Читать книгу The Last President - Michael Kurland - Страница 8

CHAPTER FOUR

Edward St. Yves’ appearance revealed nothing about the inner man. Not that he was nondescript. He was, if anything, too descript. His light-brown hair was kept closely and meticulously cropped, and massaged several times a day with a pair of military brushes. His angular face was well tanned except for the thin white line of an ancient scar running under his right eye. His mustache was neat and thin, and looked as though each hair had been carefully ironed into place. From a distance he gave the illusion of being quite tall, although he was of average height.

He seemed to have complete run of the White House and the Executive Office Building, although few people in the EOB knew precisely what he did. He was liable to show up at any office at any time and make some strange request of its occupant. If the requests were checked, they were always found to have been approved from on high, although he never cited higher authority, but merely demanded what he demanded as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was Kit’s first day back at the job after a two-week trip to Maine with Miriam, where they had holed up in her parents’ summer cabin. St. Yves appeared at the door to Kit’s office on the second floor of the EOB shortly after ten o’clock. “You Kit Young?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Kit said.

“I’m St. Yves. You free for lunch?” He barked out the question and stared intently at Kit, waiting for the answer.

“Yes,” Kit said.

“Good. We’ll eat together. I’ll buy. Things to talk about. Pick me up at my office at twelve-thirty. Room Sixteen.”

“I know.”

“’Course you do. Twelve-thirty.” And with a curt nod, he strode off down the corridor.

Which left Kit with a shade over two hours to catch up with all the scut work that no one else had bothered to do in his absence, and wonder what the hell St. Yves wanted to see him about. Room Sixteen, the Special Intelligence Unit, was popularly known within the Executive Branch as “the Plumbers,” or the Dirty Tricks Unit, and St. Yves was reputed to be in charge.

Kit took the logbook for classified documents that was his responsibility and spent the next hour and a half wandering from office to office, verifying that the last person signing for each document was, in fact, currently in possession of it. Then he went to the interoffice loan vault, where documents on loan to the White House from the various intelligence agencies were stored. There he spent the next half hour checking red-and-gray-covered documents against the list, and was pleased to find that they were all there. Nothing was less fun than searching the corners of the White House and the Executive Office Building for a document that some executive assistant borrowed from some assistant secretary and then shoved in the back of a desk drawer and forgot about.

At twelve-thirty sharp Kit showed up at the door to room sixteen. A thin, hawk-faced woman met him at the door. “You’re Kit Young,” she said, holding out a slender, well-manicured hand. “I’m Dianna Holroyd. That’s with two n’s. I’m executive secretary and den mother for this group. Mr. St. Yves asked me to tell you he’ll be a few moments.”

“What’s happening?” Kit asked, gesturing into the office, where workmen were moving filing cabinets and ripping telephones from the wall with chaotic efficiency.

“We’re expanding,” Dianna told him. “Part of our operation is moving across town, and the rest is taking over most of this hallway.”

“What’s happening to the Vice-President’s press office?” Kit asked, amused at the constant game of musical chairs that went on in the EOB.

“That’s moving into the President’s Counsel’s office. The President’s Counsel is moving across the street into the White House. I don’t know whose office he’s getting.”

“Fascinating,” Kit said sincerely.

“It’s like dominoes,” Dianna agreed, smiling. She was very pretty when she smiled.

“Greetings!” St. Yves said, appearing from behind a moving file cabinet. “We got our marching orders this morning, and so we march. Into bigger digs. The SIU takes on new functions, grows with the times. You hungry?”

Kit admitted to hunger, and St. Yves shepherded him upstairs and out onto Seventeenth Street. As they walked over to the nearby restaurant, St. Yves kept up a steady stream of small talk. He had led an adventurous life, traveled all over the world, and spoke with equal facility of Kathmandu and of Paris. His stories were sprinkled with the names of heads of state, movie stars, authors, rich men, wise men, beautiful women, traitors, spies, and assassins, all of whom he knew well or had been closely associated with.

Kit learned two things from the conversation: first, that St. Yves was at least ten years older than he looked, and, second, that St. Yves wanted something from him. What it could be, he had no idea, but he was sure that before the meal was over St. Yves would let him know.

The Sans Souci was the in-place for those few in official Washington that knew, or cared about, good food. Since Dr. Gildruss, the President’s Adviser for International Affairs, was such good copy, the Sans Souci had been mentioned several times in various newspaper columns and news magazines. Now it was becoming the in-place for those who wanted to be seen eating in the in-place. This had not, as of yet, St. Yves assured Kit as he ushered him through the doors, affected the food.

“And,” St. Yves said, “it’s a good place to talk, because it’s so fucking public nobody pays any attention to you.”

The maître d’ placed them at a table along the far wall and St. Yves talked Kit through the menu: “The coquilles St. Jacques isn’t bad; a little rich, perhaps. Keep away from the tournedos. The chef makes béarnaise as though he were dueling with the saucepan. Do you like veal? The veal is superb. I’m going to have the sweetbreads myself. This is the only place west of the Avenue Georges Cinque where they really know how to handle sweetbreads.”

Kit, whose idea of lunch was a cheeseburger, no fries, and a vanilla malted, studied the menu intently while St. Yves continued his guided tour of the entrees. When the waiter came over, Kit, in a spirit of rebellion, ordered a small steak, medium rare.

“The ris de veau a la maréchale, Charles,” St. Yves ordered, closing his menu and tapping it thoughtfully on the table. “With a small salade maison to begin—not on the side, you understand, but before—and perhaps a bottle of the Haut Brion sixty-seven.”

Charles nodded, extracted the menus, and went off. St. Yves leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared at Kit. “We don’t know much about you,” he said.

“Who’s we?” Kit asked. “And what do you want to know?” He suddenly felt very much on the defensive. St. Yves had that effect on people.

“Oh, we know all the usual stuff,” St. Yves said, picking up a fork and revolving it over and over between his hands. “Your birth date, your schooling, college grades, extracurricular activities, the first girl you ever laid, all that stuff. You’re a patriotic, loyal American. But of course with your background you’re not old enough to be anything else. The closest thing to a subversive in your family is your Uncle Harry.”

“Uncle Harry?” Kit asked.

“Right. Your mother’s older brother. He joined the Young People’s Socialist League in 1932. Didn’t you know?”

“No. The subject never came up.” Kit now had no idea of what was going on. What could St. Yves want to know that wasn’t already in his file?

St. Yves focused his attention on Kit. “What we want to know are your political beliefs,” he said, lacing his long, slender fingers together under his chin. “Your concept of where this country is headed, what its goals should be, and what you feel you should do about it. What I’m asking you, I suppose, is what you think it means to be an American. If this sounds too patriotic, or any bullshit like that, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think patriotism is bullshit,” Kit said. “I think sometimes it’s misplaced, and goes over into chauvinism.”

St. Yves looked warily at Kit. “Who’d you vote for in November?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course.”

“I will tell you,” Kit said. “I didn’t vote.”

“Is that straight?” St. Yves said, sounding surprised. “You live in the most political town in the world, work for the President, and you didn’t vote?”

“That’s right. I feel I have to remain completely non-political. I have to do my job honestly and fairly, no matter what party’s in power and no matter who’s elected president. So I don’t want to get involved with the process to the point that it would matter to me.”

St. Yves put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned back. “That’s probably the most naive political philosophy I’ve heard espoused since I left the third grade.”

“You asked me and I told you,” Kit said, the annoyance showing in his voice. “I guess the basic fact is that I’m not that interested in the political process. Most politicians, as far as I can tell, are either idiots or crooks, and yet they keep getting voted back into office. And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it either way.”

“Don’t get pissed,” St. Yves said. “I didn’t mean to sound disapproving. I just wanted to find out whether you’re for us or against us.”

“Us?”

“The President.”

“I think he’s a good man, and I think he has guts. Going to China took guts.”

“Right,” St. Yves said. “Hes a gutsy guy. Ah!” The conversation died out while they paused to watch the maître d’ compose a salade and place it in front of St. Yves. “A chef d’oeuvre as always, Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled and left, to be replaced a few seconds later by a tall man with a blond crew cut who paused in front of the table. “Edward! How are you?”

St. Yves looked up from the salad which was commanding all of his attention. “Mr. Vandermeer.” He pushed back his chair.

“No, no,” Vandermeer said, “don’t get up. Tell you what, I’ll sit down for a minute.” And, pulling a chair out from the next table, he turned it the wrong way and straddled it, leaning forward across the bentwood back. “You must be Kit Young,” he said, staring at Kit through his steel-rimmed glasses. “Billy Vandermeer.” He stuck out his hand to be shaken.

Kit took Vandermeer’s hand and received a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “A pleasure,” Kit said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Uriah “Billy” Vandermeer was the mystery man of the administration. When the President had taken office, Vandermeer’s position had seemed no more important than that of an appointment clerk. But now, with the second term about to begin, and Vandermeer the chairman of the newly created Domestic Council, even Cabinet officers had to check with Billy to get in to see the President. And instructions from Billy were the closest most staffers got to orders from the President. A shadowy figure, often ignored by the press, he was the man who got things done; he and Charlie Ober, head of OMB, more than any other men, held the reins of power in the White House.

“As it happens,” Vandermeer said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’ve been meaning to thank you personally for the help you gave us over at the Second District Police Station over that business at the Watergate.”

“I was just doing my job.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and even as he said it Kit realized it sounded inane.

Vandermeer leaned forward, pushing the chair over until the back was resting against the table. “That may be, and it says a lot about you that you feel that way, but you did that job very well. All cleaned up, and without a ripple. And now you’re going to be working for us, and I’m glad to have you aboard.”

Obviously it hadn’t sounded as inane to Vandermeer as it did to Kit. And now he was going to be working for them? For whom had he been working for the past six months?

“Excuse me,” Vandermeer said, and he jumped up, most upsetting the chair, and waved at a slim blonde girl who had just appeared in the entrance and was looking around. “My daughter,” he explained. She waved back and started toward them, maneuvering between the crowded tables with the unconscious grace of a Borzoi. Her long blonde hair cascaded off her shoulders and down the back of the tan shirtwaist dress that clearly had not been bought within a thousand miles of Washington, D.C.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, reaching the table and giving her head a shake to settle her hair back into place.

“Hi, love,” Vandermeer said. “Gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Kathy. Kathy, this is Edward St. Yves and Christopher Young.”

Kathy gave St. Yves her hand. “Mr. St. Yves,” she said, her eyes opening wide, “my father has told me a lot about you.”

St. Yves laughed. “If the things he’s said about me are only half as nice as the things he’s told me about you, then ‘One may not doubt that somehow, good shall come of water and of mud’.”

Kathy’s face lit up with a bright, wide smile. “‘Somewhere, beyond space and time’,” she said, “‘is wetter water, slimier slime!’”

“I’ve always thought so,” St. Yves agreed, deadpan.

Vandermeer looked from St. Yves to his daughter. “What are you two babbling about?” he demanded.

“Oh, Dad,” Kathy said. “It’s only Rupert Brooke. Only one of the greatest poets who ever wrote in English.”

“I’m glad you recognized the poem,” St. Yves said, “since he’s one of my favorites, too. Which makes it a special pleasure to meet you. Your father never mentioned that you were coming to Washington.”

“He didn’t know,” Kathy said.

“Complete surprise to me,” Vandermeer said. “I thought she’d be starting college in September. But instead she applied for this Senate Junior Aide program—where they let teenagers work their young, ah, fingers off for next to no pay for some senator so they can learn about government. She got an appointment with Senator Jensen, and I didn’t know a thing about it. Starting with the January session. All on her own.” He shook his head. “Won it in a competitive examination in her school system. They didn’t even know who she was; she uses her mother’s name, you know.”

“It must sound horribly silly to you gentlemen,” Kathy said. “But believe me, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to a girl from Grand Rapids.”

“She’s going to live in a dormitory with the other junior aides,” Vandermeer said. “But she’s promised to come have dinner with me at least twice a week. And what more can you ask of a daughter? And, speaking of food, we must get to our own table.”

Kathy raised her hand in farewell. “‘Immense, of fishy form and mind’,” she said. “‘Squamous, omnipotent and kind.’ I hope to see you again. You too,” she added to Kit. Then she dashed off behind her father.

“Youthful enthusiasm,” St. Yves said, staring at her retreating form. “Lovely girl. Vandermeer must be very proud of her.”

“He and his wife are separated?” Kit asked.

“Divorced,” St. Yves said.

“Ahem,” said the waiter, appearing at the table. “I didn’t wish to interrupt. Shall I serve?”

“Yes, bring on the food. My young friend here must be starved.”

The waiter brought their lunch, and they ate in silence until St. Yves placed his knife and fork neatly together on his empty plate. “As you may have gathered,” he told Kit, “we’d like you to work with us.”

“You mean you people in Room Sixteen? What would you like me to do?”

“Officially you’ll stay in your present job, and keep your present job title,” St. Yves said. “But you’ll have an assistant to do all the rote work that keeps you busy now. We want you to be liaison for plans and procurement between our group and CIA and Defense. Are you interested?”

Kit shrugged and nodded. “Sure. If that’s what the President wants me to do. I’m getting tired of checking the locks on safe doors anyway.”

“It was never intended that you should stay in that job,” St. Yves said. “But the reelection was everybody’s first concern, and we had to get that done and out of the way before some of our other plans could go into operation.”

TRANSCRIPT: AMERICA WANTS TO KNOW (excerpt) Sunday, January 21, 1973

A live telecast from our nation’s capital interviewing the newsmakers—and the decisionmakers—of the day. Today’s interview is with Nelson H. Greener, president of the newly formed Institute for an Informed America.

Interviewers: Daniel Gores of the Baltimore Sun. Susanne Witclair of the Hearst syndicate. Ian Faulkes of the British MacPherson News Syndicate. Moderated by George Brownworthy.

Brownworthy: Welcome to America Wants to Know, Dr. Greener. Could you start by giving us a little of the background of the Institute for an Informed America?

Greener: Well, Mr. Brownworthy, strictly speaking, of course, there is no background on the institute. We are a brand-new organization. Our history, as the saying goes, lies ahead of us.

Brownworthy: Yes, but what are the roots of the institute? How was it formed, and what will its function and, ah, purpose be?

Greener: The Institute for an Informed America was formed because a group of concerned citizens felt that the opinions and attitudes of the great majority of Americans—what our president has called the Silent Majority—were not being given proper weight in the halls of government.

The institute will function as a research facility and information outlet for those of conservative views in the government and outside, much as the Brookings Institute serves the liberal establishment.

Brownworthy: Miss Witclair.

Witclair: What sort of activities is the institute going to engage in, Dr. Greener? Will you only be working for the government?

Greener: Our goal is to assure that Americans have access to all sides of significant issues. We will work for the administration, we will work for private individuals, and, if we see an area that would be desirable to explore, we will be free to initiate the research on our own. We plan to prepare reports on subjects of vital interest to the citizens of this country. We will sponsor debates and seminars, and maintain a speakers’ bureau of experts on issues of interest to conservatives. We will always endeavor to represent the average citizen—the great Silent Majority out there in America’s heartland—and not merely the bunch of effete intellectual snobs that make up the East Coast establishment.

Brownworthy: Mr. Faulkes.

Faulkes: Does that mean you’ll be mainly a propaganda outlet, pushing the conservative viewpoint as the answer to all problems?

Greener: Now, I don’t think that’s a fair question, Mr. Faulkes. The institute staff will bring their intellectual resources to bear on our problems in the spirit of open, fair, scientific enquiry, with no preconceived formula or solution.

Brownworthy: Mr. Faulkes.

Faulkes: Then the institute will stick mainly to the intellectual approach to problems, preparing studies and position papers, that sort of thing?

Greener: By no means. Besides the research facilities, our organization will include film crews for documentary work, public-relations people, media people, psychologists, and experts in such diverse fields as drug abuse, agriculture, prison reform, education, city planning, and oceanography. All of whom will be working in these areas on a day-to-day basis. No, the Institute for an Informed America will get into areas that would astound you.