When Ginter reached the phone booth he stepped inside and closed the door. Pamela, head down, continued past on the opposite side of the street. At the far corner, she turned and studied a display of used washing machines in a storefront window.
Despite their one night tryst, their relationship had changed dramatically following Lewis’ return from Mexico City. He still called her at the Dew Drop Inn every day, and he would stop by in his car for a chat two or three times per week, but they never went out in public together. She feared that he no longer trusted her. And, try as she might, she could not figure out why.
She watched Lewis dig coins out of his jacket pocket and place three telephone calls. When he was done he jerked back the door and started back to his motel. She wished she knew how to bug the phone booth. Lewis always used the same one, and she assumed that if she knew what she was doing that bugging it would be fairly simple. But electronic surveillance was not one of the skills she had acquired in Portland.
She knew too well that her efforts were useless. She was on the outside of whatever was going on, and if she was going to make a difference she would have to do more than follow Lewis Ginter on walks. She had to get into his motel room.
Paul deVere flung open his door at the Waldorf and came face to face with Amanda, fist upraised, ready to knock.
“I was on the way to your room,” he said, standing aside as she strode in. He furtively checked the hallway before closing the door.
“I’ve been on the phone,” he added.
“So have I,” she said matter-of-factly. “Lewis called.”
“Lewis?” deVere asked. Amanda clutched a sheaf of papers in her left hand.
“Why didn’t he call me?”
She looked at him sharply. “He said he did. Your phone’s been busy.”
“What did he say?” Paul asked anxiously.
“He wants us to come to Texas.”
“Texas? Why?”
Amanda lifted both arms and dropped them. “He’s still trying to run an op with some Russian defector. He wouldn’t say much. But he’s planning something in Texas that involves the President and he needs our help.”
“Kennedy?” deVere asked. “Does he have a way to see Kennedy?”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know. He said stuff has happened and his whole plan has fallen apart and he needs us there.”
“When?” deVere asked.
Amanda consulted the itinerary in her hand and shook her head. “He said next week. Kennedy’s only trip to Texas before next February is a political trip to Fort Worth and Dallas on the 22nd. He was, eh, is, trying to shore up political support. He and his Vice-President will visit the two cities in a one-day visit. He’ll motorcade in and out, give a speech at the Trade Mart in Dallas, and be back in Washington by night.”
DeVere grabbed a calendar off the desk. “The 22nd is on a Friday,” he said, turning back to Amanda. “That’s only two days before the meeting.”
Amanda nodded. “That’s next week. I have no idea why Lewis needs us there now.
“By the way,” she asked, “what was your call?”
“What? Oh.” He told her about the calls from Thurmond and Salisbury. Sitting on the edge of Paul’s bed, Amanda listened intently.
“Well, Thurmond’s out,” she said. “But Salinger, that’s a real possibility. He could get us in to see Kennedy.”
“But what are we going to tell him?” Paul asked. “He’ll have the same reaction as Thurmond and Salisbury.”
Maybe,” Amanda mused. She snatched the calendar from Paul’s hand. “If we see Salinger on the 18th we can still get to Dallas on Tuesday.”
She stood up and began pacing. She consulted the itinerary again. “Lewis said he’d call back tomorrow. We’ll tell him we’re seeing Salinger on the 18th and we’ll get a plane to Dallas the next day.”
“Will the 19th be too late?” deVere asked. “If Kennedy is going to meet with his advisors on the 24th…”
“Maybe,” Amanda answered pensively. “Maybe not. Maybe his decision on the 24th won’t be the final one this time.”
When Pierre Salinger finished his remarks the audience broke out in polite applause. A tall, thin man in his mid-forties wearing a tuxedo and horn-rimmed glasses stepped to the podium.
“Please join us in the next room for refreshments,” he announced.
Amanda was already out of her seat and edging forward. Salinger shook the hand of one of his hosts and was turning toward the hors d’oeuvre table when Amanda reached out with her arm.
“Mr. Salinger,” she gushed. “That was a great talk.”
Pierre Salinger turned. Upon seeing Dr. Hutch he broke into a broad smile.
“Thank you, Mrs…?” he asked.
Amanda let go of his arm and extended her right hand. Pierre Salinger shook it.
“Hutch, Dr. Amanda Hutch. From MIT. And this is Dr. Paul deVere,” she said, indicating her companion.
“I know this is unorthodox but we wanted to talk to you for one minute about President Kennedy’s meeting this Sunday,” she continued.
“Meeting?” Salinger asked cautiously, his brow furrowing.
“Yes,” Hutch continued glibly. “We understand the President is going to meet with his advisors this Sunday and that the issue of keeping troops in Vietnam will be decided, eh, discussed,” she added, flashing a smile. “You see, I’m a history professor and I’d like the President to know how dangerous pulling out of Vietnam will be.”
All traces of a smile disappeared from Salinger’s face. His features hardened and he looked over Hutch’s shoulder at deVere who stood impassively.
“I’m sorry,” Salinger said, turning to look at her squarely. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Hutch,” she said pleasantly. “Dr. Amanda Hutch.”
“From MIT?” Salinger asked.
Hutch nodded.
“Well, Dr. Hutch, the topics of presidential meetings are not something I discuss in public. What makes you think that there is one this Sunday? I mean, Sunday, of all days, and that the agenda includes the topic you mentioned?”
The others had moved off toward the food table. DeVere could see Harrison Salisbury hovering about ten feet behind Salinger.
“I’m a history professor, Mr. Salinger,” Amanda answered unflinchingly. “This is my field of study.”
“It’s not history yet, is it?” Salinger asked with a bland smile, and turned to go.
For the second time Amanda reached out and grabbed Pierre Salinger’s arm.
“Mr. Salinger, President Kennedy can not be allowed to pull out of Vietnam,” she whispered urgently. “This country is six days away from making the biggest mistake in its history, and President Kennedy must understand that.”
Salinger’s face turned to cold fury. He firmly removed Amanda’s grip from his arm and placed it at her side.
“With all due respect, Dr. Hutch, the President will keep his own counsel on his decisions. Thank you.” With that, Salinger turned and walked away.
Amanda wheeled and faced Paul. There was a tear in her eye.
“Forget about it,” he soothed. “Maybe history is just that. History. Maybe nothing can be changed.”
“That can’t be true!” she hissed.
Amanda reached over and grabbed her coat off the chair. “It can be done. I know it.” She pushed toward the rear door. “C’mon, we’ve got a plane to catch.”