Acts of Mercy (13 page)

As he entered, Elizabeth Miller was saying, “Do you want me to have a steward bring us some coffee, Mrs. Augustine?” Claire nodded, started to retreat into the drawing room. Harper called, “Mrs. Augustine,” and she stopped and seemed to stiffen, turning her head to look at him. Elizabeth paused, as if there was something she wanted to say to Harper, but he moved past her without a glance. He did not particularly care for the woman: she was another cipher like Justice.

His first thought as he came to Claire was that even the marks of fatigue did not detract from her beauty. But then his eyes met hers—and what he saw reflected there reversed his smile into a startled frown.

It was something that might have been fear.

She looked past him at the secretary, said sharply, “Don’t just stand there, Elizabeth, see about the coffee,” and then put her eyes on him again as Elizabeth Miller left the car.

Harper began, “Mrs. Augustine—”

“I haven’t time to talk now ...”

“But I was just—”

“Please, not now,” she said, and before he could speak again she stepped back and pushed the door shut. Its lock clicked an instant later, like a protective barrier being snapped into place.

Nonplussed, Harper stood alone in the corridor and listened to the monotonous rhythm of the train’s wheels, to the uneasy rhythm of his thoughts. Her reactions to him were sometimes mutable, yes, but never before had she seemed frightened of him. Her attitude just now made no sense. Why should she be afraid of him, of all people?

Why should she be afraid of
him?

In his small compartment in the security’s Pullman, Justice sat trying to read the copy of
Murder on the Calais Coach
he had bought in Washington. And finding it dull and uninteresting. It was not the book itself, though; he knew he would have the same reaction to any mystery novel he tried to read today. After what he had done with Briggs’s body last night, the fictional exploits of criminals and detectives—the imaginary dilemmas of imaginary people—took on a kind of pallid irrelevency.

Justice closed the book, rubbed at his tired eyes. Why hadn’t Briggs been found? he asked himself again. He had been waiting for that to happen all day, and yet it hadn’t or word would have come to the President immediately. Somebody had to find the body before long, that seemed sure: there were colleagues at the White House who would question his unexplained absence from work, friends who might investigate when appointments were not kept.

And when Briggs
was
found, what then? Had he overlooked something after all in the Cleveland Park house that would tell the homicide detectives and the forensic experts that the press secretary had not died in his bathroom? If so, would they then suspect foul play? Christ, Justice thought, that would make things even worse for the President than if they had simply reported the death at the White House. The ultimate irony: an accidental death manipulated and mishandled so badly that it was thought of as homicide.

But even if anything like that happened, the trail could lead only to him. Where it would end because he would never reveal the truth, would never betray the President or his oath of silence.

Justice raised the novel again, looked at the spine, and then tossed it onto the seat opposite without reopening it. He wondered if he should go out of there, find something or someone to occupy his time and his mind. A drink in the club car, or a predinner snack from the buffet in the dining car, or a nap, or a look at the view from the observation platform, or conversation with some of the other Secret Service agents. Only none of these things appealed to him. He did not feel like doing anything at all.

After a time he slid over next to the window, watched inanimate objects appear and disappear outside as the train sped northeast out of Los Angeles. Even the pleasure he usually felt at being on the Presidential Special was absent; he was merely riding on a transportation vehicle, like Air Force One earlier, that was taking him from one point to another. Taking all of them to The Hollows again as it had so many times in the past.

When would Briggs be found?

Had
he overlooked something in the Cleveland Park house that would make the police suspect foul play?

And the fear that had been born last night remained lodged like a bone inside him. The fear that did not yet have a name.

There was a light but insistent rapping on the office door. Augustine was on his feet, about to approach the bar cabinet again because he had finished his drink and decided to permit himself a refill. He frowned as the knocking continued. Maxwell already? Well all right, he might as well get that over with; he felt relaxed enough now to deal with a lecture, if that was what Harper intended to deliver.

He went to the door and drew it open. But it was not Harper who stood outside.

It was Julius Wexford.

Augustine stared at him, unable to understand for an instant how Wexford could be here. When he had thought at all about the attorney general in the past forty-eight hours, he had had him compartmentalized with the National Committee in Saint Louis. And Wexford had not been at Union Station in Los Angeles when Augustine boarded the train; he must have arrived afterward, just before departure.

“Hello, Nicholas,” Wexford said gravely. His suit was rumpled and he had a harried, bleak-eyed look about him. But there was none of the nervousness he had shown two days ago in the Oval Office; his florid face was dry and his eyes were steady and resolute. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“May I come in?”

“I suppose you might as well.”

Augustine moved aside to let him enter, reclosed the door. Wexford glanced at the red-velvet settee, glanced at the empty glass the President held, and then stood as if waiting for an invitation to sit down, an offer of a drink. Augustine gave him neither. Instead he went to his desk, set the glass down on it, rested a hip against its outer edge, and folded his arms across his chest.

“All right, Julius,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

“I received word early this morning that you were on your way to California, so I took the first available plane out of Saint Louis.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“There are things that have to be resolved,” Wexford said. “Now, not whenever you decide to return to Washington.”

“Cabinet business?”

“No. You know perfectly well what things I mean.”

“I gave you my decision on Wednesday,” Augustine said. He could feel his nerves tightening again. “The issue is closed.”

The gentle sway of the train seemed to bother Wexford; he was prone, Augustine knew, to mild motion sickness. He backed over to the settee and sat on it with his hands splayed out on both sides of him, as though bracing himself. “I wonder if you realize,” he said solemnly, “just how much trouble we’re in right now.”

“
We’re
in?”

“Yes. You, me, all of us in the party.”

“The way I see it, the only ones in trouble are you and your friends. I’d fire you right now, publicly, except that an open split won’t do me any good. When I’m reelected I intend to make that my first priority.”

“You’re not going to be reelected, Nicholas, because you’re not going to be renominated.”

“Oh yes I am. I’m in better shape than Johnson was in 1968 and
he
would have been renominated. I’m in infinitely better shape than Truman was in 1948 and he
won.
An incumbent president can’t be denied the renomination of his own party if he wants it badly enough. And I want it that badly.”

“You’re not going to get it,” Wexford said. He took a heavy breath. “I won’t mince words this time; I’ll just give you the hard-line truth. You’re losing credibility faster than any president in history, including Nixon. The media is saying it and the polls show it. In the past few weeks you’ve mishandled domestic affairs, you’ve lost all perspective on foreign policy and managed to alienate the Israelis and the Jewish electorate and to embarrass the Vice-President, and you come out here to California two or three times a month like Nixon in his last days running off to Key Biscayne or San Clemente. There’s no indication that you’re even maintaining an appearance of the presidency any longer. You’re harming the country and destroying yourself politically, and that’s bad enough; but you’re also dragging the party down with you, jeopardizing the careers of dozens of good men who are up for national and state reelection in five months.”

Bile burned in Augustine’s throat; he felt himself trembling. “That’s quite a speech,” he said thinly.

“I’m sorry, Nicholas, but it had to be said. You’re a decent man and for most of your term you’ve been viable. But you’re not the same person you were even six months ago. I hate to say this, but you seem to be suffering from some sort of mental deterioration and plunging toward a complete neurasthenic collapse—”

“Bullshit.”

Wexford looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Nicholas, but that’s the way it looks to me and to a lot of others.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t,” Wexford said, and raised his eyes again. “The point of all this is that the National Committee has decided—unanimously—to ask for party unity behind Kineen and there’s not much doubt now that we’ll be able to get it. There are quite a few angry people in this administration.”

“So you’re here to demand an immediate statement of withdrawal,” Augustine said. “Demand it, not ask for it.”

“We’d settle for that, yes.”

“Settle for it?”

“The party wants you to resign,” Wexford said.

Augustine went rigid.

Wexford said quickly, “It would turn public opinion around, you must see that. You’d go out on an act of strength and courage, you’d create sympathy and respect and you’d give the party the leverage we need to mend fences, restore confidence and put Kineen in the White House. Conroy is an intelligent man, he won’t have any difficulty assuming Executive matters until—”

“You son of a bitch,” Augustine said, “how dare you come onto my train and accuse me of heading toward a mental breakdown and then tell me to resign? How dare you tell me I’m not fit to continue as President of the United States?”

“Nicholas ...”

Augustine came forward until he was standing two feet from Wexford, towering over him. Intimidated, Wexford drew back; he moistened his lips and put a hand up and started to speak.

Furiously Augustine cut him off. “Don’t you think I understand what’s really behind all this? The media starts blowing statements and actions all out of proportion, the polls reflect a temporary confusion among the populace, and right away front-runners like you begin believing things are going downhill because I’m losing control. You convince yourselves I’m to blame for
all
the country’s troubles and
all
the party’s troubles, and the only hope is for me to resign or at least to withdraw. Throw me to the wolves, let them feed on my bones, and meanwhile it’s business as usual. Who the hell cares if my good name and my career die in ignominy? Who the hell cares if everything I’ve tried to do and have done winds up in ashes just so long as the goddamn party can run a whitewash?”

Wexford struggled to his feet, backed two steps away from Augustine. “That’s not true,” he said. “None of that is true—”

“It’s true, all right, and I’m not going to sit still for it. You hear me? I won’t resign, I won’t withdraw. You go back to Saint Louis tomorrow and tell them that—first thing tomorrow, right after we arrive at The Hollows station. I don’t want you at the ranch; I don’t want to see you anywhere except in Washington on urgent cabinet matters. Is that clear?”

Tight-lipped, Wexford said, “I’m warning you, Nicholas, if you keep on this way you’ll wind up broken and humiliated.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

“It will happen,” Wexford said grimly, “because it’ll be all gloves off. If you force us to take harsh measures to keep the party in power, we’re prepared to do it.”

“Are you threatening me, Julius?”

“No. I’m just telling you you mustn’t and you won’t be renominated. For the good of all of us.”

“Personalities, smear tactics?” Augustine said. “Would you really go that far?”

“I hope to God you don’t make me find out.” Wexford turned to the door, opened it, stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll be in my compartment if you want to talk again after you’ve calmed down a little—”

Augustine caught the door and slammed it shut.

Bastard, he thought. Bastard! And went immediately to the bar cabinet to pour himself another drink.

Harper let a full forty minutes pass before he left his compartment and went again to the President’s office. When he knocked on the satinwood panel there were several seconds of silence, and then Augustine’s voice said thickly, “Who is it?”