With the last words they had reached the wide, balustraded Steps leading under the curved and colonnaded South Portico. Preceding his guest, the President leaped upward two steps at a time and, not to be outdone, James Howden followed at the same pace.
But at the halfway mark the Prime Minister stopped, short of breath and perspiring. His dark blue worsted suit, ideal in Ottawa, was uncomfortably heavy in the warm Washington sunshine. He wished he had brought one of his lightweight suits, but on looking them over none had seemed quite good enough for this occasion. The President was reported to be meticulous about dress and sometimes changed suits several times a day. But then, the US Chief Executive was not subject to the personal money worries of a Canadian Prime Minister.
The thought reminded Howden briefly that he had not yet broken the news to Margaret of just how serious their own financial position had become. The man from Montreal Trust had made it clear: unless they stopped eroding the few thousands of capital remaining, his resources on retirement would be equal to the wages of a minor artisan. Of course, it would never really come to that: the Rockefeller Foundation and others could be appealed to – Rockefeller had granted Mackenzie King a hundred thousand dollars on the day of the veteran Prime Minister's retirement – but the thought of actively seeking an American handout, however generous, was still humiliating.
A few steps up the President had stopped. He said contritely, 'Do forgive me. I'm always forgetting, and doing that to people.'
'I should have known better.' James Howden's heart was pounding; his heavy breathing punctuated the words. 'I expect it was your remark about the body personal.' Like everyone else he was aware of the President's lifelong passion for physical fitness in himself and those around him. A succession of White House aides, including dispirited generals and admirals, staggered exhausted from daily presidential sessions of handball, tennis, or badminton. A frequent complaint from the President's lips was that 'This generation has the bellies of Buddhas and shoulders like bloodhounds' ears.' It was the President, too, who had revived the Theodore Roosevelt pastime of taking country walks in straight lines, going over objects – trees, barns, haystacks – instead of around them. He had even attempted something of the kind in Washington and, remembering, Howden asked, 'How did those local forays of yours go – the A to B idea?'
The other man chortled as they moved together, leisurely, up the stairs. 'I had to quit in the end; got into a few problems. We couldn't scramble over buildings here, except some small ones, so we started going through them wherever a straight line led. Got in some strange places too, including a toilet in the Pentagon – in the door and out the window.' He chuckled reminiscently. 'But one day my brother and I wound up in the Statler Hotel kitchens – walked in the cold room and short of blasting there was no way out.'
Howden laughed. 'Perhaps we'll try it in Ottawa. There are some of the Opposition I'd like to see depart in straight lines -especially if they'd keep on going.'
'Our opponents are sent to try us, Jim.'
'I suppose so,' Howden said. 'But some try harder than others. By the way, I've brought some new rock samples for your collection. Our Mines and Resources people tell me they're unique.'
'Well, thank you,' the President said. 'I'm really most grateful. And please thank your people too.'
From the South Portico's shade they passed into the cool White House interior, then threaded a hallway and corridors to the presidential office on the building's southeast corner. Opening the white-painted single door, the President ushered How-den in.
As usual, on the several occasions he had been here, the Prime Minister was conscious of the room's simplicity. Oval-shaped, with waist-high panelling and plain grey carpeting, its principal furnishings comprised a wide flat-topped desk, set centre, a padded swivel chair in the rear and, behind the chair, twin gold-trimmed banners – the Stars and Stripes and the President's personal flag. Floor-to-ceiling casement windows and a french door to a terrace outside faced a satin-damask sofa occupying most of one wall to the desk's right. At present the sofa was occupied by Arthur Lexington and Admiral Levin Rapoport, the latter a small, scrawny man in a neat brown suit, his hawklike face and incongruously large head seeming to dwarf the remainder of his body. The two men rose as the President and Prime Minister came in.
'Good morning, Arthur,' the President said warmly, offering his hand to Lexington. 'Jim, you know Levin, of course.'
'Yes,' Howden said, 'we've met. How are you. Admiral?'
'Good morning.' Admiral Rapoport nodded curtly and coolly. He seldom did more, notoriously having no patience either for small talk or social functions. The admiral – presidential assistant extraordinaire – had been a notable absentee from the previous evening's state banquet.
As the four men sat down, a tray of drinks was whisked in by a Filipino manservant. Arthur Lexington chose scotch and water, the President a dry sherry. Admiral Rapoport shook his head in refusal and, before James Howden, the man smilingly placed a glass of iced grape juice.
While the drinks were being served Howden watched the admiral covertly, recalling what he had heard of this man who (some said) was now virtually as powerful as the President himself.
Four years earlier Captain Levin Rapoport, USN, had been a regular navy officer on the point of compulsory retirement – compulsory because his superior admirals had twice passed him over for promotion despite a brilliant, highly-publicized career in pioneering underwater firing of intercontinental missiles. The trouble was that almost no one liked Levin Rapoport personally and a surprising number of influential superiors harboured feelings of active hatred. Mostly, the latter stemmed from a long-standing Rapoport habit of being dead right on every major issue affecting naval defence, and afterwards never hesitating to say 'I told you so', singling out by name those who had disagreed with him.
Coupled with this was a massive personal conceit (entirely justified, but unpleasant nonetheless), grossly bad manners, impatience with 'channels' and red tape, and open contempt for those whom Captain Rapoport considered his intellectual inferiors, as most were.
But what the higher navy brass had not foreseen in deciding to retire its controversial genius was the fierce outcry – from Congress and the public – at the prospect of the nation's loss if the Rapoport brain were no longer brooding actively upon its affairs. As one congressman put it succinctly, 'Goddam, we need the bastard.'
Thereupon, prodded sharply both from the Senate and White House, the Navy had climbed down and promoted Cap-rain Rapoport to rear-admiral, thus avoiding his retirement. Two years and two ranks later, following a series of fresh brilliances, Rapoport (a full admiral by now and pricklier than ever) had been whisked by the President from the Navy's orbit to be presidential chief of staff. Within a few weeks, through zeal, speed, and sheer ability, the new appointee was exercising more direct power than predecessors like Harry Hopkins, Sherman Adams, or Ted Sorenson had ever enjoyed.
Since then the list of directed achievements, known and unknown, had been formidable; a self-help overseas aid programme which, though late, was gaining America respect instead of contempt; at home, an agriculture policy which farmers fought savagely, claiming it wouldn't work, but (as Rapoport had said from the beginning would happen) it did; a crash research effort and, for long term, realignment of scientific education and pure research; and in law enforcement a crackdown on industrial fraud at one end of the scale and, at the other, a house-cleaning of labour, with Lufto, the once supreme labour hoodlum, ousted and jailed.