The Henderson Equation (23 page)

"I know," Bonville said flatly.

"Christ, this place leaks like a sieve," Nick
said petulantly.

"I thought there was nothing to it," Bonville
said.

"Who told you that?" Nick asked sharply.

"Actually, I forget," Bonville said, squirming.

"You forget?" Nick pressed.

Bonville looked around the room, seeking support, unable to
comprehend his sudden defensiveness on a subject that had never been
controversial. Only Palmer came to his rescue.

"What the hell difference does it make? We're all in
the same family." He laughed, then choked it off, apparently confused by
the lack of camaraderie, the strange feeling of rising tension.

"Actually it must have been Henderson," Bonville
said, his color becoming greenish as the rising blood mixed with his yellowed
complexion. "I spoke to him this morning to get some additional material
on the speech." Pete Peterson coughed nervously. Henry Landau lowered his
head as he scribbled on his yellow pad.

Nick became conscious of his fists tightening, the tips of
his fingers digging into his palms. If only he could unzip himself from his
skin and spend some time in long contemplation of the scene around the table,
suspending the minutes in a frozen frame, surveying the image in an unhurried
investigation of all the tiny bits of revealed information. Surely there was
something here he was missing, some link malformed in the chain of his own
understanding of events. Finally, when he had remained silent too long, certain
that the others were becoming discomforted, he spoke, a cracked mumble.
"Henderson is ubiquitous," he said, remembering he had used the
phrase last night with Jennie. He cleared his throat. "Henderson is
ubiquitous," he said again, sensing the relief in the men around the table
that he had not pressed Bonville, who had in his innocence blundered into the
minefield.

"Look, let's shelve this one for sometime next
week," Henry Landau said, jumping to the rescue, leaving Bonville
shattered and confused, a shade more shrunken than usual, puffing furiously on
his cigarette. Nick felt compassion for the man, clumsily tangled in unseen
wires, knowing that he could never explain it to his satisfaction. Surely he
must have faith in his own instincts, he told himself, only half convinced that
he wasn't imagining the whole thing. Hadn't Myra herself urged him to kill the
Henderson story? Wasn't that an obvious enough clue? Yet despite her revealed
position, the real question was whether or not she had inspired an
orchestration, was deliberately involved in a conspiracy to manipulate him. If
he accepted that premise, then he was surrounded by traitors and informers, a
concept too difficult to comprehend.

Hearing the voices around him, he roused his concentration,
determined to pick up their thread, to recapture a measure of his authority in
their eyes. Landau was suggesting a position on the use of energy, a strong
warning to the Administration on their neglect in not pressing for a more
comprehensive energy policy.

"I'd suggest, too, that Congress be equally
roasted," Nick said, satisfied that his voice had regained its resonance.
"The stopgap measures have proven of little value."

"The motivating force has still got to be the
Administration," Peterson said, as Palmer began again to stroke his pad.
They debated the premise until a firm line had been established. Nick was
disappointed that Bonville could not be roused to participate. Surely they all
sensed his depression, his despair. When they had finished the meeting, they
filed out silently. Bonville hung back a moment longer, paused briefly as he
passed through the door, then pressed on.

Back in his glass cage, Nick picked desultorily at the
heavy pile of hate mail. It had little interest for him that morning, the barbs
blunted. He cursed his visibility, wondering if his mental state could be
perceived by those in the city room. It had never occurred to him before that
his visibility might provide a kind of feedback of influence, projecting his
own mood on the people working in the big room, an invisible radiation of
himself, of his own agitated psyche. He was being absurd, he told himself, an
amateur metaphysician, definitely out of character for him, usually a
pragmatist. Maybe he needed a rest, a vacation. Peripherally he noted that
Gunderstein had come into the city room and was sitting at his desk staring
into space, chewing his toasted English muffin, washing it down with black
coffee. Henry Landau tapped on the glass and Nick waved him in.

"Can I ask you a question?" Henry's tanned face
seemed calm though the lines were deeper, showing his worry.

"I knew you would, Henry."

"Why is this Henderson thing getting under your
skin?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"I'm not sure, Henry," he sighed.

"Is there some antagonism you have for him?"

"You're wide of the mark, Henry."

"Well, for crying out loud, Nick, what then?"

He was asking himself whether Henry could be trusted, an
obscene suspicion. Nevertheless he held back the confidence.

"I think we're losing our objectivity, Henry," he
lied. "And I'm afraid this CIA thing is going to blow up."

"But I understand that it can't be adequately
confirmed."

"I'm not as certain this morning as I was
yesterday."

"It would be a damned shame, a damned shame,"
Henry said, shaking his head. "Henderson would make a helluva
President." Nick watched him coolly. No, he was definitely not ready to
confide in him.

"Are you suggesting that we leave the story
alone?" Nick snapped.

"You know better than that, Nick." He got up,
pouting.

"Easy, Henry. Don't get your balls in an uproar. Why
is everybody so damned sensitive on the subject?"

Henry Landau sat down again. He pulled a pipe out of his
side pocket, filled it from a leather tobacco pouch, and lit it with care.

"I'll tell you what I think, Nick. Maybe it's this
suicide that's bugging me. Maybe it's a reaction from the Watergate thing.
We're becoming too destructive, always chipping away. Too much of a watchdog
syndrome. On my vacation I thought about it often. It's really bothering me. As
if we go out of our way looking for rocks to hurl. Maybe it's guilt! We're too
damned powerful. They can't fight back. Once we get a fix on someone, we dog
him till he dies from exhaustion."

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, eh,
Henry?"

"Yes." Landau's face brightened. "That's
it."

"Why is it"--Nick paused, choosing his
words--"that we suddenly become chicken-livered and guilty when we are
attacking someone we essentially agree with? Why all this selective guilt? When
we were after the President, you were all for turning the knife in the wound.
How come you weren't being philosophical and guilt-stricken then?"

"He deserved what he got," Landau said. "In
the end we proved he was guilty as hell."

"In other words, we went by gut feeling."

"And facts."

"But would we have made the commitment if we didn't
hate the man to begin with?"

Nick could tell by the accelerating clouds of smoke being
puffed out of his pipe that Henry was becoming agitated.

"The truth is, Henry," Nick continued, "that
you would hate like hell to see us bomb the darling Henderson, because
Henderson's supposedly like us, or so it is believed."

"You've misunderstood me, Nick," Henry said,
becoming defensive.

"You really believe that?"

"Yes, Nick, I do," he said with conviction.

"As long as I'm in this chair the chips will fall
where they may."

"I liked the other one better ... the business about
casting the first stone."

"If we did it that way, we'd run nothing but social
announcements and garden news."

"I really don't think I'm getting through, Nick."
He got up and tapped the half-smoked pipe into Nick's ashtray before he went
out.

When he had gone, Nick felt oddly refreshed, as if the
conversation had somehow refocused his thoughts, cleared his mind of the
uncertainties. The lines of demarcation were becoming more defined now. The
perception of it dispelled his fatigue, raised the adrenaline. He picked up the
phone and dialed Margaret. The familiar voice responded strongly.

"Maggie. What pictures do you intend to use on the
British Embassy do?"

"I've just been looking them over. We've got a good
shot of the Ambassador and a group."

"Is Henderson in any of them?"

"As a matter of fact, he is."

"Kill the ones with Henderson."

"You're kidding, Nick. He's always good copy."

"Just kill it, Maggie, okay?"

"Sure, Nick. I'll kill it. What about the story?"

"I'll work that out."

"You're the boss," she said, sarcastically.

"You just remember that, Maggie."

"How can I forget it?" She slammed the phone down
angrily. He made a mental note to call Jennie. Searching the city room, he
waited to catch Gunderstein's eye. When he did, he waved Gunderstein toward
him. Madison, too, back turned, caught the movement, and strained his neck to
watch.

"Okay, kid," Nick said as Gunderstein fell into a
chair, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly released. "I want to give
you a little back-up on this story." Gunderstein straightened in his
chair. "Who the hell of our people was in Nam in late 1963?"

"Robert Phelps," Gunderstein said. "I've
talked to him. He feels the same way I do, but here again he could produce no
basic confirmation."

Phelps was now their West Coast man.

"Suppose I put him on temporary assignment?"

"That would be helpful. He could find a lot of old Nam
hands that he might be able to pump. Yes, that would be helpful."

"What else do you think you need?"

"Someone to chase down leads. Someone I could work
with."

"How about Martha Gates?" She had remained somehow
on the surface of his consciousness.

"Martha would be fine."

"She's got the bit in her mouth, although she suffered
a setback today."

"I know," Gunderstein said. "It
happens." Gunderstein, as always, betrayed no emotion, hidden as he was
behind the cerebral myopic glazed look, his eyes in their perpetual
squint-through contact lenses.

"Have you heard from Allison this morning?" Nick
asked.

"I tried calling him. No answer. He must be sleeping
it off. I'll try later."

Nick felt a brief pang of worry, mirrored as a barely seen
frown on Gunderstein's brow, a minuscule betrayal of some inner uncertainty.
Nick turned from Gunderstein, his attention deflected by the arrival of a news
aide who laid a pile of copy on his desk. He could feel Gunderstein suddenly standing
over him, rocking on his feet, waiting for some sign of dismissal.

"All right, Harold, get going," Nick said without
looking up, his eye traveling down the typewritten columns.

"I just wanted to say, Mr. Gold," Gunderstein
stammered, his articulation difficult, a sure sign of his inner agitation,
incongruous in his impassive face, "I think you're doing the right thing.
The story is crying to be told."

Without looking up, he waved Gunderstein away. It annoyed
him to be the object of Gunderstein's judgment. Or was it simply a comment? It
was one of the observed aberrations of Gunderstein's mind that the only
judgments he made were of story values, a kind of perpetually set steel trap
that snapped shut only on the flesh and bone of story tissue. Perhaps his own
affinity for Gunderstein was based on the same set of values. Where did
humanness end and the idea of story begin?

He watched Gunderstein move toward his desk, then rang
Madison and filled him in.

"Now you're talking, Nick." Madison could barely
restrain his enthusiasm.

"Keep an eye on them, Ben. And be careful with Martha.
She's still shaky from the Ryan thing." Madison's bias was almost
refreshing, an unabashed conservative in this den of bleeding hearts, Nick
thought, chuckling. For the first time that day he felt in command of himself,
strength surging back into him, the defined battle lines dispelling his own
previous uncertainty. It was good to see the path through the jungle again.

He continued to read through the overseas dispatches, a
cacophony of discordant notes from distant places, details of the world in
ferment, shifting balances in the superpower chess game, the lives of millions
ransomed for power. As he read, he was conscious of his own screening process,
the filtering through of the word, as he read with the habit of years, a copy
pencil stuck between knobbed fingers ready to stab at an errant phrase. There
was always some pedantry in his action, as if it were necessary to mask a
changed word in the cloak of the grammarian and the stylist. Besides, he felt
he had an unfailing sense for spotting the preachiness of the moralist or the
propaganda of the ideologue among the reporters and correspondents. He had his
private jokes too, since he knew he had mastered the art of defusing a biased
thought by the mere elimination of a word or two, a word surgeon's deft stroke.
He worked swiftly, filtering the information through his mind punctuated by
occasional jabs with his copy pencil. He felt strength returning, his purpose
defined. He was resisting, he told himself joyfully, his eye searching for
hidden meaning among the words.

His eyes scanned Gordon Stock's column. Stock was a
syndicated black columnist, a former speech writer for Kennedy, who had come to
terms with his blackness at the very moment it became fashionable and
profitable to flaunt it. Nick had decided to carry the column a few years ago,
knowing that the
Chronicle
would be the flagship, the showcase of the
Stock syndication. He had, he knew, made the decision on the basis of race,
bowing to the not-so-subtle pressure of the times. Perhaps it was, after all,
his own feeling of guilt, then a national affliction, or the remembered caveat
against the reporting of Harlem murders in New York. Lately he had begun to
regret his decision as Stock's columns grew more strident with the growth of
the black political voice, and he found himself repeatedly berating Stock for
his racial muckraking. The premise of the column was setting up a straw
enemy--a traditional ploy--then taking the offensive against the imaginary
windmills.