. Except for the chief usher, the Secret Service agent Beggs, and a White House policeman, there was no one to observe her as she hurried along the red carpet of the arcade to the stairs. There she found two more Secret Service agents, who greeted her admiringly. For their eyes she made her ascent with more reserve and dignity.

The State Dinner had been a thrill for her, because of its success and despite its failure, although the failure part made her feel insecure about her position as social secretary. From the instant, however, that Arthur Eaton had sought her out in the Red Room, all thoughts of the dinner had vanished from her mind. Arthur-now really her Arthur, her darling, since she had visited him twice alone in his Georgetown house, and had had the one midnight drive with him to that tiny bar near the Normandy Farms, off the River Road in Potomac-had dominated all her waking hours. Arthur had been beautiful tonight, and in their minutes together, considering the important guests around, he had been almost daring. She suspected, from his lack of inhibition, that he had been drinking more than he ordinarily drank. She had not minded, indeed, loved it, because it had made him more open and romantic.

She remembered: he had teased her about their evening last week in his house that nestled behind the trees on Dumbarton Avenue. After dinner, after the maid and cook had retired, he had poured the brandies, while she had studied the antique-filled gracious Tudor living room with its two fireplaces. She had felt drunk with excitement that night, reckless, and following the brandy she had blurted out, “Arthur, I don’t want to embarrass you, but where is your wife?”

“In Florida,” he had replied calmly.

“No-no-” Her hand had drawn an arc around the room. “I don’t see a single framed photograph of your wife. Isn’t that peculiar?”

He had remained unruffled, smiling. “Not at all, my dear. You see, I put them away in drawers before you came the first time. They’re still in the drawers.”

“Oh.” She had speculated upon that act. “What if she came home suddenly?”

Still unperturbed, he had said, “I doubt that she will be here for many months.”

Sally had then wondered if they were quietly being divorced, and prayed for it, but had not bothered him with it, for she wanted no definite answers so early, not until she was indispensable to him. “I see. Well, it is cozier this way. I wouldn’t want her glaring at me. You were thoughtful, Arthur. You think of everything.”

He had come to sit on the sofa beside her. “I don’t want you distracted when you are with me. These evenings mean too much.”

She had held out her arms, and he had gone into them, embracing her passionately, kissing her eyelids and forehead and ears and lips. And then the special telephone from the Pentagon had come between them. That had been that.

The next time together, he had kissed her again, caressed her, in his car in the parking lot outside the café in Potomac, and had briefly resumed after driving her to her home, but he had done no more.

She had desired him, and was ready to satisfy his desire when he made the demand. He had not yet demanded her, at least not until tonight in the Red Room, when he had been somewhat drunk and was dazzled by her low-cut white gown. After she had teased him about that time in his living room, the hiding of Kay’s photographs, he had become serious and so had she. He missed her every day, he had whispered. He wanted to see her more, be with her alone, know her better. She had waited expectantly for the final overture, the ultimate invitation, and then President Dilman had stolen him away.

She could not let go of their precious exchange, its promise and potential, and she was determined to play their scene out to its conclusion. Perhaps, because of whatever Dilman had told him, his mood had been altered and he would not go further with her. Or perhaps nothing had changed. She must find out. And so instead of going to the East Room to help direct the seating, her duty as President Dilman’s social secretary, she had followed Arthur Eaton upstairs.