Stone 588 (20 page)

"No matter, Libby stuck by her. My mother had me. She died having me. She's buried in Greenwich in the Hopkins-Hull Crypt. I go there every so often and think how much her presence must perturb those bluenoses lying around her."

"Does it sadden you to talk about her?" Springer asked.

"Not really. Perhaps that sounds callous, but I never knew Gillian Croft, never grieved over her. To me she's just a name, an image in some snapshots Libby showed me. As far as being illegitimate is concerned, I believe it's rather romantic. A child of passion, that's me."

She popped another malt ball into her mouth and extended her nude body to the television set. She turned up the volume for the music that Astaire was now soft-shoeing to.

The following day was a sunny one.

Not a cloud.

Springer, Audrey, and Jake spent the morning watching Ling Ling the panda sit cutely on her hairy rump and with delicate deftness peel and devour bamboo shoots. In the early afternoon they browsed Georgetown shops up Wisconsin Avenue. Several times Springer stopped at pay phones and dialed Norman's number, was told each time by an answering service voice that the doctor was not in, had not called in, and his whereabouts at the moment were not known. Springer felt it was damn thoughtless of Norman, knowing they were in town, not to leave word.

They returned to the hotel at three. Their flight reservations were for four thirty. Norman was waiting in the hotel lobby. He had arrived just moments earlier. Springer noticed immediately that Norman needed a shave, was wearing the same clothes, shirt and all, that he'd had on the day before. He took it as evidence of a tough night spent doctoring and lost his intention to come down on him.

Norman drove them to the airport. On the way he paid a lot of light-hearted-uncle-type attention to Jake and flirted with Audrey. He was a terrible driver. For him the traffic he could see out the windshield was all that mattered. Whatever was alongside or behind was not yet to be reckoned with. He parked the car with its MD plates in an airport no standing zone and went with them to the boarding gate.

There he took Springer aside and gave him the stone. "Hardly more than an ordinary pebble," he said, stressing its inconsequentialness with an amused smile.

"For sure?"

"I thoroughly checked it out ... on a couple of cases. Believe me, it's nothing."

Springer accepted that with a nod. He pocketed the stone and went aboard the flight. Norman waited at the window while the 727 undocked and pulled away. He searched the plane's windows for their faces, smiled, and waved in case they were seeing him.

From the airport Norman drove to O Street in Georgetown. The houses along there were three to five stories, red brick and white trim. Narrow older houses side against side, long ago done with their settling. It was a charming, choice area. Mid-block on the north side of the street was where Tom Longmire lived.

Longmire answered the door before Norman could ring the bell. Must have seen him coming. A longtime acquaintance, Norman closed the door after himself and took off his suit jacket as he followed Longmire up the narrow carpeted stairs to the third-floor study.

The study was in the rear of the house, its tall federal windows nearly brushed by the topmost leaves of a lacy locust. It was a small room, given character by a clutter of books and memorabilia. Framed photographs—none really personal, mostly Longmire with recognizable politicians past and present, one with Margaret Thatcher, another with Giscard d'Estaing, a few with movie stars—hung on the walls or were propped around like spectators. The warmth that all the books and mementos should have created wasn't there. The atmosphere was transient, cool. Dust coated all but the most frequently used and obvious surfaces, giving away a slapdash housekeeper. A worthwhile mahogany table served as a bar. Its gold-tooled Moroccan-leather top was discolored by alcohol.

Norman poured himself an ample drink, peeked into the lidded brass ice bucket.

"No ice," Longmire said. "I forgot to put the trays in." He had a tall red drink in hand that appeared to be a Bloody Mary but was plain V-8 juice. He said he'd just returned from a jog along the canal, had on a gray sweat suit with a black towel wrapped around his neck. He didn't look as if he'd jogged much. If at all. The getup might have been merely to impress Norman, his doctor, who had recommended aerobic exercise.

Longmire was an Assistant Secretary of State. He had been with the Department for thirty years and doubted he'd ever go higher. Now the reward was a matter of how much importance was placed on him and, of course, from how high up the well-dones came. When he wanted he could be a very proficient scene stealer. He gave the opposite impression. An ordinary appearance was one of Longmire's stocks in trade. He was a medium person: medium height, medium weight, medium everything down to the width of his shoes. He usually wore frameless eyeglasses. For the past two years he had been assigned to make announcements to the press—when, for instance, one of America's overseas embassies had been bombed or one or more of its diplomats assassinated. Longmire didn't consciously wish anyone ill, though if there were more of that, more of the television lights and firing of questions, more opportunities to look the world right in its camera eye and say, "No further comment will be made at this time," he would have enjoyed it.

Now, ambidextrously, left fingers to left foot, right to right, he tugged loose the laces of his running shoes and paired them precisely on the floor beside his chair. "They'll probably give you a citation. Secret, of course."

A sardonic grunt from Norman. He gulped Scotch.

"At the very least, from now on you should be having dinner at the White House twice a week," Longmire said lightly. "By the way, what was the diagnosis?"

"Acute gastritis."

"On the record."

"That's it."

"What about the other medical records, the ones that were being kept?"

"Destroyed."

"You saw them being destroyed?"

"I handed them over to McDermott and he said they would be."

"EKGs and all?"

"Yeah."

"Every scrap?"

"Every scrap."

"What about the film?"

"I assume McDermott—"

"McDermott's reliable. But perhaps you should have shredded or burned everything yourself."

"Then my trustworthiness would have been questioned," Norman remarked.

"You're bitter about it, aren't you?"

Norman didn't reply. He knocked down the Scotch in his glass and went for a refill.

"Reputation is a commodity," Longmire said.

"As is pig iron." The Scotch was getting to Norman. All he'd had to eat was a pear and a few grapes about three that morning—from the bowl of fruit the President's wife had arranged.

"You save the life of someone who is not just someone and can't take credit for it. Must make you feel like shit."

"I feel like shit, but that's not the reason."

"Credit should go where it's due."

"Exactly," Norman said ambiguously.

Longmire knew he would have felt just as embittered under the circumstances. He'd do his best to pull Norman out of this funk, be more genuinely sympathetic. He got up and clicked on the stereo player, chose a cassette at random that turned out to be Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1 in E-flat Major. Just right, lively. He adjusted the volume so the music would be dominant over their voices. That way Norman might tire of complaining a bit sooner.

Norman was again at the bar. "No more Scotch," he said, inverting an empty bottle. He dropped it noisily into a metal wastebasket and twisted open a fresh bottle of Wild Turkey.

For the next half hour Longmire tried to counter Norman's mood with various irrelevant topics, ranging from the sexual compulsions of an elderly high-echelon French diplomat to the reminiscences of a time during the previous summer when Longmire and Norman had happily caught huge bass in the private pond of a wealthy South Carolinian. Norman offered few words to the conversation. He just sat there finishing off drink after drink. At times, he looked as though he might erupt, Hing his glass through the window. At other times he seemed on the verge of tears. Longmire told himself that was the last thing he needed, a self-pitying drunk. He was expressing his inclination toward buying a getaway place on the island of St. Barts when Norman broke in.

"What a fucking travesty."

Longmire sighed and impatiently told him, "What the hell. For what it's worth. Norm, you can be sure everyone on the inside will be acknowledging your bows."

"My what?" Drunkenly rankled.

"Your curtain calls, so to speak."

"What faith are you, Longmire?"

"Printed on my T-shirts or privately?"

A loose shrug from Norman.

"Episcopalian, I believe."

"How about down in your balls?" Norman asked.

"When I get to dying I'll cover myself and be everything." Longmire thought that true and amusing enough to repeat some other time.

Norman used the under edge of his chair to remove his shoes. He kicked them aside as though they represented him. His mouth was slack, his hands floppy.

It occurred to Longmire at that moment that Norman might be strongly tempted to disclose the situation. "What do you think the chances are of the truth getting out?" he tested.

"Which truth?" Norman sluned.

"Even if there is a leak it won't make any difference. Not now. We can deny everything, can't we?"

"The funny fucking thing is I won't tell even more than you won't tell."

"Right. We're of one mind. No reason to cause any economic quakes. Do you have any idea how many points the market would have dropped tomorrow if it hadn't been for you?"

"I'm hot shit."

"When will the President be able to leave Bethesda?"

"Couple of days."

"That soon? You mean a couple of weeks."

"Day after tomorrow he'll walk the fuck out, climb into the chopper, and land ass at the White House to meet the chief Staffs of joint like nothing happened."

Drunk talk, Longmire figured. There had to be a fairly long recuperative period.

"All our Prez had was a little upset tummy," Norman said facetiously.

"But we know better."

"I know shit." Norman made a face to go along with his self-depreciation. He snapped his head up to Longmire, asked, "You think I'm a good doctor?"

"The best."

"As they go, I suppose, as they go," Norman grumbled.

Longmire was getting bored with it. He thought he'd go down to the kitchen and make some coffee, leave Norman with the booze. Maybe by the time he came back Norman would have passed out.

"But!" Norman blurted out of his thoughts and went on. "There's one thing I could tell you that would knock you flat on your State Department ass."

That mildly alerted Longmire. "Nothing would surprise me."

"You shouldn't be so fucking smug."

"I've seen and done it all," Longmire baited him.

Norman felt as though his forehead were unfolding. Any moment his brain would eject and plop against the wall.

Longmire was an expert at baiting and drawing out. Norman, especially in his drunken condition, was no match for him.

Besides, it was merely a professional reflex reaction that had caused Norman to promise himself he would never reveal what had actually occurred. It had shaken him right down to his Hippocratic marrow, diminished his respect for the knowledge he had worked so hard to glean for so many years, belittled his methods. Once he started letting it out, it all came. Some of it Longmire already knew.

Sunday night a week ago. Norman had been called from Bethesda Naval Hospital and told to get out there on the double. The President had been brought there by chopper, was actually in the air on his way back from the weekend at Camp David when he began feeling not right. The Secret Service men on duty with the President got him into the hospital swiftly and clandestinely, and as that was often the way he went in and out of places, anyone who happened to notice did not believe it irregular. Somehow, with the Secret Service close around, supporting him, he managed to walk in. For all anyone knew he was there for one of his normal two-to-three-day physical checkups.

The President was placed in the third-floor wing that he usually occupied and tight security measures were immediately put into effect. That part of the wing was virtually sealed off from the rest of the hospital.

By the time Norman arrived three other doctors, specialists who cared for the President, had recognized the symptoms, agreed on a general diagnosis, and taken preliminary measures. They had him hooked up to an electrocardiogram and blood pressure monitor with audio and visual components, and, of course, he was receiving glucose intravenously.

The other doctors backed off. Norman took over. Norman was the heart man, and, according to the President's complaints, he was who was needed. The President informed Norman that his symptoms were worse now. It felt as if an elephant were stepping on his chest, both arms had an electrical current running down them, and he was about to vomit. He couldn't get a deep breath. Not mentioned was the fact that he was sweating profusely, had already soaked the sheets.

The symptoms were classic.

Acute myocardial infarction. Heart attack.

Norman knew by memory each phase of the President's normal electrocardiogram. The readout he now looked at was drastically changed.

Abnormal Q waves, elevated ST segments, and inverted T waves.

Blood pressure 100 over 60.

Respiration rate 20 a minute.

Norman injected intravenously 15 milligrams of morphine sulfate into the President's arm and 10,000 units of the anticoagulant sodium heparin. He put nasal cannulas on the President, inserted one into each nostril, and adjusted the flow to 5 to 6 liters per minute to allow 50 percent oxygen. This made breathing easier. The President's respiration rate dropped to 15 and steadied, and by then the morphine had eliminated much of the pain. It hadn't, however, cut the fright. The President's eyes asked Norman if he was going to die.