Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (26 page)

 
          
 
"No. His next words were"—Cobb
turned the paper on its side to decipher more scribbles. " 'Get Tim
Burnham to do me a proper toast. Tim probably knows this fella. He's well
wired.' "

 
          
 
" 'Well wired.' What does that
mean?"

 
          
 
"I was going to ask you."

 
          
 
"Me?"

 
          
 
"You're the one he was talking
about." Cobb slid the folded papers across the table to Burnham.
"Have a look at it. Run it through your typewriter. Give it some of that old
black magic."

 
          
 
"And all I have to go on is: 'That dog
won't hunt.' "

 
          
 
"That may say more than it seems. The
President is not without instincts. He didn't get to be President by being
thick. I think he smells something wrong—maybe not with the speech but with the
visit, or with the pasha himself. Something has set off an alarm in his head,
even if he doesn't know what it is." Cobb smiled. "He has great faith
that you'll find it for him. After all, you're well wired."

 
          
 
"You want to give me a hint about how I
find it?"

 
          
 
Cobb shrugged. "If I were you, I'd call
the CIA."

 
          
 
"What d'you mean, call the CIA? You can't
just call the CIA."

 
          
 
"Of course you can. They're in the
book."

 
          
 
"Why are they going to talk to me?"

 
          
 
"You're one of the President's men,
Timothy. They have to. Never forget it."

 
          
 
Burnham picked up the folded papers.
"What about the NSC guy who wrote this? Maybe he's already called the
CIA."

 
          
 
"The NSC hates the CIA, and vice versa.
They don't speak."

 
          
 
"Wonderful. I . . ."

 
          
 
A shadow fell across the table. Burnham looked
up into the pointing fingertip of Mario Epstein, who loomed above him.

 
          
 
"You!" Epstein growled. "What's
your name?"

 
          
 
"Huh?" Burnham was startled, and had
he tried to say anything more, he would have stammered.

 
          
 
"Do you work here?"

 
          
 
"Yes. I—"

 
          
 
Cobb to the rescue. "Mario, this
is—"

 
          
 
Epstein ignored him. "What do you
do?"

 
          
 
A steward came up behind Epstein and said
softly, "Phone for you, sir."

 
          
 
Epstein shot a final venomous glance at Burnham
and turned on his heel.

 
          
 
Burnham saw, beyond Epstein, the
blue-pinstripe back of the Secretary of State hurrying out of the Mess—a proud
man, a kind and good man, probably, a man who wished ill to no one and who
strove to make the world a better place, now humiliated, pummeled into
submissive jelly by a bullying schmuck. Burnham felt sorry for the Secretary,
wanted to shout encouragement to him—"Don't take that shit!"—and at
the same time hated him as a reminder of his own cowardice in melting before
Sarah's swami-inspired fusillade. Nice guys finish last. Rudeness is its own
reward.

 
          
 
Enough.

 
          
 
Burnham snapped, "Hey!" The sound of
his own voice surprised him, for he had made no conscious decision to speak.

 
          
 
Jolted, Epstein stopped.

 
          
 
"What about you?" Burnham said.
"Do you work here?"

 
          
 
Epstein's eyebrows popped upward until they
formed perfect crescent moons above his tiny eyes. His mouth opened, but no
sound emerged.

 
          
 
All the color drained from Cobb, as if someone
had pulled a plug in his toes.

 
          
 
Burnham continued to look expectantly at
Epstein, as if awaiting a civil reply to his civil question.

 
          
 
Epstein pointed at Cobb. His pointing finger
trembled. "I'll see you later," he said, and he departed.

 
          
 
"That was not smart," Cobb whispered
to Burnham. "Not smart at all."

 
          
 
"Why are you whispering, Warner? You told
me: I'm one of the President's men. I'll never forget it."

 
          
 
Burnham signed his check and pushed his chair
back from the table.

 
          
 
His wife had kicked him out of the house. His
home was a cubicle in a den of outcasts, misfits and deviates. He had just
committed an unforgivable act of lese-majeste against the second most powerful
man in the country, and the odds were that by
noon
he would be out of work.

 
          
 
He should have been frightened, depressed and
confused.

 
          
 
But he had done something, actually become—if
for only a moment—an actor instead of a reactor.

 
          
 
He felt terrific.

 
          
 
Dyanna had just arrived by the time Burnham
returned to his office. She wore a dress of yellow cotton decorated with blue
butterflies. She was humming the theme music from Gone with the Wind and
arranging a huge flower display on her desk.

 
          
 
"What's the occasion?" Burnham asked
her.

 
          
 
"You are."

 
          
 
"lam?"

 
          
 
"These flowers symbolize power and
success. Roses are for lovers. Lilies are for dead people. These are for people
on the move."

 
          
 
"They are?"

 
          
 
"Uh-huh. I read it in 'Ask Beth.' "

 
          
 
Burnham did not inquire as to what "Ask
Beth" was. The explanation would be bound to include a numbing recitation
of an entire chapter from her childhood, and he was on a detail for the Leader
of the Free World.

 
          
 
"Forgive me if I shut the door," he
said. "This Q Clearance business is a bore."

 
          
 
"Of course. I'll hold your calls."

 
          
 
Not bad, Burnham thought as he crossed to his
desk. The real reason he had shut the door was that he had to call the CIA, and
he had never called the CIA before, and he didn't want Dyanna to hear him make
an idiot of himself on the phone, and it never occurred to him that he could
ask her to get the CIA for him. But he hadn't had to explain anything. Q
Clearance said it all. Convenient. It could be used for playing solitaire or
reading a book or taking a nap.

 
          
 
He dialed the White House switchboard and
said, "This is Timothy Burnham."

 
          
 
"I know," said the operator.

 
          
 
"You do?"

 
          
 
"Sure. Your light just went on."

 
          
 
"Oh. Can you tell me how I get hold of
the CIA?"

 
          
 
"Who in the CIA?"

 
          
 
"Ah . . ." He had no idea whom he
should speak to. He didn't think of the CIA as people. It was a creature that
lived in an enchanted forest in
Langley
,
Virginia
, and emerged on misty nights to commit dark deeds that no one ever
heard about until, eventually, a wizard named Seymour Hersh unearthed and
exposed them in the pages of the New York Times. No one seemed to exist in the
CIA: they existed only after they left, when they assumed the identity of
"former CIA employee" and went on to play a role in real life as
convict, corpse, author, turncoat, informer or unimpeachable source for 60
Minutes.

 
          
 
"The Director?"

 
          
 
"Ah . . . okay, sure." The Director!
Wait a minute! He didn't even remember the Director's name. The Director was a
professional nonperson, a computer genius who was said to be as smart as
Einstein, as ruthless as Goebbels and as reclusive as Howard Hughes. The President
had learned a lesson from the bad publicity that had accrued to Ronald Reagan
from the appointment of bulldog Bill Casey. Winslow wanted a man who was
squeaky clean, hard as nails and totally unconcerned about his image or his
personal welfare.

 
          
 
The Director's name almost never appeared in
print. He refused to give interviews. He refused to testify before Congress—or,
if he did testify, did so under such elaborate secrecy and with such
intimidating mien that none of the solons dared violate his confidences. He had
made it clear from the outset that he didn't give a damn for subpoenas or
contempt citations. They could cite him for anything they chose, but he put
them on warning that he would ignore any and all summonses and was prepared to
precipitate a Constitutional crisis by forcing them to send federal marshals to
Langley
.

 
          
 
Accused once of lying in a deposition to the
Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the Director issued a public statement
that said, "Of course I lied. That's part of my job. I'm paid to keep the
secrets. You can't keep the secrets if you don't lie."

 
          
 
In public, the President's attitude toward the
Director was that of an indulgent parent toward a naughty but prodigious
offspring. In private, he considered the Director one of his greatest assets, a
lightning rod that deflected unwanted static from the presidency, a vital
bulwark of the independent Executive Branch.

 
          
 
Burnham didn't want to speak to the Director,
had no desire to get into a pissing match with a junkyard dog. The operator
could give him the Director's number, but he didn't have to dial it. He'd
locate a basement-level functionary who could give him the information he
needed.

 
          
 
But the operator didn't give him the number.
She put him through.

 
          
 
"Four-four-nine-one," said a voice.

 
          
 
"Ah ... ah ... is this the ... ah .. .
Director's office?"

 
          
 
"Four-four-nine-one.''

 
          
 
"This is the White House."

 
          
 
"Who in the White House?"