(1964) The Man (4 page)

Edna, realizing that Arthur Eaton was waving to someone behind her, turned, and to her surprise all the others were already in the Cabinet Room. Quickly she stepped forward to show Senator Selander and Representative Wickland to their chairs. Senator Dilman had not waited for her, but had gone off to take the place farthest from the Secretary of State and the President’s aide. It was understood by all, Edna knew, just as she herself understood it, that Dilman did not rank with the others, not even with Selander and Wickland. Although Dilman, as President pro tempore of the Senate, had been wielding the gavel since the Vice-President’s death, it was known that he held the position as a political gesture.

“Sorry to be the last!” Edna heard a voice boom out from the door. It was four-star General Pitt Fortney, the rigid, scarred Texan, pulling off his leather gloves. “SAC has been bending my ear from Omaha. It wasn’t easy to get away.” He handed his trench coat to Edna and strode to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting stiffly in it. He addressed Eaton. “Steiny had me on the phone last night. He thinks Premier Kasatkin means business. Even flew Marshal Borov in from Leningrad. Maybe the President ought to have me over there.”

Eaton appeared to look down his nose at Fortney. “I think Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner can represent the Pentagon very well, General. I am sure T. C. feels you are needed here.”

Noticing that her platinum wristwatch gave them two minutes to conference time, Edna Foster started around the Cabinet table toward Eaton and the portable loudspeaker.

Passing Representative Wickland, she saw him lean across the table and ask Talley, “What’s this about Earl MacPherson flying to Frankfurt from Buenos Aires? He was supposed to be here in Washington today.”

“Just a one-day detour,” said Talley. “The President felt you boys in the House could spare your Speaker for one more day. T. C. wanted him on hand.”

“On African economic aid legislation?”

“Probably. If T. C. tells you what’s going on, you boys in the House might not listen. If your own Speaker tells you, then you might listen. MacPherson’ll be back on the Hill tomorrow.”

Edna had taken a position behind Eaton, and was about to inform him that it was precisely seven o’clock, when the telephone rang out shrilly. Instantly the room was hushed.

Edna bent between Eaton and Talley, punched down the “On” button atop the beige loudspeaker, then she hit the “On” button above the microphone box, turned the volume to “Medium High,” and stepped away.

She reached her waiting chair and shorthand pad, beside Leach, as a far-off erratic voice came indistinctly over the loudspeaker, and then suddenly broke out loudly and clearly.

“—calling from Frankfurt am Main, this is Signal Corps Captain Foss calling from Frankfurt am Main. Do we have the White House in Washington?”

Calmly Secretary of State Eaton addressed the microphone box. “This is the White House, Captain. This is the Secretary of State. We are assembled and ready for the conference call.”

“All right, sir. The President is waiting to speak to you.” A muffled crossing of voices slapped against the loudspeaker, and then a jagged arrow of static, and at once T. C.’s hurried, bouncy, unceremonious voice was upon them in the Cabinet Room.

“Arthur, are you there?”

“Everyone is here, Mr. President. How are you? Is everything going well?”

“Never better, never better. In fact, I just this moment talked MacPherson into betting all even on Dartmouth against Princeton next month. I want you to ask Internal Revenue if my winnings are tax-free, since we made the wager in Germany. Remember to do that, Arthur.”

Everyone in the Cabinet Room laughed, hoping the laugh would be unscrambled in Frankfurt, and then settled into silence.

T. C. was coming through the loudspeaker again. “We broke up at the Roemer before noon. We’re reconvening at two. Our gang stayed over there to eat, but a few of us slipped out on the press and the rest of them, and came over here to talk it out in privacy. I’ve been sitting in this beat-up old Palace study—it’s cold as hell, Arthur—tell Edna she was smart not to come along—and I’ve been conferring with Ambassador Zwinn, and Secretary Steinbrenner, and our obliging Speaker of the House. One second, Arthur—” There was a long pause, and then T. C. was on once more. “Just said good-bye to the Ambassador—he’s heading back to Bonn—and to Steiny—he’s needed over at the Consulate. Okay, we can settle down now. There are a few problems to contend with, at once. I want to talk this over with you, and then I’ll put MacPherson on, and he can concentrate on Harvey Wickland. Incidentally, Harv, I want to let MacPherson rest here tonight, and you’ll have him back in the Speaker’s chair tomorrow.”

There was a pause, and then T. C. resumed through the loudspeaker. “Arthur—Wayne—all of you there, the problem is Premier Kasatkin. I’d forgotten what a tough bastard he can be. He seems determined to be difficult in four-letter words, except in Russian they’re forty-letter words, and my backside is aching after these last hours. I’m determined to get out of here in a few days, but I want to get out with the knowledge that I haven’t given up New York, Detroit, Los Angeles, Bombay, and Baraza City to the Muscovites for the right to stay in Berlin.”

Wayne Talley had leaned across Eaton. “T. C.,” he said into the microphone, “this is Wayne here. Is it that bad? Does Kasatkin mean it?”

Over the loudspeaker T. C.’s retort was urgent. “Does he mean it? I’m not sure. That is what we have to judge. We have to decide how far we can go with blank cartridges. That is why I wanted to consult you before trying to digest my lunch. When I go back in there this afternoon, and sit down across from our Soviet friends, I want to know what ammunition I have or should have. In other words, I’ve got to decide how far I can go in showing Kasatkin and Marshal Borov that we intend to stand firm on Baraza, support its independence, even fight for it, at the same time making it clear that we want to be reasonable and are concerned with more dangerous trouble spots and greater issues abroad. You understand?”

Listening, Presidential aide Wayne Talley displayed his pleasure, and shot a triumphant grin at Assistant Secretary Jed Stover.

Arthur Eaton was speaking in the direction of the microphone box. “What are the latest Soviet charges against us, Mr. President?”

“On Baraza?” said T. C. “A whole bill of particulars to prove the United States is becoming an aggressor in Africa, using Baraza merely as a beachhead for our eventual domination of all Africa. They argued that we manipulated Baraza’s independence in return for the promise that they would be pro-democracy and anti-Communist. Premier Kasatkin carried the ball the whole morning. He tried to prove that we did not allow Baraza to hold a fair and open election three months ago. He accused us of rigging it, and said we got our puppet, Kwame Amboko, in as President. You know what the Premier’s evidence was? That one of our old exchange programs financed Amboko’s coming to the United States fifteen years back, and this program financed his brainwashing at Harvard. Hear that, Arthur? Harvard is still giving us Princeton men trouble.” He laughed through a rising wave of static, but it was not a mirthful laugh. He went on quickly. “Premier Kasatkin pointed to Baraza’s new anti-Communist legislation, which is being debated in their Parliament. The Premier accused us of being behind it. He raved and ranted that we were bending Amboko’s arm to get the Communist Party outlawed and the cultural exchange program with Moscow stopped.”

“What evidence did the Premier present to support that charge?” Eaton asked.

“He had no concrete evidence,” replied T. C. “I could have stayed home and reread your Embassy reports, or the translations from
Pravda
, and known just as much. Kasatkin argued that the economic aid we were giving Baraza came from our government funds, and not from private enterprise, and that we had threatened to cut it off unless Amboko banned the Communist Party and the cultural exchange with Moscow. He said we were afraid of Communism in Africa, because we knew that was what the blacks wanted and needed. He said, ‘Those poor people know Communism gives them bread, while democracy gives them a vote and a Letter to the Editor.’ He’s a real smart aleck, in a sort of kulak way, and absolutely distrustful of everyone. He said not only was our money leading Amboko by the nose, but that we were also using our renewal of the African Unity Pact as a bribe. It all comes down to this—the Soviets are charging us with using Baraza as a launching pad to wipe native Communism out of Africa, so we can exploit the black population, control Baraza’s gold and iron ore. That’s the picture, my friends. It may look abstract, but it is realism, and we have to cope with it.”

“You are perfectly right, Mr. President,” Eaton was saying, “we have heard most of that before. The question is—what do the Russians specifically want of us? After all, they instigated this Frankfurt conference to iron out differences. What are they suggesting?”

T. C. snorted, and the loudspeaker sent the sound splitting across the Cabinet Room like a handclap. “What are they suggesting? Good God, Arthur, they are demanding. Yes, they are demanding that we do one of two things—you see, they say they are being reasonable, ready for compromise—that we do one of two things, either kill the African Unity Pact—the AUP—kill it in the Senate, withdraw from it—or that we use our influence, show our good intentions in Africa, by getting Baraza to drop legislation against the native Communist Party and the cultural exchange program with Moscow. There it is.”

“Why this sudden strenuous objection to AUP?” Eaton asked. “They showed only token disapproval when we first went into it.”

“Because, according to Kasatkin, when we first went into it, the Soviets regarded it as a weak paper pact, limited to three countries and promising only small economic assistance. But they consider the new AUP as a threat. They point out it involves five African nations, and guarantees our military intervention to protect those countries from aggression. The Soviets argue we’re setting up a Monroe Doctrine in Africa. They won’t sit still for another NATO—a fledgling NATO they’re labeling AUP—unless we allow their own ideology perfect freedom in Baraza. It must be one or the other, but not both.”

Representative Wickland called out toward the microphone box, “Mr. President, what if we support both measures—banning of Communism in Baraza as well as membership in the new AUP? What do you think Kasatkin would do?”

“The works, Harv, the works,” said the President. “Premier Kasatkin warned me Soviet troops would occupy West Berlin, and redouble support of their adherents in and around India and Brazil. I think he means it this time. And if he does, we’re in for a shooting war, and we’d have to fire the first shot.”

“But, Mr. President—” It was Assistant Secretary Jed Stover’s pained and trembling voice. “That’s absolute blackmail. We’re committed to AUP as well as giving Baraza the absolute right to do as it pleases, and apparently Baraza wants to curb Communism. I don’t blame Amboko. He has a new and uncertain democratic coalition. His minority of Communists are militant and dangerous. If we give in on either point, drop out of AUP or force Amboko to leave the Communists alone, the Reds might infiltrate every free nation of Africa, and control the continent in a year.”

The loudspeaker was quiet, and those waiting in the Cabinet Room were quiet, too, and at last T. C.’s reply came through the loudspeaker from distant Frankfurt. “Jed—all of you—I’m sure we understand our Soviet friends very well. We know what they want. We have to prevent them from getting it. The question is where do we stop them, and when do we see the whites of their eyes? In Baraza? I don’t think so. I’d hate to risk American lives over some godforsaken little tract of land in West Africa. I don’t want to have the distinction of having been the last President of the United States, the one who encouraged nuclear annihilation. I’m more worried about Germany, India, Brazil than I am about Africa.”

“Mr. President.” The voice had come from the far side of the coffinlike table, and it belonged to Senator Dilman, whose fingers were drumming the table nervously. “Mr. President,” he repeated, “I’m sure you are—are right—yes—but if we back away from Africa, won’t we—wouldn’t we not only lose Africa for democracy—but show the Russians we are weak? I’m not disagreeing, only I am wondering—”

“Who was that?” inquired T. C. “I don’t recognize the voice.”

“That was Senator Dilman, Mr. President,” said Arthur Eaton.

“Oh, Dilman,” said T. C. “Fine, Dilman. Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about losing Africa to anyone. Those people know we’re with them. They see our money. They see we’re really making an effort to solve the civil rights problem in the United States. As to showing any weakness to the Soviets, I’m not concerned about that either. They’ve counted our ICBMs, you can bet. They know we have muscles. No, I think we stand to gain more by showing a readiness to bargain, to give a little in order to get a little, than by being bullheaded. The question is how to proceed, how to concede with strength, how to conciliate the Russians, while reassuring the Africans we are behind them, and showing our electorate back home that we have emerged from Frankfurt with a victory, that we have preserved the peace of the world?”

Arthur Eaton edged forward in his chair. “Mr. President, what is your impression of Premier Kasatkin this time around? Do you feel that he is sincere? Do you feel that he will keep hands off in Berlin, Brazil, India, if you make a concession about Africa?”

“Oh, definitely, Arthur. No doubt about it. He’s a roughneck, and crafty, peasant crafty, but he is blunt and honest. I think he wants to live and let live, if there is no other choice. Anyway, MacPherson and I have been kicking this around, and we have come up with a possible approach. We want your opinion on the strategy. Listen carefully—”

Listening carefully, Edna Foster, seated five chairs from the loudspeaker box, crossed her legs again, ready to hook her penciled ciphers across her shorthand pad, if required to do so. Beside her, Leach stopped tapping away on the stenotype set between his legs. Since all sound in the room had ceased, Edna glanced up. The intent faces of the President’s advisers seemed to form human parentheses around the loudspeaker, as each individual prepared to concentrate on what would come next from the Chief Executive in Frankfurt.