Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (52 page)

 
          
 
Burnham wanted to ask the President if he knew
the source of the problems. No, he decided. Never volunteer. Besides, it didn't
matter. The die was cast. He was now a staffer with personal problems.

 
          
 
"Mr. President, I know that people with
personal problems are a liability. If you'd prefer, I'll—"

 
          
 
"Hell, Tim. Everybody's got problems.
I've got problems now and then." He grinned. "Yes, believe it or not.
Presidents have problems, too. The difference is, you and I can't take care of
our problems like other people do. We can't go tomcatting around."

 
          
 
"No, sir. I—"

 
          
 
"They say a standing prick has no
conscience, Tim. But when you're in the White House, the old stiff-stander does
have a security clearance. It's classified."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"We have to be like Caesar's wife: Keep
our screwing around under our togas."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"How much do you know about her?"

 
          
 
"Eva? Went to
Bennington
; works for her father."

 
          
 
"Where'd she grow up?"

 
          
 
"Here."

 
          
 
"Where'd her father grow up?"

 
          
 
"I don't know."

 
          
 
"You gonna keep seeing her?"

 
          
 
Burnham spread his hands, a gesture of
helplessness. "I suppose I shouldn't, but I want to. I want to go home,
but I can't, and I'm not even sure any more that I want to. It's a mess."

 
          
 
" 'Cause if you are . . ."

 
          
 
"If you think I should stop, Mr.
President, I will."

 
          
 
"No, not necessarily. It could do you
more harm than good, have you pining around with your mind on your fly. But if
you're gonna keep seeing her, I'm gonna have to have the FBI do a full-field on
her."

 
          
 
"I see."

 
          
 
"Give it some thought, Tim. Let me know
in a day or two."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"Sarah gonna give you trouble?"

 
          
 
"Trouble? She's already giving me
trouble."

 
          
 
"I mean about the girl."

 
          
 
"I don't think she knows."

 
          
 
"Assume she knows. At least assume she
will. You have to. The world is full of people who like nothing better than to
bring their best friends bad news, and this town's home to most of them."

 
          
 
"I think her vanity would keep her from
making a public spectacle out of it. Charging adultery doesn't reflect too well
on the . . . adulterated."

 
          
 
"Remember who she works for. Senator
Righteous would love it if he could drag me down in the gutter with him."

 
          
 
"What do you think I should do?"
Burnham looked at the President, and had to restrain himself from smiling at
the madness of the moment: Here he was, appealing to the Leader of the Free
World as if he were Ann Landers.

 
          
 
"Either get separated officially, and
then you can screw your brains out and nobody'11 give a hoot, or say goodbye to
Miss Pym and go home."

 
          
 
"Separated? It's only been a few
days."

 
          
 
The President paused for a moment before
saying, "It didn't take her long to change the locks."

 
          
 
"No." Sweet Jesus, Burnham thought,
what else does he know?

 
          
 
A buzzer sounded. The President picked up the
phone, listened, said, "Okay," and hung up. "Think about it,
Tim."

 
          
 
"I will, sir." Burnham stood and
reached for the doorknob. "And thank you."

 
          
 
The President waved dismissively. "Don't
thank me. I'm being selfish. You're too valuable to lose."

 
          
 
Burnham returned to his office and sat in the
chair at his desk.

 
          
 
Dyanna must have heard the springs squeak, for
immediately she appeared in the doorway.

 
          
 
Burnham didn't want to talk to Dyanna, not
now. He wanted to replay his conversation with the President. The man amazed
him: Every time he talked to him, he saw another side of him.

 
          
 
But Dyanna would not be deterred.

 
          
 
"I was saying, we were down in the Mess,
Dolores and Connie and I, and—"

 
          
 
"Dyanna."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
"I want to hear what you have to say. I
really do. But I want you to do me a favor: Think about what you're going to
say as a hamburger patty."

 
          
 
"A ham—"

 
          
 
"In your mind, take it in your hands and
compress it into a neat little patty, and then pat off all the unnecessary
little edges, until all that's left is the good part. Okay?"

 
          
 
"Okay." She paused. "You
remember the bug in Sarah's car?"

 
          
 
"Of course I remember."

 
          
 
"Mario Epstein put it there."

 
          
 
"He did?"

 
          
 
"Well, not personally. But he had it put
there."

 
          
 
"How do you know?"

 
          
 
"They told me. Connie and Dolores."

 
          
 
"They told you? Just like that?"

 
          
 
"Pretty much. We were in the Mess, the
three of us, and we had to wait awhile for a fresh pot of coffee, they must've
forgotten to make more after breakfast, and ..."

 
          
 
She was unstoppable, so he didn't try. He
contented himself with playing Maxwell Perkins to her Thomas Wolfe, permitting
her to pile mountains of raw material into a steamer trunk, from which he could
sift the nuggets that would become the masterpiece.

 
          
 
". . .has this couple, real creeps Connie
said, who're like street people, and they keep tabs on a whole bunch of people
who live in Georgetown, he has other people working for him in Cleveland Park
and Capitol Hill and all over the place, and they probably wouldn't have
bothered with you if Sarah didn't work for Senator Kennedy, but because she did
and you were in the White House, even though not in what they call a policy
position. . . . Anyhow, they didn't treat it like any big deal, sort of
routine, but I'm not sure they thought I'd run right out and tell you."

 
          
 
She ran out of breath.

 
          
 
She must have a diaphragm the size of a beach
ball, Burnham thought. He said, "Where did they plant the new one?"

 
          
 
"New one?"

 
          
 
"They know she changed the . . ." He
stopped himself. "They know a lot of new stuff."

 
          
 
"I don't know."

 
          
 
"Can you find out^'

 
          
 
"I'm not sure."

 
          
 
"Do they have a bug on me?"

 
          
 
"They've got your file out. I saw it on
the desk."

 
          
 
"Christ, they've already done a
full-field. And more, for all that Q-Clearance garbage. What the hell do they
think they're gonna find out?"

 
          
 
"Something about your connections with
the Soviets."

 
          
 
"The Soviets! I don't know a single
Russian. Not one."

 
          
 
"The President thinks you do. That's what
Connie said."

 
          
 
"What—Oh! That. Yeah, well, I wish them
all the best. I hope they find out something. I'd like to know myself. Every
time I see him, he brings it up."

 
          
 
"Brings what up?"

 
          
 
"That I'm supposed to have some fabulous
in with the Russians. It beats the hell out of me." He smiled at Dyanna.
"You are a great American, and a source of comfort and strength to me in
this dark hour. I thank you."

 
          
 
"My pleasure."

 
          
 
"Keep listening."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir." She returned to her
office, and closed Burnham's door.

 
          
 
He wanted to march in to the President and
demand that all listening devices be removed from Sarah's home, car, purse and
person. Him they were welcome to investigate, from his kindergarten records to
his stool samples, but they were not to drag his wife and children into it.

 
          
 
But he didn't. He didn't want to jeopardize
Dyanna's privileged relationship with Epstein's secretaries. She had still more
to learn, more to tell him, and if he blew her cover now, that channel would
close permanently.

 
          
 
The President might well refuse. After all,
he'd say, if they hadn't been monitoring Sarah he never would have learned
about Burnham's personal problems, could not have counseled him about his
friendship with Eva, might have been presented with a nasty surprise too late
to prevent Burnham from suffering irreversible harm. He'd insist that keeping
track of one's trusted aides (and, by extension, their families) was not a
question of morality but of security and common sense.

 
          
 
The final reason that kept Burnham from
bursting in on the President and taking his stand was the simplest: He didn't
have the guts.

 
          
 
Though he had never seen it in full cry, he
knew that the President had a Vesuvian temper. When the most powerful man in
the world explodes in a storm of fury, ordinary mortals scurry for a lee shore.
He was not man enough to stand up to a pissed-off President. Not yet.