Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (49 page)

 
          
 
The package was a worn Purolator Courier bag.
Pym unstapled it and emptied its contents on the coffee table between himself
and Eva.

 
          
 
The high-school diploma was perfect—not just
realistic. but real, a genuine diploma with Jerome's name written in fine
Gothic calligraphy. The grade transcript showed him to be prodigious in
computers and math and competent in the humanities.

 
          
 
Ivy would be ecstatic.

 
          
 
That should have been all, for that was all
Pym had requested, but Teal had thrown in several dividends.

 
          
 
There was a box that contained a
tie-clip/microphone and a cigarette-pack receiver. The antenna on the receiver
was activated when one of the cigarettes was shaken up out of the pack.

 
          
 
There was a fountain pen that shot needles out
of its nib, and a small bottle of "ink" that was really a cousin to
curare.

 
          
 
"Who does he think I am?" Pym said.
"Colonel Abel?"

 
          
 
"Who's Colonel Abel?" Eva asked.

 
          
 
Pym smiled. "How quickly they
forget."

 
          
 
There was a stack of a hundred hundred-dollar
bills.

 
          
 
There was a small white envelope. Pym tore it
open, and six transparent capsules full of a colorless liquid fell into his
palm. Pym's heart thumped. He closed his hand.

 
          
 
But Eva had seen them. "What are
they?"

 
          
 
"Nothing." He couldn't believe they
had sent these.

 
          
 
"Cut the crap. What are they?"

 
          
 
"Pills." Hurry up, he told himself,
think of something. Now. Ten seconds more of your fumbling, and she'll guess
the truth, and once she knows that if things get dicey she's supposed to bite
down on one of the capsules rather than let anybody ask her questions . . .
well, goodbye Eva. She'll go to the grand jury and beg them to hear her story.

 
          
 
"I see that. For what?"

 
          
 
Teal was crazy! Nobody had ever talked about
the worst-case scenario.

 
          
 
Of course they hadn't. It was assumed he knew
it. It had been drummed into him forty years ago.

 
          
 
Inspired, he said, "For Ivy. In case she
gets out of control."

 
          
 
"What'll they do to her?"

 
          
 
"Calm her down. She can be unstable."

 
          
 
"No wonder, you feed her all that trash.
Don't do that to her. Pop. Let her be."

 
          
 
She believes. Give in to her. Be reasonable.
He said, "You're right," and he spilled the pills from his hand into
an ashtray.

 
          
 
Eva picked up the last item on the table, a
pair of half-glasses. "
Reading
glasses? Did you ask for these?"

 
          
 
"No." Pym reached for the glasses.
"Let's have a look."

 
          
 
The president was asleep. His eyes were open,
and he appeared to be concentrating on what the Secretary of Commerce was saying,
but Burnham could tell he was sound asleep. His breathing was deep and
rhythmic, and during the last thirty seconds he had begun to snore—not an
obvious window-rattler, more of a staccato skip-snore.

 
          
 
Burnham was certain no one else had heard the
President snore. The men on both sides of him were in their own dream worlds:
The Secretary of State was staring into the distance (composing his memoirs,
probably), and the Secretary of the Treasury was drawing his initials and his
family coat of arms into a variety of crests, insignia, plaques, banners and
burgees. But there was no way to predict when the President would suddenly fire
off a boomer that would let everybody know, that would insult the Secretary of
Commerce and that would inevitably worm its way into the columns of The
Washington Post.

 
          
 
Burnham did not dare wake the President
suddenly and risk inducing snorts, whinnies and exclamations that would betray
him to his Cabinet. He had to coax the President back to consciousness by
making him so uncomfortable that he awoke.

 
          
 
Burnham tapped on the President's back with
the eraser of his pencil.

 
          
 
Nothing.

 
          
 
He tapped harder, drumming an irregular beat
that should have been enough to interrupt the pattern of his dream.

 
          
 
Nothing. The President gurgled.

 
          
 
Burnham turned his pencil around and pressed
the point against the President's back, twirling it and pushing it until the
lead pierced the fabric of the President's jacket.

 
          
 
The President stirred and grumbled. The pencil
was annoying him but not awakening him.

 
          
 
"I'm glad you agree, Mr. President,"
said the Secretary of Commerce, and on he went.

 
          
 
Burnham pressed harder. A small black stain
circled the pencil point. Blood.

 
          
 
The man's not asleep, Burnham thought, he's in
a coma.

 
          
 
But then the President shrugged and swiped at
his back with an elbow, shook his head and stretched his face and ran his
tongue around inside his mouth. He tipped his head toward Burnham and said,
"What's he saying? I must've dozed off.''

 
          
 
"Nothing," Burnham whispered back.
"You can just say you'll take it under consideration."

 
          
 
The President nodded. He waited for the
Secretary of Commerce to take a breath, then said, "Right, Norm. I'll take
it under consideration." He slapped the table. "Well, I guess that's
that . . . unless anybody sees another threat to the Republic."

 
          
 
The Secretary of Commerce looked as if the
President had called him a Communist, or spat on his sharkskin suit. He said,
"But ..." but he was drowned out by the sounds of rustling papers and
chairs being pushed back from the table.

 
          
 
Burnham had to push his chair back before the
President could stand up. As he stepped out of the President's way, he
purposely dropped his yellow pad on the floor and, bending to retrieve it,
stole a glance at the panel of buttons beneath the table. They had to be
connected to crisis centers around the nation—like NOR AD, SAC, NSA—for even
within the womb of the White House the President could never be more than a
fingertip away from the instruments of Doomsday.

 
          
 
The labels beside the buttons read: Coke, Tab,
Fresca, Pepsi, Coffee, Tea.

 
          
 
The room cleared slowly, for every Cabinet
Secretary made sure to exchange a few private words with the President, so that
he could return to his department and impress his subordinates with a
presidential confidence—a flattering remark about the cut of the Secretary's
suit, perhaps, or a kind word about a supportive speech the Secretary had given
to the Veterans of Foreign Wars or the Council of Religious Broadcasters.

 
          
 
Burnham watched the ritual, fascinated. It
reminded him of bees swarming around their queen, servicing her and drawing
sustenance from her. He imagined that each Secretary had a power hard-on, and
as the President put his arm around his shoulder and whispered words of praise
or encouragement, the Secretary experienced the ego orgasm that made his job
worthwhile.

 
          
 
He noticed that the courtiers awaiting their
turn with the President were glancing at him, commenting about him, obviously
speculating among themselves about who and what he was. Clearly, he represented
a new threat to them, a filter of their access to the President. Clearly too, they
disliked him, resented him and feared him—especially those who had seen the
President consult Burnham before responding to their carefully honed and
well-considered remarks.

 
          
 
Enemies, Burnham thought, are sprouting around
me like tulips. He didn't like having enemies, went to any lengths to avoid
conflict that might create enemies, felt particularly uneasy knowing that people
hated him for reasons that had nothing to do with himself. But he also knew he
was safe, at least for the moment, because under the wing of the Khan, all
God's creatures are invulnerable.

 
          
 
He stood alone, not daring to scratch himself
or pick his nose, for dozens of eyes were appraising him, and any barbarism
would give ammunition to their ridicule.

 
          
 
Suddenly he realized he was enjoying himself,
enjoying the attention, the consternation, the mystery he was exciting. It
occurred to him that this was a kind of power. He had enjoyed himself during
the meeting, too, giving his opinions about matters of national policy and
seeing them instantly implemented, albeit not through his own voice.

 
          
 
What's your job? Ventriloquist to the
President. Interesting.

 
          
 
Hubris.

 
          
 
Be careful: He that giveth, taketh away.
Alone, you are nobody. You are but a reflection of the President. If he chooses
to move to another mirror, you cease to exist.

 
          
 
Just like everyone else in this room.

 
          
 
He looked around for Cobb. He'd force Cobb to
talk to him if he had to. Anything, just so he didn't have to keep standing
here like a goddamn mannequin. But Cobb had already gathered his papers and
shouldered his way to the door.

 
          
 
He was rescued by the booming voice of
Benjamin T. Winslow.

 
          
 
"Tim!"

 
          
 
The President walked Burnham to the door of
his office. "You did good, Tim," the President said.

 
          
 
"Thank you, sir, but I'm not sure what I
did."

 
          
 
"Tim. ..." The President put a hand
on Burnham's shoulder. "You know what they say about it's lonely at the top?
Well, dammit, it is! The President's ... the President. It's like being king,
don't get me wrong."

 
          
 
Burnham's eyes flicked to one of the two
Secret Service men. His eyes were utterly blank. It was as if the President was
talking in front of his dog.

 
          
 
"No one tells me to put the brakes
on," the President continued. "No one tells me when I'm off base. No
one says, 'Hey, Ben, don't be an asshole.' I can tell we're on the same
wavelength, Tim. I want you to be that man for me. Special Assistant to the
President for Perspective."