Acts of Mercy (14 page)

“Maxwell.”

Another few moments of silence. “All right, come on in. The door’s open.”

Harper entered. The office was dark, but an elongation of light from the corridor reached across to where Augustine sat behind his desk. He had both elbows propped on the blotter and he was holding the stem from one of his pipes up in front of the window, peering through it as though it were a telescope. There was a glass of whiskey in front of him and his cheeks were flushed, peppered with flecks of perspiration. He looked tense and angry.

Harper’s edginess increased as he closed the door. First the sudden decision to leave for California, then Claire’s inexplicable behavior a little while ago, and now Augustine looking as though something had disturbed him since they’d last spoken. The crisis and the way it kept escalating was bad enough, but at least he could deal with that on an intellectual level; it was the undercurrents, the dark and hidden complexities that seemed to be developing, which worried him most.

Augustine lowered the pipe stem, picked up the glass instead and sipped from it. Then he made a face, appeared to shudder, and took his elbows off the desk and set the glass down again. He fixed Harper with a slightly bleary look. “Well, Maxwell?”

Harper took a chair opposite the desk. “I’d like to know,” he said slowly, “why you decided to come to The Hollows today.”

“I told you that in Washington. I need a few days’ rest.”

“Yes, but you also told me you planned to leave on Sunday. Why did you move it up two days?”

“Do I have to have specific reasons for everything I do? I’m in California because I want to be in California.”

“But it’s a matter of timing. The media—”

“Damn the media! I’m sick unto death of the media.”

“We all are,” Harper said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve further jeopardized your position for no good reason that I can see. Or is there a reason, something you’re keeping from me? You’ve been acting strangely all day.”

For a moment, lips pursed, Augustine stared at him with sudden enmity; but then it seemed to fade from his eyes—or into them, like something sinking in dark water—until they were clear again. He picked up his glass but did not drink from it, only peered at the dark liquid as if searching for something within its depths.

“I have nothing to tell you about my moods or my private decisions,” he said. “There are some things I choose not to share with even my closest advisors; you understand that, I hope.”

I do not understand it, Harper thought. He watched the President take another sip of whiskey. “Will you at least tell me why you’re drinking so much at this time of day?”

“It happens to be five o’clock. The cocktail hour.”

“You’ve had more than one or two drinks.”

“And what if I have? I don’t have to justify my drinking habits to you, do I?”

“I suppose you don’t,” Harper said stiffly.

Augustine made an abrupt slicing gesture with one hand. “Oh all right,” he said, “you might as well know. You’d find it out anyway before long.”

“Find what out?”

“Wexford is here on the train,” the President said. “He flew out to Los Angeles this afternoon and came aboard just before we left. I finished talking to him not ten minutes ago.”

Harper’s hands clenched. “Why did he come?”

“A goddamn search-and-destroy mission, that’s why.”

“Don’t give me metaphors, Nicholas—”

“He wants my resignation,” Augustine said. Matter-offactly, as if he were delivering an irritating but not particularly important bit of news. “On behalf of the National Committee and the party-at-large. They’re not requesting now, they’re issuing ultimatums.”

My God, Harper thought. Oh my God....

Elizabeth.

Yes, Mrs. Augustine?

Are you familiar with the twenty-fifth amendment?

To the Constitution?

That’s right.

I know what it says, yes.

What does it say?

Well, it empowers the President to nominate a successor if the Vice-President should die or resign from office. And it stipulates what’s to be done if the President himself should die or be incapacitated But you know that as well as I do, Mrs. Augustine.

Yes. How long has it been since you read it closely?

Not since college. Why are you asking me about the twenty-fifth amendment?

This is really terrible coffee. I can’t understand why the kitchen staff can’t make better coffee.

Mrs Augustine, why did you ask me about the twenty-fifth amendment?

I was just thinking of Vice-President Conroy, that’s all. He has a weak heart, you know, and there are reports that he’s been having palpitations after what happened in Phoenix. I understand he’s returning to Washington and will be checking into Walter Reed for a few days.

Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious.

So do I. But it gives one pause to reflect.

It does, doesn’t it. Would you like me to have the kitchen make you a fresh pot of coffee?

No, I’ve had enough coffee. I think I’ll lie down again. I shouldn’t have asked you in again we haven’t anything to do that can’t wait until we get to The Hollows

You do look exhausted, Mrs. Augustine. Haaen’t you been sleeping well?

Not very well, no. I’ve had insomnia.

You should have seen Doctor Whiting and had him give you something.

Maybe you’re right, Elizabeth. Yes, I should have seen Doctor Whiting. Elizabeth?

Yes?

Draw those window shades, would you, before you leave? It’s much too bright in here. Much too bright.

Justice entered the dining car a few minutes before eight and took a seat at an empty table at the far end. The car was less than half full, mostly with staff aides and a few Secret Servicemen; white-jacketed waiters glided along the center aisle, balancing trays and silver ice buckets and bottles of California wine. Conversation was muted, and there was none of the relaxed camaraderie, the easy laughter, which normally prevailed at dinnertime on the Presidential Special. The faces of the diners were as sober as they had been on the flight from Washington; it was obvious that each of them, too, was deeply concerned about the negative trend of recent events.

A pitcher of ice water stood on the table. Justice poured some into a glass, drank a little of it and then opened the menu that lay across the place setting in front of him. Crabmeat cocktail, Crenshaw melon, liver pâté; roast beef, abalone steak, chicken baked in wine sauce; salad and vegetables; strawberries in cream or three different kinds of cheese. A good selection—but none of it appealed to him. He closed the menu again, put it aside. He was simply not hungry.

When a waiter appeared beside him Justice ordered a cup of coffee. Then he sat staring out the near window. Green and brown farmland now; fields of alfalfa and lettuce and tomatoes. The sun had dipped behind the mountains of the Coastal Range, and the sky was suffused with a fading brick-red glow that turned scattered cloud wisps into stark luminous streaks, like designs in an abstract painting. But it all had a hypnotic effect on him, as had the scenery he’d observed from his compartment window, and when he felt his thoughts turning introspective again he shook himself and looked away.

The waiter arrived with his coffee. There was nothing to hold his attention while he drank it, and after a time he lifted the copy of
Murder on the Calais Coach
that he had brought with him and tried once more to read.

He had managed to absorb two full pages when he sensed someone standing close by, watching him. He glanced up, and it was Maxwell Harper.

Harper wore a sardonic expression, and his eyes were as hard and shiny as polished opals. He stood in the aisle with arms akimbo, swaying slightly to the motion of the train. “Hello, Justice,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

Reluctantly Justice said, “No sir, not at all.”

Harper sat down across from him. A waiter appeared immediately, but Harper gestured him away and watched as Justice closed the book and laid it to one side of his cup. “A mystery story,” he said. “I might have known that was the kind of thing you’d read.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, no offense,” Harper said neutrally. “Lots of people read them. The President himself, as long as they have railroad backgrounds. Like Roosevelt with pulp westerns and Kennedy with James Bond spy novels.”

“Yes sir.”

Harper shrugged. “Personally I find popular fiction dull and totally lacking in literary merit and intelligent ideas. A soporific rather than a stimulant.”

Justice said nothing.

“How do you feel about it?” Harper asked.

“Sir?”

“Popular fiction. Do you think it has literary merit?”

“I really couldn’t say. I don’t know much about things like that.”

“Well do you find mysteries intellectually stimulating?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I read them for entertainment.”

“So you have no real opinion on them.”

“No.”

Harper folded his arms on the table and leaned against them. “Just what do you have opinions on, Justice? You can’t be as dull-witted as that face of yours indicates.”

Justice wondered if all of this was intended as some sort of sly game: the intellectual feeding his ego by putting down someone he obviously considered to be inferior. Or was there more to it than that? He had been aware for some time that Harper felt a certain hostility toward him, though he could never quite understand why. Maybe this was Harper’s way of working out his frustrations and aggressions. At any rate, Justice decided he could endure it; Harper was close to the President, a trusted advisor, and that was all that really mattered.

“Well?” Harper said.

“I guess I don’t have many opinions at all, Mr. Harper.”

“Not even on political matters?”

“No sir.”

“Oh come now. You must have views on the current situation—Briggs, Oberdorfer, Wexford, the press reaction to the President’s comments on Israel and the Vice-President.”

“My views are the President’s views,” Justice said.

“Just a member of the flock following his shepherd.” Harper’s expression grew even more sardonic. “All right, I’ll accept that. But what about some of the issues of the day? The balance of power, for instance. Do you think there has been a reconstitution of the essential power structure preceding the Second World War with the
ex-post facto
difference that Israel may now ironically be said to be in the position of the Axis powers? By which I mean, disregarding ideology and spiritual mysticism, that Israel is in effect holding the world hostage to the possibility of violence on an ever-larger scale. Is that how you see it, Justice?”

Justice blinked at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“No? Well, perhaps you feel that there has been an irreparable shift in
all
power relationships, that they must be exposed to entirely different definitions. In that case we are not talking about culture lag but culture shock, the distinguished theories of Emile Durkheim notwithstanding. Is cultural lag being obliterated? Or simply reaugmented?”

“Mr. Harper,” Justice said, “I just don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“No, I can see you don’t, at that. Well suppose we try something a little less complex and more to the point.”

“Point of what, sir?”

“Julius Wexford,” Harper said.

“stir?”

“Why the blank look? Don’t tell me you haven’t talked to the President in the past couple of hours? I was under the impression he discussed everything of any consequence with you lately.”

Justice said, “I haven’t talked to him at all since we boarded the train,” and then frowned and asked, “Has something happened, Mr. Harper?”

“Certainly something has happened. The President and Wexford had a confrontation earlier this afternoon.”

Justice was momentarily confused. “You mean here, on the Presidential Special? I thought Mr. Wexford was in Saint Louis ...”

“So did we all,” Harper said. “The fact is, he came on behalf of the National Committee—to demand the President’s resignation.”

Stunned, Justice said, “Resignation?”

“You heard me; I don’t need to repeat myself.”

“But why?”

“That should be obvious even to you,” Harper said. “They’re afraid he has lost enough credibility to destroy the party at the polls in November; they want to sweep him out so they can quote reestablish public faith unquote and elect Peter Kineen in his place.”