Sincerely, Jordan Lyman
"You'll have to get yourself from Rome to Gibraltar somehow, Paul," said Lyman, handing him the note after sealing it in an envelope.
"And get it in writing, Paul," Todd warned. "You're a gentleman, but your word wouldn't count for much in a court against that of Barnswell or Scott."
The meeting was drawing to a close. Todd looked around the room.
"Everybody plan on being back here by Thursday noon at the latest," he said. "If Casey's right, we'd have only forty-eight hours left after that."
"The code, Chris," Lyman reminded him. The President looked a bit sheepish.
"Oh, yes," Todd said. "If we're up against the real thing, we've got to be careful. I've fixed up a little code for us to use on the phone."
Corwin, still leaning against the door, let his chair down on all four legs with a little thud. "Mr. Secretary, I don't think you need to worry about that. Any time you call into the White House, as long as you know the operator and the person you're talking to- and I gather the President has fixed that up through Miss Townsend-you don't need to worry. These lines are as secure as man could make them."
"Well, what about the phone at the other end?" Todd asked.
"Just stick to public phone booths," Corwin advised. "Nobody could tap that many lines."
"Okay," Lyman said, "I guess it was a little silly. But be careful how you say things, just in case. We'll get the point even if you talk around it some."
"We're all a little old to be playing games," Todd said. "Frankly, I still think the whole thing is absurd, so the quicker we get an explanation the better."
"Ah hope you right, Mistuh Secretary," said Clark, "but ah kin smell a catfish that's been layin' too long in the sun."
As the men filed out, Lyman drew Clark and Girard to one side. He closed the door after Todd, the last of the others to leave.
"Those are three fine men," he said, "but I'm not sure we speak the same language. Especially Chris. Hell, he wants me to climb up in the pulpit and shout 'thief!' and search the whole congregation."
"Let's face it," said Girard. "They aren't politicians."
"That's it, Jordie," Clark said. "Any politician would realize why you can't move in and clobber this thing right away. My God, with our rating today, we'd lose hands down in any showdown with Scott."
"And maybe lose the country with it," mused Lyman. "That's all Feemerov would need for an excuse to junk that treaty-a big brawl in the United States between the military and civilian authorities. I just can't figure Chris. It's funny that he would think we could move openly."
"This one, we play so close to the vest that nobody ever sees the cards," Clark said.
"Exactly," Lyman said. "I made up my mind last night that if there's anything to this, we've got to lick it without the country ever knowing about it. Of course, the only way to do that is to get some evidence that's solid enough to force Scott to resign-on some other pretext."
"Now that Chris is in it," Girard said, "you're going to have to make him see that, boss."
The three sat for another half hour, going over once again the events of Sunday and Monday.
"How about giving him Treatment A?" Girard asked. "That might take care of it, and if the whole thing does turn out to be a phony, we'll still be okay."
"Treatment A?" Lyman was puzzled.
"Oh, hell, you know what I mean, chief." Girard exhibited his wicked grin. "Get him out of town. Send him somewhere-out of the country. Scott can't grab your job if he's five thousand miles away."
Clark chuckled. "It must be something about this house. I remember a fellow who worked here in Kennedy's time-he was a college professor, at that-telling me the best way to liquidate a man was to keep him out of town. Seriously, Jordie, it might be a good idea."
Lyman shook his head. "No, I don't think so. It might work if it were almost any other kind of situation. But you can't just send the chairman of the Joint Chiefs galloping off on some made-up mission. Anyway, I'd just as soon have him right here where Art can keep an eye on him."
It was dark when Clark rose to go. The President shook hands with both men.
"Both of you get back here fast," he said. "I don't want it to be just one politician against nine generals and admirals-or maybe more."
When they had gone, Lyman stood looking out the sweeping window. The mist had begun to break now, leaving a low overcast that reflected the glow of the city's downtown lights.
In the end it's going to be Lyman against Scott, he thought, no matter who else is in it. Somehow he had to get the feel of the man. Sometime, in the not too many hours that were left, he would have to face the General alone.
The President stood in the dark. The old-fashioned globes on the lights along the back driveway cast little halos in the thinning mist that scudded past them.
They're all good men, Jordie, he thought, but you're on your own in the end. God, what a lonely house. If only Doris were here. It would be nice to have someone to eat dinner with tonight.
Tuesday Night
Art Corwin parked in an apartment driveway across from the main gate of Fort Myer. He picked his spot carefully. The car rested on an incline that sloped down to the highway. A good four feet separated it from the automobile in front, so he could swing clear with one turn of his steering wheel. He was facing an intersection on Route 50, so he could either cut across the divided highway and turn left, toward Washington, or turn right into the outbound lane leading to the Virginia countryside.
The rain had stopped and the mist had lifted, though a low overcast still hid the moon. The wet streets and dripping foliage were dark and soggy, but the weather failed to confine Corwin's spirits. He was alert and cheerful. A beer and a corned-beef-on-rye had tasted just right after the long White House meeting. He had a well-tuned, powerful car that could do better than a hundred miles an hour if necessary. And he was working alone again, back to the feeling of his early days in the Secret Service when the only worry was the next move of some small-time counterfeiter, not the hour-by-hour tension of protecting the President of the United States.
Corwin had driven slowly past Quarters Six, on the hill inside the old Army post, soon after seven. Both the official limousine of the chairman and Scott's own big Chrysler stood parked in the driveway. Then Corwin chose this spot, across from the Fort Myer entrance, so he could watch all traffic going in and out of the post. He reparked twice to get just the right line of sight on the gate. Now the street light would illuminate the features of anyone who stopped at the guard hut for the routine nighttime check.
This is a strange business, he thought. Whether Scott had designs on the office of the President he didn't know, but it occurred to him that Christopher Todd's doubts were a poor way to begin a defensive operation. Corwin had taught himself always to assume the worst. Did Scott want the Presidency? Well, didn't almost everybody in this town?
He began to estimate how many men he should add to the White House detail later in the week. One thing he would do if he were running this jerry-built show would be to plant a man in the all-service radio room in the Pentagon. It would be tricky, but ... He wondered if Todd had thought of that. He wondered, in fact, whether Todd's personal reservations about the possibility of a military operation hadn't blinded the Secretary to essential precautions that ought to be taken. Suppose, for instance, Scott moved up the date. What would we do then?
Corwin was deep in the problems of shielding the President when a dark-blue seven-passenger Chrysler slid out of the fort gate into the glare of the street light. The M.P. on duty at the entrance snapped off a salute. At the wheel sat General Scott, apparently in civilian clothes, for he wore no cap. Corwin caught the unmistakable full crop of black hair, sprinkled with white and gray. There was one man beside him-General Billy Riley, the Marine commandant. No other jaw around Washington looked quite like that one.