Both Baribeau and Holloway nodded in assent. Neither had expected him to turn it down. It was the only reasonable course, and talking it out as they had was only a formality.
“OK,” Sumpter continued. “Then go to it.”
Two weeks passed. Sumpter, though he knew he would never be comfortable in the role, had nevertheless superficially adapted to the trappings of the presidency. With no substantial formal representation in congress, his administration was more dependent on diplomacy than any that went before it.
He had started out with pretty good relations, although pundits told him that was normal, the so-called “Presidential Honeymoon.” It took a while for political factions to size each other up and make adjustments before they began slitting each other’s throats.
Subsequent events soon convinced Sumpter his honeymoon would be a short one. He knew his plans to alter the currency were responsible. Congress had been neither consulted nor notified of this. Its consent wasn’t required. Still, just as he had been warned they would, rumors of what he planned to do began circulating the very day he made the decision and had since proliferated.
He had another breakfast meeting with Baribeau and Holloway to talk about this, and got an explanation that disturbed him.
Sam was a comfortable guy to talk to, very philosophical, very knowledgeable. He was one of those rare people who enjoyed observing cause and effect and who were inordinately good at it. His kind usually gravitated toward scientific pursuits, and this too Sumpter found reassuring.
“You have to understand how things work in the legislature, Mr. President,” Baribeau told him. “These guys need big money just to get elected. Some of them spend a hundred times more than their official salaries and allowances will ever gain them. They get this money anyplace they can, any way they can, and society pays the price.
“Greed drives the machine, not ego, like they want people to think. It’s a whole lot easier and a lot less risky to get rich in politics than in business. Being in congress, or any public office, for that matter, is like having a license to steal. Everybody does it so they don’t dare tell on each other, and because they control the system getting caught rarely means getting punished.
“That, Mr. President, is why your popularity is slipping up on the Hill. The situation down in the border states has been a regular money pump for a whole generation of crooked politicians, especially in Texas, which has the longest stretch of border. They know you’re about to try choking that off and they don’t like it.”
“I don’t care whether they like it, can they do anything to stop us from switching?”
“If they could they would have done it before now. No, Mr. President, you’re an independent branch of the government, protected by the separation of powers clause in the constitution just like they are. The regulation of the currency is an executive function. They can’t interfere.” He paused contemplatively.
“But,” Baribeau continued, “life will be miserable from now on. Since they can’t make you do what they want they’ll spend the rest of your term trying to make you wish you had. Your legislative agenda is now just so much scrap paper. Any bill you send them will need absolutely overwhelming public support just to get on the agenda.”
There was a moment of silence, then Sumpter asked, “Tell me, Sam, do you think we’re doing the right thing?” His tone was grave.
“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be aboard, Mr. President. Right now this country’s on the same road to ruin that Rome took. Getting off is going to be a chore, but in the end our people will benefit more from this than from anything any other president in this century has done. You’re our first real populist president, the first one in a long time who has a chance to be a really great one. That’s the reason I stayed on with you. Stick to your guns.”
Sumpter did, but a week later he found out the country was at war.
The declaration came in by e-mail, unsigned, untraceable, through the Internet. In any other administration the White House staff would have tossed it into the circular file and forgotten it. Sumpter’s people didn’t. Moments after receipt the chief of staff plunked a copy down on his desk.
Sumpter picked it up and read the short message aloud: “Stop the switch, Egghead, or else!”
“I brought it to you because it sounds like a threat, Mr. President. What’s it mean—the switch?”
“Leave it, Mary, I’ll handle it myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep this quiet, Mary. Take personal charge of anything else like this that comes in. Notify me right away.”
She nodded, turned, and left.
Sumpter called Baribeau right away. He could have turned the matter over to the Secret Service agent in charge of White House Security but he didn’t want anything getting lost in the bureaucratic shuffle. He would keep things on the cabinet level.
Sam already knew. “I was just about to call you, I got one, too,” he explained. “Mine has some strange numbers on it, and a time—Greenwich Mean Time—solar time in Greenwich, England, which is where Earth’s day officially starts. It says to watch the sky.”
“What are the numbers?”
“Thirty-eight-forty N., seventy-seven W.”
“Map coordinates, the latitude and longitude of Washington.”
“Of course! And the time works out to—let me see—10:35 p.m. Eastern Standard.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It’s obviously some kind of threat. It could be a crank, looking for excitement, stirring up what he can, or it could be serious. We can’t afford to ignore it. I’m going to have to tighten up your security, Mr. President.”
There came a knock on Sumpter’s office door. An instant later his secretary appeared, waving a piece of paper. Sumpter motioned her to come in, took the note, read it, then dismissed her. “Something else is up, Sam. My press secretary is waiting outside. The note says he needs to see me right away. Stay on the line while I talk to him, OK?”
Sumpter switched to the intercom. “Send Frank Marsh in.” He punched another button, and put the phone on speaker.
A moment later the door opened and the press secretary waddled in. He, too, had papers in his hand.
“These came out of my fax just a minute ago, Mr. President.”
Sumpter took them, recognized both, then handed them back to Marsh. “Who’d you get these from?”
“Kirby, over at the Post. He called me, too, but I didn’t take it. I wanted to report first. What’s it all about, Mr. President?”
“It appears that we are, as one of my predecessors put it, ‘in deep doo-doo,’ Frank. Sit down. Baribeau s on the line. Did you get all that, Sam?”
“Every word.”
“Obviously, whoever’s behind this threat is trying to start a panic. What do you suggest we do about it?”
“For the meantime, I think we ought to play dumb. If we go public about the switch we create a media event—just what they want.”
“We don’t really know anything, anyhow,” Marsh added.
Baribeau quickly agreed. “He’s right, Mr. President. This is what we should tell the press, that we’re taking it seriously but we don’t have enough information to make a judgment, and we’d appreciate their forbearance while we try to find out what all this means.”
“All right. Frank,” he pointed at the door, “Go!”
Marsh was off in a flash, but Baribeau, who could not see this, was confused.
“What was that, Mr. President?”
Sumpter turned off the speaker and answered. “I thought it best that Marsh got back to the Post before they went public.”