A winch grinder murmured to the man next to him, “Skipper’s in a good mood today.”
All Bucky Trumble got to tell the president these days was bad news, and as the axiom has it, in the long run this does the bearer no good. The high-and-mighty much prefer to hear, “Sir, your approval ratings are through the roof!” or, “Sire, the enemy has capitulated!” than the endless servings of distress and gloom that seemed to constitute Bucky’s daily political briefings. Today was no exception.
“What?” the president grunted without looking up. “What?”
In the old days, he would have said, “Well, if it isn’t the Buckmeister! Sit down, you sad-ass cocksucker, pour yourself a drink, and gimme all the dirt.” Now all Bucky got was, “What?” short for, “What now?”
“I have the FBI report on Cassandra Devine’s computer, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“They didn’t find anything on it that would link her directly to Arthur Clumm, the male nurse.”
The president looked up at Bucky sourly. “I was under the impression that you were working on that.”
“I thought I had worked on it. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m certainly going to call Frank Co-”
“Don’t.” The president held up a hand. “Don’t tell me anything I don’t need to hear. Tell me something I want to hear. Even if you have to make it up out of whole cloth.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something. Seems Devine and her PR boss, Tucker, may be involved in illegal business dealing with North Korea.”
“North Korea?” the president said, brightening. “Well, goddamnit. Why didn’t you tell me that first? That’s good work, Buck. Fine work. Ho, ho. Oh, you’re a clever cocksucker, Bucky boy.” The president chortled.
Bucky thought, He thinks I planted it.
“Sir, I’d love to take credit for it, but, uh, this fact is in fact a fact. That is, it’s real. They found it on the computers.”
The president looked taken aback. “Oh. Well, fine. Okay. Even better. So can the FBI throw her ass in jail?”
“Well, sir, it’s not like they were selling F-16s or missiles to North Korea or anything like that.”
The president frowned. “What were they selling ’em?”
Bucky tried to make it sound as traitorous as he could. “Sir, these two jokers were conspiring with the government of North Korea, a government declaredly hostile to the United States, to”-he cleared his throat-“to put on a golf tournament.”
“Golf? Did you say golf tournament?”
“Yes, sir. A corruption of one of the most democratic pastimes in the civilized world. A totalitarian golf tournament. In Pyongyang. Behind enemy lines. Ostensibly to promote-I’m quoting directly-peace and understanding. In actuality to provide cover, to paste a big smiley face on a ruthless regime. And God only knows what else they might be up to. It’s big, sir. Big.”
The president stared. “Who in hell gives a rat’s ass about a golf tournament? Goddamnit, Buck, you had me thinking they were giving ’em enriched plutonium or anthrax or-”
“The FBI seems to think it’s serious enough. Want the headline? JEPPERSON’S ADVISERS ON NORTH KOREAN PAYROLL.”
The president considered. “Well, I do like that headline.”
“Thought you might.” Whew.
The president’s leather chair squeaked. “Now, a headline like that, you don’t want to spend it right away. You want to hold on to it for a while. Save it for just the right occasion. Like…”
“Before the New Hampshire primary?”
“Or even after. You’ll convey this to our good friends at the Bureau?”
“I’m shakin’ it, boss!” Bucky said brightly. “I’m shakin’ it!”
It was a line from the movie Cool Hand Luke. Bucky used it in the old days, when just he and Governor Peacham were flying around in a single-engine Cessna hitting a dozen campaign stops in a day. Back then, Peacham would laugh and laugh at the line, which conveyed just the right amount of irony and servility. Now all he said to his faithful retainer was, “Okay, then,” and went back to his paperwork, an impassioned personal plea to the head of the Federal Reserve not to raise the prime rate to 20 percent.
Bucky returned to his office, feeling thoroughly exhausted and a bit ungratefully used. He loosened his tie and checked his e-mail. He had three hundred, including one from his assistant slugged “Urgent-Read ASAP.”
He opened the e-mail. It contained a link to a story in the online Yale Daily News. What on earth kind of urgency could there possibly be in a story in a college newspaper? He clicked on the link and read.
“Oh,” he said to no one in particular, “shit.”
Frank Cohane’s secretary, Jean, reached him as he was driving home from the yacht basin. (He kept a spare cell phone in the glove compartment of his Ferrari Enzo.)
She read him the story in the online Yale Daily News. When she got to the paragraph where the hapless Boyd admitted, on record, that “yeah, I guess my stepdad sort of dealt with the situation, threw some bucks at them, whatever, made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. He’s pretty cool that way,” Frank’s fury reached such intensity that for his own safety he had to pull the Enzo over to the dirt shoulder and hyperventilate.
According to Kane’s story, “Yale has no official comment, but a spokesperson in the development office notes that ‘Mr. Cohane has been, and continues to be, a wonderfully generous supporter of Yale.’ Dean of Undergraduates John Wilkinson did not return repeated calls asking for clarification as to Baker’s academic status.”
“Is that it?” Frank moaned.
“Yes, Mr. Cohane. In the meantime, you’ve had quite a few calls. Mr. Trumble from the White House: ‘Urgent, please call right away.’ Also President Reigeluth of Yale: ‘Urgent, please call as soon as possible.’”
Frank hung up and deliberated which call to return first: the chief political adviser to the president of the United States or the president of Yale. Eenie-meenie…
“Buck. Frank.”
“Frank. Jesus.”
“What can I tell you? Fucking kid reporters.”
Frank was about to unleash a stream of expletives on the topic of his moron son-in-law when, ex nihilo, an inspiration occurred, and with not a second to spare.
“What can I tell you,” Frank said. “I love that boy. He’s like my own son.”
Silence. Frank waited to see if this inspired bit of spontaneous mendacity had hit its mark.
“That’s very, uh, decent of you, Frank.”
“Ah, well,” Frank said, “the old Washington solution, right? Hurl money at the problem and see if it’ll go away. They can’t prove a thing. So I’m generous. Last I checked, it’s not a crime.”
“Frank,” Bucky said, “I was actually going to call you about another matter.”
Frank had forgotten to activate the recording device on his car phone. He did now. “Yeah? Shoot.”
“That, uh, matter we discussed? About the FBI and those com-puters?”
“What computers?”
Bucky sounded uncomfortable. He could hear cars going by on the other end and assumed Frank was on his cell phone. He didn’t like to speak too candidly on those. “At the Wok’n Roll? Remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. That. What about it?”
“Well, I had been kind of left with the impression that you were going to follow through on that thing we discussed.”
“Follow through? How do you mean?”
Bucky’s discomfort became suddenly acute. “Frank?”
“Yes, Bucky?”
“Are you…recording this phone call?”
“I record all my phone calls. In fact, I record all my conversations. Even the ones in crummy Chinese restaurants in Arlington.”
“Frank-what are you saying?”