Ben Bova - The Multiple Man

Calling it a dining room was being overgenerous. It was a glorified cafeteria, down in the basement under the West Wing, barely big enough to hold a dozen people at one time. Completely automated food service, like coin machines except that these were free. Your tax dollars at work. Dead-white walls with no decorations outside of a TV screen that served as a bulletin board, constantly flashing news items, press releases, job descriptions, and other tidbits that no one paid any attention to. The furniture was a bit posh for a cafeteria: slim-legged teak tables and rope-weave chairs. Very comfortable. The only other people in the little room were a pair of security guards, both female, chatting about their coming evening. Wyatt and I sat as far from them as we could.

In between bites of a sandwich that tasted like plastic on cardboard, I said, “Robert, there’s one absolutely essential point. I can’t cover for you if I don’t know what’s happening.”

He gave me a hawkish look from across the narrow teak table. “Afraid of being caught in public with your pants down?”

“I can stand the embarrassment,” I countered evenly, “but you can’t. And neither can the President. Once those news people get the impression that I’m not giving them the straight story, they’ll swarm all over us. We can’t afford that.”

And a corner of my mind was saying, How easily you switch from being open, honest, and a responsible civil servant to being secretive, misleading, and plotting to keep the truth away from the people.

Wyatt chewed on his salad thoughtfully for a few moments, then said, “Okay, we’ll keep you fully informed.”

“How?”

He almost smiled at me. “You’re learning, Meric. A few days ago and you would’ve accepted my word on it and not worried about how the agreement would be implemented.”

“A few days agoI was young and innocent.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m scared. Somebody’s trying to steal this whole damned country from us, Robert!”

He did smile this time. “Don’t get panicky. That won’t help.”

“But how can you stay so calm?”

His smile faded and his mouth went tight and hard. His eyes, the cold blue of polar ice, bored into me. “Because,” he whispered harshly, “we’re going to find whoever it is who’s trying to assassinate the President. They are not going to succeed. We are going to find them and crush them.”

And his frail, liver-spotted hands snapped the plastic fork he was holding. The pieces fell silently into his salad.

He seemed embarrassed. “Excuse me.” He got to his feet and brushed at his slacks. “It’s time I got back to my office.”

I got up and reached across the table to grasp his arm. “Robert. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Eh? Oh… you’ve got a direct wire to me. Use it. I’ll keep you up-to-the-minute.”

“Not good enough,” I said.

He pulled his arm loose and glared at me as I came around the table to stand in front of him. I’m not a very big guy, but I felt as if I were looming over him. He was so old and frail-looking.

But made of steel. “Just what is it you want, Meric? Do I have to buy you off?”

“Right on. I want to have full access to McMurtrie. If he’s heading this investigation, I want to be able to talk directly to him, go where he goes, know what he knows.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s my price,” I said, knowing that McMurtrie was not only doggedly loyal but as thoroughly honest as any man I’d ever met. If Wyatt told him he could answer any questions I asked. I’d be kept fully informed, and we both knew it.

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have any ideas of playing detective yourself, do you? All you newsmen…”

“Robert, all I want is to be kept informed. Honestly and completely.”

He hesitated just a moment longer. Then, “I’ll speak to McMurtrie about it.”

“Good.”

“He won’t like it, you realize.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Wyatt nodded once, just an abrupt snap of his head, and then turned and strode out of the dining room. I stood there and watched him. He should wear a sword, I thought. He’s got that kind of regal bearing.

Just as I was heading out the door myself, the PA microphone in the tiled ceiling called in a soft female voice, “Mr. Albano, please dial four-six-six. Mr. Albano…”

The wall phone was right beside the doors: an old no-picture, voice-only model. I picked up the receiver and punched the buttons.

“Meric Albano here.”

“One moment, please, sir.” The same operator’s voice. There was a hesitation just long enough for a computer to scan my voiceprint. Then, “Meric? Is that you?”

The floor dropped away from under me. “Yes, it’s me. Laura.”

“How are you?” Her voice told me that she didn’t really care, one way or the other.

“What do you want?” I realized I was whispering into the phone’s mouthpiece. Like a god-damned kid snitching a date behind his best friend’s back.

“I have to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

“Today. This afternoon.”

“You know where my office…” That was ridiculous. The First Lady doesn’t drop in on the hired help. Especially the ones she used to live with. “I’m in the West Wing right now. I can come up and…”

“No, not here,” she said. “I’m going shopping this afternoon. At the new Beltway Plaza.”

“Why not make it the Lincoln Memorial? It’ll be less crowded.”

She ignored my dripping satire. “Can you meet me at Woodies there? Four-thirty?”

“It’s a big place.”

“At the front entrance. I have to talk with you.” Like a patient who’s just decided to risk his second heart transplant, I said, “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Meric.”

Before I could say anything else she clicked off.

It was a swell afternoon. I growled at Greta when I got back to the office, slammed my door shut, and sat at my desk, staring out the window, trying to make the time go faster by sheer mental will power. Didn’t work. After sweating it out for an hour, I glanced at my desk clock; barely five minutes had passed.

So I tried to work. I shuffled papers and answered a few phone calls. I didn’t make much sense, not even to myself. I told Greta to cancel the rest of the day’s appointments. She gave me her “you need some chicken soup” look, but went ahead and broke several hearts for me.

Around three, somebody tapped on the door and came right in. I was staring out the window again, and swung around in my chair, starting to growl, “I gave specific instru—”

It was Vickie, looking troubled. Immediately I felt like a louse. She had such a sunny face, normally. Hair the color of California gold, thick and short cropped.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to make it sound reasonably polite.

She stood in the middle of the room, halfway between the chairs in front of the desk and the couch along the side wall.

“The planning session for next week’s meeting of the National Association of News Media Managers,” Vickie said, a bit hesitantly. “Greta said you won’t be able to get together with us this afternoon. Should we cancel the session or…”

“Oh, shit. I’ve got to give that speech in St. Louis next week, don’t I?”

She came as far as the chair, looking a little like a wary faun. “You don’t want to let much more time go by without working out your speech. I’ve got all the background material for it, but…”

“Yeah, I know. You’re right.” I felt a headache coming on and rubbed at my forehead.

“Are you okay?” Vickie asked.

“Yeah, fine… super.”