Christian laughed, genuinely laughed. “I would answer that no, I wasn’t a villain. And I’d pass. That’s really funny.” Gratefully he pressed the Oracle’s shoulder. “I won’t forget about your birthday party,” he said.
It was Vice President Du Pray who reacted most quickly and most angrily to Klee’s statement. She said, “Do you realize that if you refuse you must resign and even then this stance of yours will do great damage to the presidency?”
“I don’t see that at all,” Klee said. “Do I have to agree to let guys like Annaccone scramble my brain just to keep my job? Or do you think I’m really guilty?” He could see the answer in her eyes and thought he had never seen so handsome a hanging judge. Defensively he added, “There’s the Constitution of the United States. I have the individual freedom to refuse such a test.”
Otto Gray said sternly, “You’re not so keen on the Constitution when it comes to criminals. You’re eager to ship them off to Alaska.”
Klee said, “Ah, Otto, you don’t believe I did it. Do you?” and was relieved when Otto said, “Of course I don’t, but you should take the test.” He paused for a moment and then said, “Or resign.”
Klee turned to Wix and Dazzy. “How about you two?” he asked and smiled at them.
It was Wix who answered first. He said, “I don’t have the slightest doubt you’re innocent, the charges against you are pure bullshit. But if you refuse to take the brain-scan test you will be guilty in the mind of the public. And then you must leave this administration.”
Klee turned to Dazzy. “Eugene?”
Dazzy would not look at him and Dazzy owed him, Klee thought. Then Dazzy said with a judicious air, “You have to take the test, Christian. Even resigning won’t help us much. We’ve already announced you would take it, as you agreed you would. Why this change of mind? Surely you’re not afraid?”
“I promised to show my loyalty to Francis Kennedy,” Klee said. “Now I’ve thought it over and decided the risk is too great.”
Dazzy sighed. “I sure as hell wish you had thought it over sooner. As for your resignation, I think that is up to the President.”
They all looked at Francis Kennedy. His face was dead white, his eyes, which were usually so pale, seemed to be a darker and deeper blue. But his voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke to Klee. “Christian,” he said, “can I persuade you on the basis of our long and close friendship? I took the test and the risk because I thought it was important for our country and the presidency. And because I was innocent. You’ve never failed me, Christian. I count on you.”
For one moment Klee felt hatred for Francis Kennedy. How could this man conceal his own guilt from himself? And why this best friend of his putting him on the cross of truth? But he said calmly, “I just can’t do it, Francis.”
Kennedy said soberly, “That’s it, then. I don’t want you to resign, I won’t let you suffer that indignity. Now let’s go on.”
Dazzy said, “Do we make a statement to the press?”
“No,” Kennedy said. “If they ask, say the Attorney General has the flu and will take the test when he is recovered. That will give us a month’s time.”
“And in a month?” Dazzy said.
“We’ll rethink it then,” Kennedy said.
• • •
President Kennedy summoned Theodore Tappey, the CIA director, to a private meeting in the Yellow Oval Room. He excluded everyone, he wanted no witnesses, no recording.
Kennedy wasted no time on civilities. There was no window dressing of a leisurely tea. He spoke curtly to Tappey. “Theo, we have a big problem that only you and I understand. And only you and I can solve.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. President,” Tappey said. And Kennedy saw the feral look in his eyes. He scented blood.
“Everything we say here has the highest security classification, it has executive privilege,” Kennedy said. “You are not to repeat this to anyone, not even members of my staff.” That was when Tappey knew the matter was extremely sensitive because Kennedy cut his staff in on everything.
“It’s Yabril,” Kennedy said. “I’m sure”—he smiled—“I’m positive, you’ve thought this all out. Yabril will go on trial. That will rake up all the resentments against America. He will get convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. But somewhere down the line there will be a terrorist action that takes important hostages. One demand will be to release Yabril. By that time I won’t be President and so Yabril will go free. Still a dangerous man.”
Kennedy had caught the sight of skepticism in Tappey. The sign was no sign, Tappey was too experienced in deception. His face simply lost all expression, all animation in the eyes, the contour of the lips. He had made himself a blank so as not to be read.
But now Tappey smiled. “You must have read the internal memos my counterintelligence chief has been giving me. That’s exactly what he says.”
“So how do we prevent all this?” Kennedy asked. But it was a rhetorical question and Tappey did not answer.
Kennedy decided the time had come. “I assure you I can persuade Yabril to take the brain test. I’ll take care of him. The public needs to know that the results of the test will link the atom bomb to Yabril and prove once and for all that this was a global conspiracy. We can clear Christian and go after those kids—stage a manhunt and bring them to justice at least.”
For the very first time in their relationship, Kennedy saw Tappey looking at him with the shrewd appraising eye of a fellow conspirator. He knew that Tappey thought things out far ahead. “We don’t really need Yabril’s answers, do we?”
“No,” Kennedy said.
Tappey asked, “Is Christian in on this?”
This was difficult for Kennedy. And this was not even the hardest part. He said slowly, “Forget about Christian.”
Tappey nodded. Tappey was with him. Tappey understood. Tappey was now looking at Kennedy as a servant might look at a master who was about to ask of him a service that would bind them together forever.
“I guess I don’t get anything in writing,” Tappey said.
“No,” Kennedy said. “I am going to give you specific instructions right now.”
“Be very specific,” Theodore Tappey said, “if you will, Mr. President.”
Kennedy smiled at the coolness of the response. “Dr. Annaccone would never do it,” he said. “A year ago I myself would never have dreamed of doing it.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” Tappey said.
Kennedy knew there could be no further hesitation. “After Yabril agrees to take the test, I switch him to your CIA medical section. Your medical team does the scan. They give the test.” He could see the look in Tappey’s eyes, the waver of doubt, not of moral outrage, but doubt of feasibility.
“We’re not talking murder here,” Kennedy said impatiently. “I’m not that stupid or that immoral. And if I wanted that done, I’d be talking to Christian.”
Tappey was waiting.
Kennedy knew he had to say the fatal words. “I swear that I ask this for the protection of our country. Whether he’s in prison or released, Yabril must no longer be a danger. I want your medical team to go to the extreme limit of the test. According to Dr. Annaccone, it was under that protocol that the side effects occurred. And complete memory was erased. A man without memory, without beliefs and convictions, is harmless. He will live a peaceful life.”
Kennedy recognized the look in Tappey’s eyes—it was the look of one predator who has discovered another strange species its equal in ferocity.
“Can you assemble a team that will do that?” Kennedy asked.
“When I explain the situation to them,” Tappey said. “They would never have been recruited if they were not devoted to their country.”
In the dark hours of that night, Theodore Tappey escorted Yabril to Kennedy’s quarters. Again the meeting was short and Kennedy was all business. There was no tea, there were no civilities. Kennedy began immediately, he presented his proposal.
Kennedy said to Yabril, “It is very important for America to know whether you were part of the conspiracy of the atom bomb. To erase its fears. It is important to you that your name be cleared in this particular matter. Now, it is true that you will go to trial for your other crimes and you will be sentenced to life imprisonment. But I will promise you that I will allow you to communicate with your friends in the outside world. Let us presume they will be loyal enough to create a hostage situation and demand your release. I would be inclined to agree to such a demand. But I can do that only if you are cleared of guilt in the atom bomb explosion.… I see you have some doubts.”
Yabril shrugged and said, “I find your offer too generous.”
Kennedy summoned all his strength to do what he had to do. He remembered Yabril charming his daughter, Theresa, before putting a gun to her neck. Such charm would not work with Yabril. He could only persuade this man by convincing him of his own strict morality.
“I am doing this to erase fear from the mind of my country,” Kennedy said. “That is my greatest concern. My pleasure would be to have you remain in prison forever. So I make this offer out of my sense of duty.”
“Then why are you taking such pains to convince me?” Yabril asked.
“It’s not in my nature to perform my duty as a matter of form,” Kennedy said, and he could see that Yabril was beginning to believe this too, believe that he was a moral man and could be trusted within that morality. Again he summoned the image of Theresa and her belief in Yabril’s kindness. Then he said to Yabril, “You were outraged at the suggestion that your people engineered the explosion of an atom bomb. Here is the chance to clear your name and the names of your comrades. Why not take it? Do you fear you will not pass the test? That is always a possibility—it occurs to me now, though I don’t really believe it.”
Yabril looked directly into Kennedy’s eyes. “I don’t believe that any man can forgive what I have done to you.” He was silent. He looked weary. But he was not deceived. It was the very essence of American corruption to make such a proposition to achieve an immoral political aim.
He knew nothing of what had happened in the last six months. He had been isolated for deep interrogations. Kennedy pressed on. “Taking this test is your only hope of freedom. Provided you pass it, of course,” he said.
Kennedy sighed. “I don’t forgive you. But I understand your actions. I understand you feel you did what you did to help our world. As I do what I do now. And it is within my powers. We are different men, I cannot do what you do, and you, I mean you no disrespect, cannot do what I am doing now. To let you go free.”
Almost with sorrow, he saw he had convinced Yabril. He continued his persuasion, he used all his wit, all his charm, his appearance of integrity. He projected all the images of what he had once been, of what Yabril had known him to be, before he forfeited the whole of himself to convince Yabril. He knew he was finally successful when he saw the smile on Yabril’s face was one of pity and contempt. He knew then that he had won Yabril’s trust.
Four days later, after Yabril’s PET medical interrogation, after the terrorist had been transferred back to FBI custody, he received two visitors. They were Francis Kennedy and Theodore Tappey.
Yabril was completely unrestrained, unshackled.
The three men spent a quiet hour drinking tea and eating little sandwiches. Kennedy studied Yabril. The man’s face seemed to have changed. It was a sensitive face; the eyes were slighly melancholy but good-humored. He spoke little but studied Kennedy and Tappey as though trying to solve some mystery.
He seemed content. He seemed to know who he was. And he seemed to radiate such purity of soul that Kennedy could not bear to look at him and finally took his leave.
• • •
The decision about Christian Klee was even more painful to Francis Kennedy. It had been an unexpected surprise for Christian. Kennedy asked him into the Yellow Room for a private meeting.
But Francis Kennedy opened the meeting quietly by saying, “Christian, I’ve been closer to you than anybody outside my family. I think we know each other better than anyone else knows us. So you will understand that I have to ask for your resignation to be effective after the inauguration, at a time when I decide to accept it.”
Klee looked at that handsome face with its gentle smile. He could not believe that Kennedy was firing him without any explanation. He said quietly, “I know I’ve cut a few corners here and there. But my ultimate aim was always to keep you from harm.”
“You let the nuclear device go off. You could have prevented it.”
Christian Klee very coldly considered the situation before him. He would never feel his old affection for Kennedy again. He would never believe in his own humanity, the rightness of what he had done. And suddenly he knew that he could never bear that burden. That Francis Kennedy must share responsibility for what had been done. Even privately.
Klee stared directly into the pale blue eyes he knew so well and searched for mercy there.
“Francis, you wanted me to do what I did. We both knew it was the only thing that could save you—I knew you could not make such a decision. It would have destroyed you, you were so weakened, Francis. Francis, don’t condemn me, don’t judge me. They would have removed you from power and you could never have borne that. You were very close to despair and I was the only one who could see it. They would have left your daughter unavenged. They would have let Yabril go free, they would have left America disgraced.” Klee paused, surprised to see that Francis Kennedy was looking at him so impassively.
Kennedy said, “So you think I was after vengeance.”
“Not on Yabril,” Klee said. “Maybe on Fate.”
“You can stay until after the inauguration,” Kennedy said. “You’ve earned that. But you are a danger spot, a target. I have to make you disappear so I can sweep up the mess.”
He paused for a moment. “You were wrong thinking I wanted you to do what you did, Chris. You were wrong to think that I was acting out of a desire for vengeance.”
Christian Klee felt a vague dissociation from his world, an anguish he could not even define. He said, “Francis, I know you, I understand you. We were always like brothers. I always felt that, that we really were brothers. And I saved you as a brother should. I made the decision, I took the guilt. I can let the world condemn me, but not you.”
He paused for a moment. “You need me, Francis. Even more now, on the course of action you’re taking. Let me stay.”
Francis Kennedy sighed. Then he said, “I don’t question your loyalty, Christian. But after the inauguration you’ll have to go. We will never discuss this again.”
“I did it to save you,” Christian said.
“And you did,” Kennedy said.
Christian thought about that day in early December, four years ago, when Francis Kennedy, the President-elect of the United States had waited for him outside the monastery in Vermont. Kennedy had disappeared for a week. Newspapers and his political opponents had speculated that he had been under psychiatric care, that he had broken down, that he was having a secret love affair. But only two people—the abbot of the monastery and Christian Klee—knew the truth: that Francis Kennedy had retreated to deeply and completely mourn the death of his wife.
It was a week after his election that Christian had driven Kennedy to the Catholic monastery just outside White River Junction in Vermont. They were greeted by the abbot, who was the only one who knew Kennedy’s identity.
The resident monks lived apart from the world, cut off from all media and even the town itself. These monks communicated only with God and the earth on which they grew their livelihood. They had all taken a vow of silence and did not speak except in prayer or yelps of pain when they were ill or had injured themselves in some domestic accident.
Only the abbot had a television set and access to newspapers. The TV news programs were a constant source of amusement to him. He particularly fancied the concept of the anchor man on the
nightly broadcasts and often ironically thought of himself as one of the anchor men of God. He used this idea to remind himself of the necessity for humility.
When the car drove up, the abbot was waiting for them at the monastery gate, flanked by two monks in ragged brown robes and sandaled feet. Christian took Kennedy’s bag from the trunk and watched the abbot shake hands with the President-elect. The abbot seemed more like an innkeeper than a holy man. He had a jolly grin to welcome them, and when he was introduced to Christian he said jocularly, “Why don’t you stay? A week of silence wouldn’t do you any harm. I’ve seen you on television and you must be tired of talking.”
Christian smiled his thanks but did not reply. He was looking at Francis Kennedy as they shook hands. The handsome face was very composed, the handshake was not emotional—Kennedy was not a demonstrative man. He seemed not to be grieving the death of his wife. He had more the preoccupied look of a man forced to go into the hospital for a minor operation.
“Let’s hope we can keep this secret,” Christian had said. “People don’t like these religious retreats. They might think you’ve gone nuts.”
Francis Kennedy’s face twisted into a little smile. A controlled but natural courtesy. “They won’t find out,” he said. “And I know you’ll cover. Pick me up in a week. That should be enough time.”
Christian wondered what would happen to Francis in those days. He felt close to tears. He took hold of Francis by the shoulders and said, “Do you want me to stay with you?” Kennedy had shaken his head and walked through the gates of the monastery. On that day Christian thought he had seemed OK.
The day after Christmas was so clear and bright, so cleansed by cold that it seemed as if the whole world were enclosed in glass, the sky a mirror, the earth brown steel. And when Christian drove up to the monastery gate, Francis Kennedy was alone, waiting for him without any luggage, his hands stretched over his head, his body taut and straining upward. He seemed to be exulting in his freedom.