Then Rutkowski promptly phoned NORAD headquarters in Colorado, got Colonel O'Malley on the wire, and ordered him to report immediately if the radar screen showed any planes taking off from the secret base in New Mexico.
General Dieffenbach of the Army wrote out his resignation without exchanging a single word with the President. He merely bowed slightly as he left and readjusted the black patch over his bad eye.
When Dieffenbach's signature was on paper, Rutkowski phoned the Army vice chief of staff and requested, in the name of the President, the release of a prisoner named Colonel William Henderson from the Fort Myer stockade. Casey left, with a note from Lyman, to pick up his friend.
Last came General Billy Riley, his jaw as pugnacious as ever and his eyes dark with anger, and then suddenly it was all over. At the door of the Monroe Room, Corwin signaled to the others.
"General Scott is on his way out," he said.
Clark and Todd hurried out of the room together. They caught Scott by the elevator.
"Could I have a word with you, General?" asked Clark.
As he spoke, and Lyman looked on from where he stood in the hall, Todd stepped into the study and went to the little writing desk. He drew a manila envelope from the lower drawer, stuffed it in an inside coat pocket and quickly rejoined Clark and Scott at the elevator. The three rode down together in silence.
Outside the White House, the night was warm. Although clouds hid the moon, a pale diffused light gave form to trees and shrubs. The three men stood under the canopy leading from the ground-floor diplomatic reception room to the curved south driveway.
"General," said Todd, "the President is a statesman and a gentleman."
"The first had escaped my notice," said Scott curtly.
Todd ignored the remark. "But he is, above all, a gentleman. I'm not. I'm a crusty, mean trial lawyer. Senator Clark is a politician. Neither of us cares much for unnecessary amenities."
"I've had enough roundabout conversation for one night, thanks," said Scott. "If you don't mind, I'll just get in my car and leave."
Todd, half a head shorter than Scott, skipped around him to block the sidewalk.
"I don't think you will, General," he said, "until we're finished."
He pulled the manila envelope from his pocket.
"This is this year's federal income tax return," he said, "filed by Miss Millicent Segnier of New York City."
Scott stood still. In the dark under the canopy, they could not read his face. He said only "Yes?"
"I'm not sure whether you're aware of it," Todd said, "but Miss Segnier deducted three thousand and seventy-nine dollars for entertaining the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff last year. When the Internal Revenue Service questioned it, she said she had to entertain you in connection with the apparel and fashions of female military personnel."
"That's interesting-but hardly enlightening," Scott said coldly.
"We have other evidence, a great deal of evidence," said Todd, "indicating conclusively a long and somewhat cordial relationship between yourself and Miss Segnier. The President was too much of a gentleman to mention it tonight."
"Well, now that you've exacted your own extra pound of flesh," the General said, "I think I'll say good night."
Clark interposed himself. "Y'know, Ah don't think you git the point, really Ah don't, Gin'rul. If you step one teeny-weeny little step out of line, the Secretary an' me are gonna jam this goddam tax return right down your throat."
"What does that mean?" Scott almost shouted. "Nobody says what he means around this place."
Clark spoke again, careful and precise this time. "I mean I'm a politician and a member of the President's party, and if you make any anti-administration speeches, or let anybody make a martyr out of you, I'm going to spread your little romance over every front page in this country."
"I'm sure Mrs. Scott would love you for that," the General said bitterly.
"Evoking the tears of wives, widows or even orphans won't help you a bit, General," said Todd. "Upstairs, President Lyman was working only for his country. The senator and I are working at politics."
Clark jabbed a finger at Scott's tunic.
"Specifically, General," he said, "you are not going to run for President against Jordan Lyman two years from now, treaty or no treaty, polls or no polls. You aren't even going to think about it. If you do, the Secretary and I will hang Miss Millicent Segnier right around your neck. Now you tell that to the kingmakers when they come calling on you."
Scott grunted. "I have just met two plain, ordinary bastards."
Clark's laugh was almost a whoop. "Hell, General, you've met worse than that. Roll both of us down the hill in a barrel and there'll always be a son-of-a bitch on top."
Scott pushed his way past the two men and walked to his car. His big frame was erect, his shoulders squared, his stride emphatic. At the door of the limousine he turned.
"You may both pride yourselves on the cheapest, filthiest little trick of the year," he said.
"At least we didn't need thirty-five hundred hired thugs and a twenty-million-dollar base in the desert to back us up," Clark shot back.
Scott slammed the door without answering and the big car slid away. Todd and Clark watched its tail-lights until they disappeared beyond the southwest gate, then turned and went back inside the house. As they opened the door to enter, Trimmer-as if sensing that he would now be welcome again in his master's study-galloped up and shoved past them.
The dog ran to the big stairway and rushed upstairs while Todd and Clark waited for the elevator. Todd pulled out a long cigar, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and put it into his mouth.
In the elevator Clark shook his head. "I shouldn't have made that last crack. He made me lose my temper."
Todd extracted one of his big wooden kitchen matches from a vest pocket and lit it with a snap of the thumbnail. He got the cigar going before he answered.
"Forget it," he advised. "But you've got to admire the way he went down. You'd almost have thought he was standing on the bridge with the water up to his waist, listening to the band play 'Nearer My God to Thee.'"
"Yeah. Too bad he wasn't on the right side."
They found Lyman standing beside the marble fireplace, staring at a puff of ash no bigger than a fist that smoked on the grate. The President looked at his friends. His eyes glistened and he shook his head.
"It's such a pity," he whispered. "Paul will never know that he saved his country after all."
Clark stared at the grate. Then, not able to look at Lyman, he said:
"He helped, Jordie. He surely did. But he couldn't do it, any more than the rest of us could. Only you could-and you did."
Saturday, 1 P.M.
A mass of newspapermen, so tightly packed that some men had to take notes against the backs of others, pushed and heaved in Frank Simon's west wing press office like a great school of mackerel rushing inshore to feed. The room, heated by two hundred bodies and a sudden early blast of Washington summer weather, was as sticky as a steam bath. Shouted questions spurted from the over-all uproar. Nobody could hear anything.
Simon climbed on his swivel chair and waved his hands to abate the din. He finally managed to cut the noise by perhaps half. Now the shouted questions came through.
"When do we get text?"
"Is Lyman quitting?"
"Did he get all the networks?"
"What the hell is it all about?"
Simon, his thin face twitching, beads of sweat standing on his forehead, continued to flail the air with his hands. At last the room subsided into something approaching order.
"If you'll be quiet for one minute," he yelled, his voice hoarse, "I'll try to tell you what I know. First, the President requested fifteen minutes of time on all networks for a speech of major national importance. He got it, and he goes on the air at one o'clock, Eastern Daylight. He will speak from the Cabinet room. There's space for three poolers. Second, there will be no advance text, but ..."