“For God's sake!” Rice said, huffing with frustration. “Look, we're dealing with dangerous, crackpot reactionaries who have gotten deep into the CIA, perhaps deep into the FBI as well. For fifteen years now they've corrupted the democratic process. I think we all agree on that. We all understand what a grave matter this is. But these Committeemen aren't omniscient! They aren't lurking everywhere/”
“I'd prefer to act as if they were,” McAlister said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
The President continued to drum his fingers on the desk, using his left hand to counterpoint the rhythm he had developed with his right. He looked at McAlister from under his bushy eyebrows and said, “I think Andy's right about this.”
“Caution is admirable,” Rice said. “But we've got to guard against paranoia.”
The President nodded.
Wondering if he had gotten into a position where he would once again have to defy a President or resign his office, McAlister said, “I don't want to transmit my man's name to the Chinese any sooner than twelve hours before he's due in Peking. That's cutting it close enough so that The Committee won't have time to organize a hit.”
“Twelve hours,” the President said.
“The Chairman won't like that,” Rice said. His small, deep-set eyes and his pursed lips admonished McAlister.
“Whether or not he likes it, that's the way I want it.”
Rice's face was gradually mottling: red, pink, and chalk-white. He was like a malfunctioning boiler swelling up with steam. A rivet would pop any second now.
In a surprisingly quiet voice the President said, “From the way you're talking, Bob, I assume that you've found a man you think you can trust.”
“That's right, sir.”
Taking his cue from the President, Rice controlled his anger. “An agency man?”
McAlister told them how his morning had gone thus far: a visit to the British Embassy to pick up the set of forged papers that the SIS had prepared for him, a thorough search of his Mercedes until he located the transmitter he had known would be there, a quick switch of the transmitter to the tractor-trailer that had stopped for a red light, a meeting with the agent who would be sent to China…
While McAlister talked, the President used a thumbnail to pick incessantly at his artificial teeth. He made a continual click-click-click noise. Occasionally he found a bit of tartar, which he carefully inspected. In public McAlister had never seen the man pick his teeth or bore at his ears or clean his fingernails or crack his knuckles or pick his nose. And even in the Oval Office he didn't begin worrying at himself unless he was under pressure to make a policy decision. Now, wound tight by the Dragonfly crisis, he was rapidly going through his entire repertoire: he stopped picking his teeth, and he began to crack his knuckles one at a time.
When McAlister finished talking, the President said, “You've neglected to mention the agent's name.” He smiled.
Crack!: a knuckle.
“Before I tell you,” McAlister said, “I feel strongly that I should receive your assurance that you won't pass it along to the Chairman any sooner than I want it to be passed.”
Rice started to say something, decided that silence was at least valuable if not golden, and glowered at the President's hands just as another knuckle cracked.
The President got up and went to the Georgian window behind his desk. He stared at the traffic that moved through the rain down on Pennsylvania Avenue. He obviously knew, as did McAlister, that the name did not really matter. Getting the name was important not for practical reasons; it was merely a matter of face now. “What would you do if I refused to give you that assurance? Would you tell me his name — or defy me?”
“Mr. President,” McAlister said, “I would do neither.”
“Neither?”
“I would resign, sir.”
Not turning from the window, the fingers of both hands tangled behind his back and writhing like trysting worms, the President said, “That's out of the question. This has to be resolved quickly, and you're the only man I know who can handle it. You have my assurance.”
“You promise, sir?”
“Yes, Bob. The Chairman will get the name twelve hours before your man gets to Peking. My promise. Don't push it any further.”
Doggedly, McAlister said, “One step further, sir.”
The President said nothing.
McAlister said, “I wouldn't want to talk any more about this if I thought we were being recorded. The tape might get into the hands of a Committeeman.”
Turning to face them, grinning humorlessly, the President said, “Do you think any President since Nixon would be foolish enough to record his own conversations?”
McAlister nodded. “My man's name is David Canning.”
“He's on assignment here at the White House,” Rice said.
“Why Canning?” the President asked.
McAlister told him why. He also explained that Canning would travel as Theodore Otley and would leave Washington in two hours, on a four o'clock flight to Los Angeles. “I'm sending him by a series of civilian airlines, from Los Angeles to Tokyo and finally to Peking.”
“That seems a waste of time,” Rice said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Why not lay on a direct government flight—”
“Which might easily be set up to explode over the ocean,” the President said.
“Exactly,” McAlister said. “The Committee would have to know about it. They'd either put a bomb aboard here or at a fuel stop on the way.”
Reluctantly, grudgingly, Rice said, “I suppose you're right. We've been behaving like chronic paranoids, but they've left us no other way to behave.”
The President said, “You'll be trying to break the Dragonfly project from this end?”
“Yes, sir,” McAlister said.
“Have you been doing any thinking about why Dragonfly hasn't already been triggered?”
“That's the question that kept me up most of last night,” McAlister said. “I can't find an answer I like.”
Looking at his watch, the President said, “Anything else, then? Anything more you need, Bob?”
“In fact, there is, sir,” McAlister said as he got to Ms feet.
“Name it.”
“I'd like twelve federal marshals put under my control, four men each in three eight-hour shifts. I'll need them for the protection of my investigative staff.”
Glancing at Rice, the President said, “See to that, Andy.”
Rice struggled out of his chair, which squeaked with relief. “They will be in your office tomorrow morning at eight-thirty,” he said. “You can brief them then and divide them whatever way you want.”
“Thank you.”
“And now I have a request,” the President said.
McAlister said, “Sir?”
“From now on, don't go anywhere without your bodyguard.”
“I don't plan to, sir.”
“It'll get worse. They'll get desperate the closer we get to Dragonfly.”
“I know,” McAlister said.
“My God,” Rice said, “What are we coming to when the highest officers of the land can't trust their own subordinates? These reactionary bastards have nearly driven us into a police state!”
No one had anything to say about that.
When McAlister left the Oval Office, the warrant officer looked up to see if the President might be at the open door with news of the world's end. Then he went on with his reading.
McAlister felt a bit weak behind the knees and in the pit of his stomach. He had known four Presidents and had been appointed to office by two of them. He had seen that they were all flawed, sometimes tragically so. They were all, in whole or part, vain and foolish, misinformed and sometimes even crooked. Yet he had not lost his respect for the office — perhaps because it was the keystone of that system of laws and justice which he so admired — and he stood in awe of any halfway decent man who held it. His intellect and emotions had reached a compromise on this subject, and he experienced no need to analyze his feelings. This was simply how he was, and he had grown accustomed to the weakness in his knees and stomach after every conference in the Oval Office.