“They are wrong, Mr. President,” Du Pray said. “And they are wrong now to pursue it. Is there a chance for any negotiation with Congress?”
“I can’t negotiate,” Kennedy said. “And they won’t.” Then he said to Dazzy, “Have my orders been followed—is the naval air fleet on its way to Dak?”
“Yes, sir,” Dazzy said, then shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But the chiefs of staff have not given the final ‘go.’ They will hold back until Congress votes tonight. If the impeachment succeeds, they will send the planes home.” He paused for a moment. “They haven’t disobeyed you. They have followed your orders. They just figure they can countermand everything if you lose tonight.”
Kennedy turned to Du Pray. His face was grave. “If the impeachment succeeds, you will be the President,” he said. “You can order the chiefs of staff to proceed with the destruction of the city of Dak. Will you give that order?”
“No,” she said. There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the room. She kept her face composed and spoke directly to Kennedy. “I have proved my loyalty to you,” she said. “As your Vice President, I supported your decision on Dak, as it was my duty to do. I resisted the demand to sign the impeachment papers. But if I become President, and I hope with all my heart I will not, then I must follow my own conscience and make my own decision.”
Kennedy nodded. He smiled at her and it was a gentle smile that broke her heart. “You are perfectly right,” he said. “I asked the question merely as a point of information, not to persuade.” He addressed the others in the room. “Now the most important thing is to get a bare-bones script ready for my television speech. Eugene, have you cleared networks? Have they broadcast bulletins that I will speak tonight?”
Eugene Dazzy said cautiously, “Lawrence Salentine is here to see you about that. It looks fishy. Shall I have him sent here? He’s in my office.”
Kennedy said softly, “They wouldn’t dare. They wouldn’t dare to show their muscle so out in the open.” He was thoughtful for a long moment. “Send him in.”
While they waited they discussed how long the speech would be. “Not more than a half hour,” Kennedy said. “I should get the job done by then.”
And they all knew what he meant. Francis Kennedy on television could overpower any audience. It was the magical speaking voice with the music of the great Irish poets. It didn’t hurt that his thinking, the progress of his logic, was always absolutely clear.
When Lawrence Salentine was ushered in, Kennedy spoke to him directly and without a greeting. “I hope you’re not going to say what I think you’re going to say.”
Salentine said coolly, “I have no way of knowing what you’re thinking. I’ve been chosen by the other networks to give you our decision not to give you airtime tonight. For us to do so would be to interfere in the impeachment process.”
Kennedy smiled and said to him, “Mr. Salentine, the impeachment, even if it’s successful, will last for only thirty days. And then what?”
It was not Francis Kennedy’s style to be threatening. It occurred to Salentine that he and the heads of the other networks had embarked on a very dangerous game. The legal justification of the federal government to issue and review licenses for TV stations had become archaic in practical terms, but a strong President could put new teeth in it. Salentine knew he had to go very carefully.
“Mr. President,” he said, “it is because we feel our responsibility is so important that we must refuse you the airtime. You are in the process of impeachment, much to my regret, and to the sorrow of all Americans. It is a very great tragedy, and you have all my sympathy. But the networks agree that letting you speak will not be in the best interests of the nation or our democratic process.” He paused for a moment. “But after the Congress votes, win or lose, we will give you airtime.”
Francis Kennedy laughed angrily and said, “You can go.”
Lawrence Salentine was escorted out by one of the Secret Service guards.
Then Kennedy said to his staff, “Gentlemen, believe me when I tell you this.” Kennedy’s face was unsmiling, the blue of his eyes seemed to have gone from a light to heavier slate-blue, “They have overplayed their hand. They have violated the spirit of the Constitution.”
• • •
For miles around the White House, traffic had become congested with only thin corridors to pass through official vehicles. TV cameras and their backup trucks commanded the whole area. Congressmen on their way to Capitol Hill were unceremoniously grabbed by TV journalists and questioned on this special meeting of the Congress. Finally, an official bulletin appeared on TV networks that the Congress was convening at 11:00 P.M. to vote on a motion to remove President Kennedy from office.
In the White House itself, Kennedy and his staff had already done everything they could to ward off the attack. Oddblood Gray had called senators and congressmen, pleading with them. Eugene Dazzy had made countless calls to different members of the Socrates Club, trying to enlist the support of some segments of big business. Christian Klee had sent legal briefs to the leaders of the Congress stressing that without the signature of the Vice President the removal was illegal.
Just before eleven, Kennedy and his staff met in the Yellow Room to watch the big television screen that was wheeled in. Although the session of Congress would not be broadcast over commercial networks, it was being photographed for later use, and a special cable brought it to the White House.
Congressman Jintz and Senator Lambertino had done their work well. Everything had been synchronized perfectly. Sal Troyca and Elizabeth Stone had worked closely together to iron out administrative details. All the necessary documents had been prepared for the turnover of government.
In the Yellow Room, Francis Kennedy and his personal staff watched the proceedings on their television. It would take Congress time to go through all the formalities of speeches and roll calls to vote. But they knew what the outcome would be. The Congress and the Socrates Club had built a steamroller for this occasion. Kennedy said to Oddblood Gray, “Otto, you did your best.”
At that moment, one of the White House duty officers came in and handed Dazzy a memo sheet. Dazzy looked at it, then studied it. The shock on his face was evident. He handed the memorandum to Kennedy.
On the TV screen, by a margin far exceeding the necessary two thirds, the Congress had just voted to impeach President Francis Xavier Kennedy.
Friday 6 A.M.
Sherhaben
It was 11:00 P.M., Thursday, Washington time, but six in the morning in Sherhaben, when the Sultan had everyone summoned to the terraced reception room for an early breakfast. The Americans—Bert Audick and Arthur Wix—arrived shortly. Yabril was escorted in by the Sultan. A huge table was laden with countless fruits and beverages, both hot and cold.
Sultan Maurobi was smiling broadly. He did not introduce Yabril to the Americans and there was no pretense of any courtesy.
The Sultan said, “I am happy to announce—more than that, my heart overflows with joy—that my friend Yabril has agreed to the release of your hostages. There will be no further demands from him and I hope no further demands from your country.”
Arthur Wix, his face beaded with sweat, said, “I cannot negotiate or change in any way the demands of my President. You must give up this murderer.”
The Sultan smiled and said, “He is no longer your President. The American Congress has voted to impeach him. I am informed that the orders to bomb the city of Dak have already been canceled. The hostages will be freed, you have your victory. There is nothing else you can ask.”
Yabril felt a great rush of energy go through his body—he had brought about the impeachment the President of the United States. He stared into Wix’s eyes and saw the hatred there. This was the highest man in the mightiest army on the face of the globe, and he, Yabril, had defeated him. For a moment his mind held the image of himself pressing the gun against the silky hair of Theresa Kennedy. He remembered again that sense of loss, of regret,
when he pulled the trigger, the little burn of anguish as her body tumbled away in the desert air. He bowed his head to Wix and the other men in the room.
The Sultan Maurobi motioned for the servants to bring platters of fruit and drink to his guests. Arthur Wix put down his glass and said, “Are you sure that your information that the President has been impeached is absolutely correct?”
The Sultan said, “I will arrange for you to speak directly to your office in the United States.” He paused. “But first, I have my duty as a host.”
The Sultan commanded they must have one last full meal together, and insisted that the final arrangements for the release of the hostages be made over this meal. Yabril took his place at the right hand of the Sultan, Arthur Wix on the left.
They were resting on the divans along the low table when the Sultan’s prime minister came hurrying in and begged the Sultan to come into the other room for a few moments. The Sultan was impatient, until finally the prime minister whispered something into his ear. The Sultan raised his eyebrows in surprise and then said to his guests, “Something has happened quite unforeseen. All communication to the United States has been cut off, not just to us, but all over the world. Please continue your breakfast while I confer with my staff.”
But after the Sultan left, the men around the table did not speak. Only Yabril helped himself to the food.
The Americans moved away from the table to go to the terrace. The servants brought them cool drinks. Yabril continued to eat.
Bert Audick said to Wix, “I hope Kennedy hasn’t done something foolish. I hope he hasn’t tried to buck the Constitution.”
Wix said, “God, first his daughter, now he’s lost his country. All because of that little prick in there eating like a fucking beggar.”
Audick said, “It is terrible, all of it.” Then he went inside and said to Yabril, “Eat well, I hope you have a good place to hide in the years to come. There will be a lot of people looking for you.”
Yabril laughed. He had finished eating and was lighting a cigarette. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I will be a beggar in Jerusalem.”
At that moment the Sultan Maurobi came into the room. He was followed by at least fifty armed men, who stationed themselves to command the room. Four of them stood behind Yabril. Four others stood behind the Americans on the terrace. There was surprise and shock on the Sultan’s face. His skin seemed yellow, his eyes were wide open, the eyelids seemed to fold back. “Gentlemen,” he said haltingly, “my dear sirs, this will be as incredible to you as it is to me. The Congress has annulled their vote impeaching Kennedy and he has declared martial law.” He paused and let his hand rest on Yabril’s shoulder. “And, gentlemen, at this moment planes from the American Sixth Fleet are destroying my city of Dak.”
Arthur Wix asked almost jubilantly, “The city of Dak is being bombed?”
“Yes,” the Sultan said. “A barbaric act but a convincing one.”
They were all looking at Yabril, who now had four armed men very closely surrounding him. Yabril said thoughtfully, “Finally I will see America, it has always been my dream.” He looked at the Americans but spoke to the Sultan. “I think I would have been a great success in America.”
“Without a doubt,” the Sultan said. “Part of the demand is that I deliver you alive. I’m afraid I must give the necessary orders so that you do not harm yourself.”
Yabril said, “America is a civilized country. I will go through a legal process that will be long and drawn out, since I will have the best lawyers. Why should I harm myself? It will be a new experience, and who knows what can happen? The world always changes. America is too civilized for torture, and besides I have endured torture under the Israelis, so nothing will surprise me.” He smiled at Wix.
Wix said quietly, “As you once observed, the world changes. You haven’t succeeded. You won’t be such a hero.”
Yabril laughed delightedly. His arms went up in an exuberant gesture. “I have succeeded,” he almost shouted. “I’ve torn your world off its axis. Do you think your mealy-mouthed idealism will be listened to after your planes have destroyed the city of Dak? When will the world forget my name? And do you think I will step off the stage now when the best is yet to come?”
The Sultan clapped his hands and shouted an order to the soldiers. They grabbed Yabril and put handcuffs on his wrists and rope around his neck. “Gently, gently,” the Sultan said. When Yabril was secure he touched him gently on the forehead. He said, “I beg your forgiveness, I have no choice. I have oil to sell and a city to rebuild. I wish you well, old friend. Good luck in America.”
Thursday Night
New York City
As Congress impeached President Francis Xavier Kennedy, as the world awaited the resolution of the terrorist crisis, there were many hundreds of thousands of people in New York who didn’t give a flying fuck. They had their own lives to lead and their own problems. This mild spring night many of these thousands converged in the Times Square area of New York City, a place that had once been the very heart of the greatest city in the world, where once The Great White Way, Broadway itself, ran down from Central Park to Times Square.
These people had varied interests. Horny suburban middle-class men haunted the adult pornographic bookshops. Cineasts surveyed miles of film of naked men and naked women indulging themselves in the most intimate sexual acts with varied animals in best-friend character roles. Teenaged gangs with lethal but legal screwdrivers in their pockets sallied forth as gallantly as the knights of old to slay the dragons of the well-to-do, and with the irrepressible high spirits of the young, to have some laughs. Pimps, prostitutes, muggers, murderers, set up shop after dark without having to pay overhead for the bright neon light of what was left of the Great White Way. Tourists came to see Times Square, where the ball fell on New Year’s Eve and proclaimed the coming of another joyous New Year. On most of the buildings in the area and the slum streets leading into it were posters with a huge red heart and inside that red heart the inscription I LOVE NEW YORK. Courtesy of Louis Inch.
On that Thursday near midnight, Blade Booker was hanging out in the Times Square Bar and Cinema Club looking for a client. Booker was a young black man noted for his ability to hustle. He could get you coke, he could get you H, he could get you a wide assortment of pills. He could also get you a gun but nothing big. Pistols, revolvers, little .22’s, but after he got himself one he didn’t really get into that anymore. He wasn’t a pimp, but he was very good with the ladies. He could really talk to their shit, and he was a great listener. Many a night he spent with a girl and listened to her dreams. Even the lowest-down hooker who would do things with men that took his breath away had dreams to tell. Booker listened, he enjoyed listening, it made him feel good when ladies told him their dreams. He loved their shit. Oh, they would hit the numbers, their astrological chart showed that in the coming year a man would love them, they would have a baby, or have kids grow up to be doctors, lawyers, college professors, be on TV; their kids could sing or dance or act or do comedy as good as Richard Pryor, maybe even become another Eddie Murphy.
Blade Booker was waiting for the Swedish Cinema Palace to empty out after the completion of its X-rated film. Many of the cinema lovers would stop here for a drink and a hamburger and in hopes of seeing some pussy. They would straggle in singly, but you could spot them by the abstracted look in their eyes, as if they were pondering an insoluble scientific problem. Also most of them had a melancholy look on their faces. They were lonely people.
There were hookers all over the place, but Booker had his very own placed in a strategic corner. Men at the bar could see her at a little table that her huge red purse almost covered. She was a blond girl from Duluth, Minnesota, big-boned, her blue eyes iced with heroin. Booker had rescued her from a fate worse than death, namely, a life on a farm where the cold winter would chill her tits as hard as boulders. But he was always careful with her. She had a reputation, and he was one of the few who would work with her.
/> Her name was Kimberly Ansley, and just six years ago she had chopped up her pimp with an ax while he was sleeping. Watch out for girls named Kimberly and Tiffany, Booker always said. She had been arrested and prosecuted, tried and convicted, but convicted only of manslaughter with the defense proving she had numerous bruises and had been “not responsible” because of her heroin habit. She had been sentenced to a correctional facility, cured, declared sane and released to the streets of New York. There she had taken up residence in the slums around Greenwich Village, supplied with an apartment in one of the housing projects built by the city that even the poor were fleeing.
Blade Booker and Kimberly were partners. He was half pimp, half roller; he took pride in that distinction. Kimberly would pick up a cineast in the Times Square Bar, and then lead her customer to a tenement hallway near Ninth Avenue for quick sexual acts. Then Blade would step from the shadows and clunk the man on the head with a New York Police Department blackjack. They would split the money in the man’s wallet, but Blade got the credit cards and jewelry. Not out of greed but because he didn’t trust Kimberly’s judgment.
The beauty of this was that the man was usually an errant husband reluctant to report the incident to the police and have to answer questions about just what he was doing in a dark hall on Ninth Avenue when his wife was waiting for him in Merrick, Long Island, or Trenton, New Jersey. For safety’s sake, both Blade and Kim would simply avoid the Times Square Bar for a week. And Ninth Avenue. They would move to Second Avenue. In a city like New York that was like going to another black hole in the galaxy. That was why Blade Booker loved New York. He was invisible, like The Shadow, The Man with a Thousand Faces. And he was like those insects and birds he saw on the TV public broadcasting channels who changed color to blend with the terrain, the insects who could burrow into the earth to escape predators. In short, unlike most citizens, Blade Booker felt safe in New York.