The Fourth K (31 page)

David was stunned. He had never dreamed this beautiful woman would want someone like him. He was dazzled by his good fortune. But then Rosemary said sharply, “I mean it, I just want someone nice like you to be with me tonight. You have to promise you won’t do anything. If you try, I’ll be very angry.”

This was so confusing to David that he smiled, and as if not understanding, he said, “I’ll sit on the terrace or sleep on the couch here in the living room.”

“No,” Rosemary said. “I just want somebody to hug me and go to sleep with. I just don’t want to be alone. Can you promise?”

David heard himself say, “I don’t have anything to wear. In bed, I mean.”

Rosemary said briskly, “Just take a shower and sleep naked, it won’t bother me.”

There was a foyer from the living room of the suite that led to the bedroom. In this foyer was an extra bathroom, in which Rosemary told David to take his shower. She did not want him to use her bathroom. David showered and brushed his teeth using soap and tissues. There was a bathrobe hanging from the back of the door with blue-stitching script that said elegantly “Beverly Hills Hotel.” He went into the bedroom and found Rosemary was still in her bathroom. He stood there awkwardly, not wanting to get into the bed that had already been turned down by the night maid. Finally Rosemary came out of the bathroom wearing a flannel nightgown that was so elegantly cut and printed that she looked like a doll in a toy store. “Come on, get in,” she said. “Do you need a Valium or a sleeping pill?” And he knew she had already taken one. She sat at the edge of the bed and then got in and finally David got into the bed but kept his bathrobe on. They were lying side by side when she turned the light out on her night table. They were in darkness. “Give me a hug,” she said, and they embraced for a long moment and then she rolled away to her side of the bed and said briskly, “Pleasant dreams.”

David lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t dare take off the bathrobe, he didn’t want her to think that he wanted to be naked in her bed. He wondered if he should tell Hock about this the next time they met, but he understood that it would become a joke that he had slept with such a beautiful woman and nothing had happened. And maybe Hock would think he was lying. He wished he had taken the sleeping pill Rosemary had offered him. She was already asleep—she had a tiny snore just barely audible.

David decided to go back to the living room and got out
of bed. Rosemary came awake and said sleepily, “Could you get me a drink of Evian water.” David went into the living room and fixed two Evian waters with a little ice. He drank from his glass and refilled it. Then he went back into the bedroom. By the light in the foyer he could see Rosemary sitting up, the bed sheets tight around her. He offered a glass and she reached out a bare arm for it. In the dark room he touched her upper body before finding her hand to give her the glass, and realized she was naked. As she was drinking he slipped into the bed but he let his bathrobe fall to the floor.

He heard her put the glass on the night table and then he put out his hand and touched her flesh. He felt the bare back and the softness of her buttocks. She rolled over and into his arms and his chest was against her bare breasts. Her arms were around him and the hotness of their bodies made them kick off the covers as they kissed. They kissed for a long time, her tongue in his mouth, and then he couldn’t wait any longer and he was on top of her, and her hand as smooth as satin, a permission, guided him into her. They made love almost silently as if they were being spied upon until both their bodies together arched in the flight toward climax and they lay back separate again.

Finally she whispered, “Now go to sleep.” She kissed him gently on the side of the mouth.

He said, “I want to see you.”

“No,” she whispered.

David reached over and turned on her table light. Rosemary closed her eyes. She was still beautiful. Even with desire sated, even though she was stripped of all the arts of beauty, the enhancements of coquetry, the artifices of special light. But it was a different beauty.

He had made love out of animal need and proximity, a
natural physical expression of his body. She had made love out of a need in her heart, or some spinning need in her brain. And now in the glow of the single light, her naked body was no longer formidable. Her breasts were small with tiny nipples, her body smaller, her legs not so long, her hips not so wide, her thighs a little slender. She opened her eyes, looking directly into his, and he said, “You’re so beautiful.” He kissed her breasts and as he did so she reached up and turned out the light. They made love again and then fell asleep.

When David woke and reached out, she was gone. He threw on his clothes and put on his watch. It was seven in the morning. He found her out on the terrace in a red jogging suit against which her black hair seemed even darker. A table had been wheeled in by room service, and on it were a silver coffee pitcher and a silver milk jug and an array of plates with metal covers over them to keep the food warm.

Rosemary smiled at him and said, “I ordered for you. I was just going to wake you up. I have to get my run in before I start work.”

He sat down at the table, and she poured him coffee and uncovered a dish that held eggs and sliced-up bits of fruit. Then she drank her orange juice and got up. “Take your time,” she said. “Thanks for staying last night.”

David wanted her to have breakfast with him, he wanted her to show that she really liked him, he wanted to have a chance to talk, to tell her about his life, to say something that would make her interested in him. But now she was putting a white headband over her hair and lacing up her jogging shoes. She stood up. David said, not knowing his face was twitching with emotion, “When will I see you again?” And as soon as he said it he knew he had made a terrible mistake.

Rosemary was on her way to the door but she stopped.
“I’m going to be awfully busy the next few weeks. I have to go to New York. When I come back I’ll give you a call.” She didn’t ask for his number.

Then another thought seemed to strike her. She picked up the phone and called for a limo to bring David back to Santa Monica. She said to him, “It will be put on my bill—do you need any cash to tip the driver?”

David just looked at her for a long moment. She picked up her purse and opened it and said, “How much will you need for the tip?”

David couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know his face was twitching with a malice and a hatred that were frightening. He said insultingly, “You’d know that better than me.” Rosemary snapped her purse shut and went out of the suite.

He never heard from her. He waited for two months, and then one day on the movie studio lot he saw her come out of Hocken’s office with Gibson Grange and Dean. He waited near Hocken’s parking space so that they would have to greet him. Hocken gave him a little hug and said they had to have dinner and asked how the job was going. Gibson Grange shook his hand and gave him a sly but friendly smile, the handsome face radiating its easy good humor. Rosemary looked at him without smiling. And what really hurt was that for a moment it seemed to David that she had really forgotten him.

Matthew Gladyce, the press secretary to the President, knew that in the next twenty-four hours he would make the most important decision of his professional life. It was his job to control the responses of the media to the tragic and world-shocking events of the last three days. It would be his job to inform the people of the United States just exactly what their President was doing to cope with these events, and to justify his actions. Gladyce had to be very careful.

Now on this Thursday morning after Easter, in the middle of the crisis fireball, Matthew Gladyce cut himself off from direct contact with the media. His junior assistants held the meetings in the White House Press Conference Room but were limited to handing out carefully composed press releases and ducking shouted questions.

Matthew did not answer the phones constantly ringing in his office; his secretaries screened all his calls and brushed off
insistent reporters and high-powered TV commentators trying to call in markers he owed them. It was his job to protect the President of the United States.

Matthew Gladyce knew from his long experience as a journalist that there was no ritual more revered in America than the traditional insolence of the print and TV media toward important members of the establishment. Imperious TV anchor stars shouted down affable Cabinet members, knocked chips off the shoulders of the President himself, grilled candidates for high office with the ferocity of prosecuting attorneys. The newspapers printed libelous articles in the name of free speech. At one time he had been a part of all this and even admired it. He had enjoyed the inevitable hatred that every public official has for representatives of the media. But three years as press secretary had changed this. Like the rest of the administration—indeed, like all government figures throughout history—he had come to distrust and devalue that great institution of democracy called free speech. Like all authority figures, he had come to regard it as assault and battery. The media were sanctified criminals who robbed institutions and private citizens of their good name. Just to sell their newspapers and commercials to three hundred million people.

And today he would not give those bastards an inch. He was going to throw his fastball by them.

He thought back on the last four days and all the questions he had fielded from the media. The President had cut himself off from all direct communication and Matthew Gladyce had carried the ball. On Monday it had been: “Why haven’t the hijackers made any demands? Is the kidnaping of the President’s daughter linked to the killing of the Pope?” Those questions eventually answered themselves, thank
God. Now it was established. They were linked. The hijackers had made their demands.

Gladyce had issued the press release under the direct supervision of the President himself. These events were a concerted attack on the prestige and worldwide authority of the United States. Then the murder of the President’s daughter and the stupid fucking questions: “How did the President react when he heard of the murder?” Here Gladyce had lost his temper. “What the fuck do you think he felt, you stupid bastard?” he told the anchor person. Then there had been another stupid question: “Does this bring back memories of when the President’s uncles were murdered?” At that moment Gladyce decided he would leave these press conferences to his juniors.

But now he had to take the stage. He would have to defend the President’s ultimatum to the Sultan of Sherhaben. He would leave out the threat to destroy the Sultanate of Sherhaben. He would say that if the hostages were released and Yabril imprisoned, the city of Dak would not be destroyed—in language to leave him an out when Dak was destroyed. But most important of all was that the President of the United States would go on television in the afternoon with a major address to the nation.

He glanced out of the window of his office. The White House was surrounded by TV trucks and media correspondents from all over the world. Well, fuck them, Gladyce thought. They would only know what he wanted them to know.

The Envoys of the United States arrived in Sherhaben. Their plane set down on a runway far from the hostage lane commanded by Yabril and still surrounded by Sherhaben troops. Behind those troops were the hordes of TV trucks, media correspondents from all over the world and a vast crowd of onlookers who had traveled from the city of Dak.

The ambassador of Sherhaben, Sharif Waleeb, had taken pills to sleep through most of the voyage. Bert Audick and Arthur Wix had talked, Audick trying to persuade Wix to modify the President’s demands so that they could get the release of the hostages without any drastic action.

Finally Wix told Audick, “I have no leeway to negotiate. I have a very strict brief from the President—they’ve had their fun and now they are going to pay.”

Audick said grimly, “You’re the national security adviser—for God’s sake, advise.”

Wix said stonily, “There is nothing to advise. The President has made his decision.”

Upon arrival at the Sultan’s palace, Wix and Audick were escorted to their palatial suites by armed guards. Indeed the palace seemed to be overrun with military formations. Ambassador Waleeb was ushered into the presence of the Sultan, where he formally presented the ultimatum documents.

The Sultan did not believe in the threat, thinking that anybody could terrify this little man. He said, “And when Kennedy told you this, how did he appear? Is he a man who utters such wild threats merely to frighten? Would his government
even support such an action? He would be gambling his whole political career on this one throw of the dice. Is it not merely a negotiating ploy?”

Waleeb rose from the gold brocade chair in which he had been sitting. Suddenly his tiny puppetlike figure became impressive. He had a good voice, the Sultan noted. “Your Highness,” Waleeb said. “Kennedy knew exactly what you would say, word for word. Within twenty-four hours after the destruction of Dak, if you do not comply with his demands, all Sherhaben will be destroyed. And that is why Dak cannot be saved. That is the only way he can convince you of his most serious intent. He also said that after Dak is destroyed you will agree to his demands but not before. He was calm, he smiled. He is no longer the man he was. He is Azazel.”

Later the two envoys of the President of the United States were brought to a beautiful reception room that included air-conditioned terraces and a swimming pool. They were attended by male servants in Arab dress who brought them food and drinks that were not alcoholic. Surrounded by counselors and bodyguards, the Sultan greeted them.

Ambassador Waleeb made the introductions. Bert Audick the Sultan knew. They had been closely locked on past oil deals. And Audick had been his host the several times he had visited America, a discreet and obliging host. The Sultan greeted Audick warmly.