Clifford Fairlie walked across the room and his hands reached up to draw the drapes against the misty chill darkness of the Parisian night but his eyes were not focused on anything much at all; he was listening — to the droning radio and for the telephone’s bell.
He shambled to the highboy and poured an ounce of Dubonnet into a crystal aperitif glass with the hotel’s monogram on it. Walked to the radio and fiddled with the tuning dial but effected no improvement in the background static. The French radio was carrying the story as well but Fairlie did not want to concentrate on translating in his head.
He prowled the room now, too eruptive to sit still, sipping the Dubonnet until it was gone, after which he carried the empty glass around with him, rotating it between his palms. McNeely’s head kept turning, indicating his attentiveness to fairlie’s movements, but neither McNeely nor the Secret Service agents spoke: either they were too stunned by the news or they were awaiting a cue from Fairlie.
“...complete listing of casualties has not yet been released, as it is understood the authorities are still sifting through the rubble of the two legislative chambers of the American Congress which were bombed little more than ninety minutes ago. Of course the President-elect, Mr. Fairlie, was not in Washington, and his Vice-President-elect, Mr. Ethridge, is reported to have escaped serious injury although he was present in the Senate when the powerful devices were detonated.”
It penetrated Fairlie’s consciousness that the British Broadcasting announcer was winging it: tossing out time-consuming bits of background information to fill the time because he had run out of hard news to report, then swinging back into the bits and pieces that had come in on the international newswires and recapitulating the story which by now everyone in the world had heard.
“It was announced officially by the White House Press Secretary, Mr. Hearn, that swift action by the United States Secret Service resulted in the capture of six suspected terrorists almost immediately after the explosions in the American Capitol. According to Mr. Hearn five of those arrested actually planted the five explosive devices, and the sixth was the driver of their escape car. Names and descriptions of the six have not been divulged, but Mr. Hearn did reveal they are three men and three women. Whether the Government suspects that more than these six were involved in the... One moment, please. We have only just received this. The Director of the FBI, who has been placed in charge of rescue and investigative operations at the bombed Capitol building in Washington, has authorized the release of a preliminary list of casualties. We are advised the list will be read out by the President’s news secretary, Mr. Hearn, in just a few minutes’ time. BBC is now preparing to switch us via satellite to live coverage of Mr. Hearn’s briefing in Washington.”
There was an obsequious knock. McNeely rose with alacrity and two of the agents went with him to answer the door. It was the hotel manager, wheeling a large television console. Fairlie thought irritably that it had taken the hotel almost three quarters of an hour to locate and deliver the television set to his room — probably the same set he had had removed the day of his arrival because he detested television and found French television to be a particular abomination.
The hotel manager backed out of the room after whispering something in McNeely’s ear. The agents turned to stare at the warming TV screen, and McNeely said to Fairlie, “He says the place is crawling with reporters and the rumor’s around that you’re going to make a statement.”
“Not just yet.”
“I hope they don’t think of bringing a battering ram.” McNeely didn’t smile; he only flopped into his chair and brooded toward the screen.
The telephone.
McNeely bounced up and Fairlie watched him with care. He had left instructions with the switchboard to connect no incoming calls except from President Brewster, who had called an hour ago and asked him to stay on tap.
McNeely covered the mouthpiece with his palm and gave Fairlie an unreadable look. “It’s the girl on the switchboard. She’s holding a call for you from Harrisburg.”
“Jeanette?”
“Yes. Evidently she’s been trying to get through to you for more than an hour. I gather she’s blistering the corns off the poor girl on the board.”
That wasn’t hard to credit. Fairlie approached the phone, moving awkwardly sideways to keep the TV screen in view. It was French television of course and the sound was down very low; he could hear the BBC radio announcer introducing Perry Hearn and on the screen he could see the satellite picture of the White House Lawn, gray on a misty cold afternoon with a thick crowd waiting, breath pouring like steam from their nostrils.
“Jeanette?”
“One moment please.” An American operator’s voice.
“Cliff darling?”
“Hi sweet.”
“My God what trouble I’ve had reaching you. I finally had to pull rank — the President’s wife is calling, I told them. It sounded God-awful to me.”
“How is it there?”
“It’s madness, Cliff. You can’t imagine it. I think the whole city’s glued to their television screens as if they were bleeding to death and the tube was their transfusion bottle.”
“There hasn’t been any trouble, has there?”
“Outside of the Hill, you mean. No. I don’t think anybody’s thought of making trouble. We’re all too numb.” It was a good clear connection but she was pitching her voice high and loud as if to span the intercontinental vastness.
The TV had gone to a tight closeup of Perry Hearn’s amiable bland face and the radio carried Hearn’s voice but they were somewhat out of sync, the radio voice anticipating the movements of Hearn’s lips on the screen by a half second. As of now thirteen Senators and twenty-eight Congressmen are still missing...
“Are you all right, sweet?” He had turned his shoulder to the others in the room and spoke low, confidentially into the telephone.
“Oh I’m all right, Cliff. Just overwrought. The little one’s kicking inside me — I guess he can sense my excitement.”
“But you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. Really, darling.”
“That’s all right then.”
...list as of now includes ten United States Senators and thirty-seven members of the House of Representatives, whose bodies have been identified...
“I suppose I’ve been trying to call you because I don’t know what else to do. I needed your voice, Cliff.”
“Have you got people there with you?”
“Oh yes of course, everyone’s descended on me. Mary came over the instant she heard the news and the children are both with me. I’m very well looked after.”
...Speaker of the House Milton Luke escaped injury and is with the President at this moment. Senate Majority Leader Winston Dierks suffered a leg injury but is listed as being in satisfactory condition at D. C. General Hospital. Senate Minority Leader Fitzroy Grant will probably be released from Walter Reed Army Hospital within a few minutes...
“...wish I weren’t preggers, Cliff, I wish I were there with you.”
She had lost a baby two years ago and this time they had decided she would stay at home and not travel with him. Fairlie said, “Do you want me home?” and hated himself for it, knowing his decisions couldn’t be based on her wishes.
“Of course I do,” she replied; the softness of her voice was freed of sentimentality by its flavor of affectionate ridicule: she knew as well as he did that he wouldn’t drop everything and fly straight home on her whim.