His audience with the President took exactly eight minutes, and as he was leaving the Lincoln Room he could feel the intense stare of the Man’s eyes on his back.
The Man hadn’t believed a word, thought Webster. Why should he have? Even the truth had sounded hollow. The words had tumbled forth, expressing, if nothing else, an exhaustion that was real; but the reality was obscured by his trying to explain it. That was hollow, false.
«Maybe you’re temporarily burnt out, Bobby,» the President had suggested. «Why not take a leave of absence, see how you feel in a few weeks? The pressure gets rough; I know that.»
«No, thank you, sir,» he’d replied. «I’ve made my decision. With your permission, I’d like to make the break final. My wife isn’t happy here. I’m not either, really. We want to start raising a family. But not in Washington… I think I strayed too far from the barn, sir.»
«I see… So you really want to go back to the hinterlands, raise kids, and be able to walk the streets at night. Is that it?»
«I know it sounds corny, but I guess it is.»
«Not corny. The American dream, Bobby. Your talents have helped make it possible for millions of others. No reason why you shouldn’t have your share of the dream.»
«That’s very generous of you, sir.»
«No, you’ve sacrificed. You must be damned forty now …»
«Forty-one.»
«Forty-one and still no children …»
«There just wasn’t the time.»
«No, of course, there wasn’t. You’ve been very dedicated. And your lovely wife.»
Webster knew then that the Man was toying with him; he didn’t know why. The President didn’t like his wife.
«She’s been very helpful.» Webster felt he owed his wife that, selfish bitch or no.
«Good luck, Bobby. I don’t think you’ll need luck, though. You’re very resourceful.»
«Working here has opened a lot of doors, Mr. President. I have you to thank for that.»
«That pleases me… And reminds me, there’s a revolving door in the lobby, isn’t there?»
«What, sir?»
«Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s unimportant … Good-bye, Bobby.»
Robert Webster carried the last of his checked-out effects to his car in the west parking lot. The President’s cryptic remark bothered him, but there was relief in knowing that it wasn’t necessary to dwell on it. He didn’t have to; he didn’t care. No longer would he have to analyze and reanalyze a hundred cryptic remarks every time he or the office faced a problem. It was more than relief; he felt a sense of exhilaration. He was out of it.
Oh, Christ, what a magnificent feeling!
He pulled his car up to the sentry box by the gate and waved at the guard. It would be the last time. Tomorrow morning the gate would get the word. Robert Webster was no longer a fixture at the White House, his plastic pass with the sharp photograph and the brief description of his identifying marks no longer valid. Even the guards would ask questions. He was always polite and cheerful with the White House detachment. He never knew when it might be necessary to stretch a time-out check at either end. Cop a little extra time for himself; no big deal, just a few minutes—ten or fifteen, perhaps—so he could «belt down an extra martini» or «avoid some son-of-a-bitch.» The gate was always cooperative. They couldn’t understand why someone like Bobby Webster ever worried about check-outs, but they accepted his bitchy comments about ducking this or that meeting. What the hell, they had their lousy inspections; Webster had his lousy meetings. Besides, he got them autographs.
How many slightly altered check-outs had there been? How many times had he managed those invaluable extra minutes in which startling information would come over the Teletype—information he’d use but be perfectly capable of proving he could not have received.
The Operator.
Everything slightly altered. For Genessee Industries.
No more. The Operator was out of business.
He sped off down Pennsylvania Avenue, oblivious to the car, a gray Pontiac, that took up the position behind him.
Inside the gray Pontiac, the driver turned to his companion.
«He’s going too fast. He’s liable to get a ticket.»
«Don’t lose him.»
«Why not? It doesn’t make any difference.»
«Because Gallabretto said so! That makes the difference. Every minute we know where he is, who he meets.»
«It’s all a lot of shit. There’s no contract till he gets to Ohio. To Akron, Ohio. Pick him up easy there.»
«If Willie Gallabretto says we stay on, we stay on. I used to work for Gallabretto’s uncle. Look what happened to him.»
Ambassador William Hill paused in front of a framed, autographed cartoon on the wall of his study. It depicted a spindly-legged «Big Billy» as a puppeteer holding strings tied to small recognizable models of past presidents and secretaries of state. The puppeteer was smiling, pleased that the puppets were dancing to the tune of his choice, the written notes of which were ballooned above his head.
«Did you know, Mr. President, that it was a full year after this abomination appeared that I learned the music was ‘Ring-Around-the-Rosy’?»
The President laughed from across the room, seated in the heavy leather armchair that was his usual spot when visiting the Ambassador. «Your artist friend wasn’t very kind to the rest of us. He added injury to insult. If I remember correctly, the last line of that ditty is ‘all fall down.’»
«It was years ago. You weren’t even in the Senate then. He wouldn’t have dared to include you anyway.» Hill walked over to the chair opposite the President and sat down. «If I remember correctly, this is where Trevayne was seated when last here. Perhaps I’ll have some psychic flashes.»
«Are you sure it wasn’t in this chair? I wasn’t with you then.»
«No, I recall. As most people who’ve been here with the two of us, he avoided that chair. Afraid of being presumptuous, I think.»
«He may be overcoming his shyness …» The telephone rang on Hill’s table-desk, cutting the President’s words short.
«Very well, Mr. Smythe. I’ll tell him. Thank you.»
«Jack Smythe?» asked the President.
«Yes. Robert Webster and his wife left on the Cleveland flight. Everything’s fine. That was the message.»
«Good.»
«May I ask what it means?»
«Certainly. Surveillance showed that Bobby’s been followed since leaving the White House gate two nights ago. I was worried about him. And curious, of course.»
«So was somebody else.»
«Probably for the same reason. Intelligence identified one of the men as a small-time leg-man, a ‘shadow,’ I think we called it in comic-book jargon… He didn’t have any more to report than our people did. Webster didn’t meet with anyone, see anyone, but the movers.»
«Telephone?»
«Airline reservations and a brother in Cleveland who’ll drive Bobby and his wife down to Akron… Oh, and a Chinese restaurant. Not a very good one.»
«Probably filled with Chinamen.» Hill laughed softly as he returned to the chair. «He knows nothing about the Trevayne situation?»
«I don’t know. All I know is, he’s running. Maybe he told the truth. He said he strayed too far from the barnyard, that it all became too much.»
«I don’t believe it.» Hill leaned his gaunt frame forward on the chair. «What about Trevayne? Would you like me to bring him in for a chat?»
«Oh, Billy! You and your goddamn puppet strings. I come over for a quiet chat, a restful drink, and you keep bringing up business.»