The suite was king-sized. Two bedrooms, two baths, living room, complete with a small bar, an office.
Mike pursed his lips. "Holy smokes. There's nothing this lush in Torremolinos. Why pays for it? The condition my bankroll is in, I couldn't rent it for a good half hour."
"It goes on my expense account," Jones told him, taking his two bags into one of the bedrooms and then coming out and heading for the bar.
"No wonder there's a depression, with third rate government employees putting digs like these on the expense account." Mike picked up his own bags and took them into the other bedroom, then returned to flop down on one of the two couches. "We're not third rate employees," Jones told him, coming up with a can of Danish beer, and finding an opener for it. "We're either first rate, or no rate at all. That remains to be seen. Want a beer?"
"Not now. Do you think Bigelow bought it?"
Jones thought about it while taking a sip of the brew. "Damned if I know. We'll find out tomorrow at the White House."
"Expense account, eh?" Mike said. "How big an expense account?"
"Practically unlimited on this assignment."
Mike rubbed his hands together. "Great. Let's go. I've never been in Greater Washington before. For once I can be a tourist instead of going batty herding them around."
"Let's go where?" Jones said warily
Page 49
"Where do you think?" Mike said in indignation. "In search of wine, women and song. In search of the flesh-pots of this Babylon on the Potomac."
"Nope," Jones told him, finishing off the beer and heading back to the bar for a fresh one.
Mike looked at him.
Jones said, "You're under wraps, at least until a decision has been made on your" scheme. I've been ordered not to let you out of my sight, and to keep you off the streets. Some newspaperman might spot you and wonder what the noted economist Michael Edwards is doing in Greater Washington."
"Nuts," Mike said. "Nobody remembers me. I didn't make as big a splash as all that. And what I did make was back in New Mexico."
"No nightclubbing," Jones told him, opening his beer can.
"Then bring me a drink, damn it. Anything but champagne."
In the morning, Frank Jones received a phone call. He said, "Yes, sir," a couple of times then flicked off the TV phone and turned to Mike, who was finishing breakfast at a small table the waiter had set up for the purpose.
"Okay," the Bureau of International Investigations man said. "We're on our way. The Chief will meet us at the White House "
Mike finished his coffee. "So, it wasn't as hard to get an appointment with President Clark as all that, eh?" He came to his feet, and tossed his napkin to the table.
There was a limousine waiting for them at the hotel's door. In the front seat was a uniformed chauffeur and another man whose air indicated quite definitely that he was a bodyguard. He got out of the car and opened the car's back door for them.
Jones greeted him. "Hi, Jerry," he said. Then to Mike, "Secret Service. You're getting the old red carpet treatment."
"Very impressive," Mike muttered. "Let's just hope they don't pull it out from under me."'
The guards at the White House entry had obviously been informed of their arrival. The huge iron gates swung open before them, swung closed after they had sped through. The driver circled the White House to a side entrance and came to a halt. The Secret Serviceman got out and opened the door for Mike and Frank and stood to one side, looking alertly about, in spite of the fact that they were on the White House grounds.
Frank Jones led the way to the door, which opened at their approach. Two more heavies stepped out and looked at them narrowly. However, evidently security was less here than at the building which housed Lawrence Bigelow's Bureau, to Mike's surprise. One of the two nodded at Frank Jones and said, "Hello, Frank. The President is expecting you."
He looked at Mike and said, "We were told not to speak to your companion. We don't even know his name."
Page 50
"Good," Frank said. "Let's go."
They entered the White House and started down a lengthy succession of corridors. Mike was amazed at the size of the building. He'd had no idea it was this big from the photos, newsreels and such that he had seen.
They finally reached a door which one of the Secret Service men rapped on discreetly. It was opened by what was obviously a secretary, a male secretary. Frank and Mike entered, the latter feeling slightly apprehensive. He had never met a chief of state before.
The room was obviously a minor office, rather than the President's formal one. Why they were meeting here, Mike didn't know. Possibly something to do with added security.
President Thomas Clark was seated at the desk, flanked by Lawrence Bigelow on one side, and a uniformed middle-aged man on the other. Clark, of course, was immediately recognized. A handsome, smiling, alert man, who won half his votes purely because of his beautiful TV image. His boyish grin alone captured more of the woman vote than anything of its type since Eisenhower.
And his charm went beyond physical appearance. He was every inch the politician. He came to his feet and held out a hand to Mike, enthusiastically^ "Academician Edwards," he said, and his voice was hearty. "It's a real pleasure to meet you."
Mike blinked, shook and said, "Thank you, Mr. President."
President Clark said, turning to indicate the others to each side of him, "You've met Larry Bigelow. And this is General MacHenry, of NATO. Ted, shake hands with Academician Michael J. Edwards."
The general shook. He was stereotyped to the point of looking as though he had come out of a Pentagon mold. Straight as the proverbial ramrod, graying of hair, aggressive of eye, and stern of mouth.
Inwardly, Mike Edwards thanked lucky stars that he wasn't a colonel under this one.
The President looked at the male secretary who had opened the door for the newcomers and said, "That will be all, Duncan. Under no circumstances, short of the building burning down, are we to be interrupted."
"Yes, Mr. President." Duncan turned and left.
The President seated himself again and looked at Mike and Frank. "Please be seated, gentlemen."
They found chairs.
The President said, "Shall we immediately get to cases? Larry has given me only the briefest summary of what you have in mind. Frankly, I am somewhat taken aback."
Mike said, "Sir, is there any chance, whatsoever, that this room might be bugged?"
Thomas Clark frowned at him. "Certainly not."
"We can't run any chances of what we're going to be saying leaking out. Are you bugging it yourself?
That is, is our conversation being taped?"
Page 51
The President scowled at him this time. He said, "Why, yes, of course. For my records."
Mike shook his head, somewhat surprised at his own temerity. "No, sir. How many hands does a tape cut for you go through, before all is done?"
The President cocked his head. "I see what you mean." He flicked a switch on the desk and said, into some microphone that Mike didn't even see, "There is no tape to be cut of this conversation." He turned back to Mike Edwards, "Very well, Academician. Let us proceed."
Originally, Mike Edwards had figured on a minor role for himself in the evangelistic attack on the Soviet Complex. Preferably as a missionary in the Moscow area. But it didn't work out that way. The more acceptance his basic plan received the more power was shifted into his hands Actually, at that first meeting with the President, the NATO man and Bigelow, he had been dismayed to find the extent to which they needed him. Even the President, not to speak of the other two, still operated with the old Good-Guys-Versus-the-Bad-Guys mentality. They had too little knowledge of the workings of their own politico-economic system and negative knowledge of the Soviet Complex. It was all black and white with them. He was appalled that men with as little background as this were at the head of the nation.