Q Clearance

  "I didn't want to worry you. How was I to know?" He took a step toward her and whispered, "He didn't see you looking through the mail, did he?"

  She shook her head. "I'd finished. I couldn't understand any of it anyway."

  "Good. Ready to go?"

  "Timothy ... I don't—"

  "Don't worry." He took her hand. "Once he's seen you, no one else matters."

  As they walked down the stairs to the Mess, Eva said, "How do you live with that?"

  "Having to get permission to pee? I don't know yet." He smiled at her. "Greatness is a bitch, isn't it?"

  In the Mess, Evelyn Witt was having lunch with one of her deputies.

  The President's Appointments Secretary, unperturbed by his precipitate move to the backwaters of the East Wing, dined alone, reading the latest Stephen King novel. There was a petty joke among the White House staff to the effect that because the Appointments Secretary liked to read everything Stephen King wrote, he was condemned to read nothing but what Stephen King wrote, since the Appointments Secretary's rate of reading was synchronized precisely to Stephen King's rate of writing—approximately two books a year.

  The Vice-President of the United States sat at a round table with five of his aides, and he held forth about bird-shooting, oil leases and poontang.

  The sallow young Director of the Office of Management and Budget shared a table with the corpulent old Chairman of the President's Council of Economic Advisors, and—at least during the few moments that Burnham waited to be seated— neither of them said a word.

  In a back comer of the room sat Mario Epstein, with one of his fungible aides—a dark-suited, white-shirted, rep-tied, black-shod, thin-haired young man older than his years whom Prevention magazine would undoubtedly analyze as a high-risk candidate for a duodenal ulcer, a cerebral vascular accident or coronary artery disease.

  Burnham and Eva were shown to a table for two against the near wall. He felt eyes following him as they walked, and he wondered if his decision to bring Eva here had been reckless. People in the White House Mess were not likely to gossip; they were certain to gossip—like squirrels in the fall, gathering tidbits to store away for use in lean times.

  But he saw no one here who could harm him, not even Epstein, for Epstein's sting had already been removed by the President's meeting with Eva.

  "You don't need the glasses to read a menu?"

  "Oh. I guess ..." She smiled. "They're so new."

  Burnham looked at his menu. "What's good for us?"

  "Nothing. God, look at this!" She ran her finger down the page. "Saturated fats, processed animal refuse, grease and crap."

  Burnham laughed. "Crap, eh? Where do you see that? Au gratin? Alfredo? Crap Suzette?"

  "Have a salad."

  They had salads and iced tea, and for dessert Burnham ordered a sherbet against Eva's caution that a person as allergic as he risked anaphylactic shock from any of the additives, preservatives and chemical toxins with which commercial processors laced their products.

  Burnham signaled for the bill and turned to say something to Eva.

  "Timothy!"

  He looked up into the broadly grinning face of Mario Epstein. Oh God, he thought, now what?

  "Ah ... hi!" He waited for the sky to fall.

  "Good job this morning."

  "Oh. Thanks. I'm not sure—"

  "The President was really pleased."

  Code, Burnham decided, he's speaking in code. What he's really saying is: The President and I talked about you; the President and I will always talk about you; never think that you are closer to the throne than I.

  Epstein turned to Eva. "Mrs. Burnham?"

  "No," Burnham said quickly. "A friend. Eva Pym . . . Mario Epstein."

  "Very pleased to know you," Epstein said, as he shook Eva's hand. "Timothy's a rising star here, as I'm sure he's too modest to have told you." Then he said to Burnham, "We'll have lunch, Timothy," and he waved to Eva and walked away.

  Eva said, "He seems nice enough."

  "Adolf Hitler liked dogs," Burnham said, and he frowned at Epstein's receding back. What was that about?

  "I forgot to tell you."

  "Forgot to tell me what?"

  "When the President barged into your office this morning, he called me Sarah. It was embarrassing."

  "I bet it was."

  He paid the bill and walked with Eva out of the building and down the path to the West Gate.

  "How long are you going to live in the Y?" she asked.

  "I keep thinking I'll be going home."

  "Do you want to go home?"

  "At the moment it's not an option."

  "That's not what I asked you."

  "I know." He smiled.

  She squeezed his hand. "Keep the room in the Y."

  They agreed to meet for dinner—that is, if the President didn't trap him—and she walked quickly across Pennsylvania Avenue while she had the light.

  "Lucky man, Mr. B," Sergeant Thibaudeaux said, as Burnham returned through the West Gate.

  "My cup runneth over, Sergeant T."

  Dyanna was waiting for him, and she followed him into his office.

  "What's up?" he said, as he dropped into one of the chairs that flanked the coffee table.

  "I had coffee this morning with two of Mr. Epstein's secretaries. They were just being nice, sort of welcoming me to the White House, give me a few helpful hints and all, so they—"

  "You can sit down, you know."

  "No, that's okay. I may have to get the phone. Anyway, they bought me coffee and a Danish, I don't normally eat Danish in the morning, but—"

  "Dyanna."

  "What?"

  "We're not really talking about Danish pastry here, are we?" Burnham didn't mean to be reproving, for he could see that Dyanna was agitated, upset; he wanted to help her edit herself.

  "No. I just . . . well, anyway ... it was Dolores and Connie who took me to the Mess, and they were telling me how things work here in the West Wing, and they asked me what it was exactly that you did, and I said I wasn't sure, really, and they said it must be tough for you having a wife who worked for Senator Kennedy, and I said how did they—" Suddenly her eyes sprang open, and she said, "Oh!"

  Burnham followed her stare and saw that the President had opened the door from his private office.

  "Excuse me," said the President.

  Burnham jumped to his feet. "Not at all, sir. We were—"

  "Got a minute, Tim?"

  "Of course." He said to Dyanna, "Remember your place. It was just getting interesting."

  He followed the President into the little office, and the President shut the door behind them.

  The room was snug and cozy. It reminded Burnham of a reading room in an opulent men's club. The outside window was covered with velvet drapes, and the only light came from two darkly shaded table lamps. The wallpaper was a rich maroon fabric interlaced with delicate gold eagles. The furniture was dark-green leather.

  The President sat in one of the chairs and directed Burnham to the couch.

  "I don't believe in bullshitting around the bush, Tim."

  "No, sir." Burnham thought: You should give lessons to Dyanna.

  "Who was she?"

  "Who wa— Oh. Eva. I met her playing squash. She's a—"

  "Tim."

  "Sir?" Burnham felt that he had been hit in the chest with a maul.

  "We have a good thing going, you and I, but it can only be a good thing as long as we're straight with one another. Agreed?"

  "Yes, sir. I—"

  "Now, I venture to say"—the President leaned back and gazed at the ceiling—"that in my time I've had more women than you've had hot breakfasts, and one thing I know is that I can spot a fella hypnotized by pussy a mile away."

  Burnham blushed the color of the wallpaper. "Mr. President," he said at last, "I'm having a few . . . problems . . . with my marriage."

  The President nodded. "I know."

  Burnham was stunned. "You
do? How?"

  "Never mind. I just do."

  Burnham wanted to ask the President if he knew the source of the problems. No, he decided. Never volunteer. Besides, it didn't matter. The die was cast. He was now a staffer with personal problems.

  "Mr. President, I know that people with personal problems are a liability. If you'd prefer, I'll—"

  "Hell, Tim. Everybody's got problems. I've got problems now and then." He grinned. "Yes, believe it or not. Presidents have problems, too. The difference is, you and I can't take care of our problems like other people do. We can't go tomcatting around."

  "No, sir. I—"

  "They say a standing prick has no conscience, Tim. But when you're in the White House, the old stiff-stander does have a security clearance. It's classified."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We have to be like Caesar's wife: Keep our screwing around under our togas."

  "Yes, sir."

  "How much do you know about her?"

  "Eva? Went to Bennington; works for her father."

  "Where'd she grow up?"

  "Here."

  "Where'd her father grow up?"

  "I don't know."

  "You gonna keep seeing her?"

  Burnham spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. "I suppose I shouldn't, but I want to. I want to go home, but I can't, and I'm not even sure any more that I want to. It's a mess."

  " 'Cause if you are . . ."

  "If you think I should stop, Mr. President, I will."

  "No, not necessarily. It could do you more harm than good, have you pining around with your mind on your fly. But if you're gonna keep seeing her, I'm gonna have to have the FBI do a full-field on her."

  "I see."

  "Give it some thought, Tim. Let me know in a day or two."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Sarah gonna give you trouble?"

  "Trouble? She's already giving me trouble."

  "I mean about the girl."

  "I don't think she knows."

  "Assume she knows. At least assume she will. You have to. The world is full of people who like nothing better than to bring their best friends bad news, and this town's home to most of them."

  "I think her vanity would keep her from making a public spectacle out of it. Charging adultery doesn't reflect too well on the . . . adulterated."

  "Remember who she works for. Senator Righteous would love it if he could drag me down in the gutter with him."

  "What do you think I should do?" Burnham looked at the President, and had to restrain himself from smiling at the madness of the moment: Here he was, appealing to the Leader of the Free World as if he were Ann Landers.

  "Either get separated officially, and then you can screw your brains out and nobody'11 give a hoot, or say goodbye to Miss Pym and go home."

  "Separated? It's only been a few days."

  The President paused for a moment before saying, "It didn't take her long to change the locks."

  "No." Sweet Jesus, Burnham thought, what else does he know?

  A buzzer sounded. The President picked up the phone, listened, said, "Okay," and hung up. "Think about it, Tim."

  "I will, sir." Burnham stood and reached for the doorknob. "And thank you."

  The President waved dismissively. "Don't thank me. I'm being selfish. You're too valuable to lose."

  Burnham returned to his office and sat in the chair at his desk.

  Dyanna must have heard the springs squeak, for immediately she appeared in the doorway.

  Burnham didn't want to talk to Dyanna, not now. He wanted to replay his conversation with the President. The man amazed him: Every time he talked to him, he saw another side of him.

  But Dyanna would not be deterred.

  "I was saying, we were down in the Mess, Dolores and Connie and I, and—"

  "Dyanna."

  "What?"

  "I want to hear what you have to say. I really do. But I want you to do me a favor: Think about what you're going to say as a hamburger patty."

  "A ham—"

  "In your mind, take it in your hands and compress it into a neat little patty, and then pat off all the unnecessary little edges, until all that's left is the good part. Okay?"

  "Okay." She paused. "You remember the bug in Sarah's car?"

  "Of course I remember."

  "Mario Epstein put it there."

  "He did?"

  "Well, not personally. But he had it put there."

  "How do you know?"

  "They told me. Connie and Dolores."

  "They told you? Just like that?"

  "Pretty much. We were in the Mess, the three of us, and we had to wait awhile for a fresh pot of coffee, they must've forgotten to make more after breakfast, and ..."

  She was unstoppable, so he didn't try. He contented himself with playing Maxwell Perkins to her Thomas Wolfe, permitting her to pile mountains of raw material into a steamer trunk, from which he could sift the nuggets that would become the masterpiece.

  ". . .has this couple, real creeps Connie said, who're like street people, and they keep tabs on a whole bunch of people who live in Georgetown, he has other people working for him in Cleveland Park and Capitol Hill and all over the place, and they probably wouldn't have bothered with you if Sarah didn't work for Senator Kennedy, but because she did and you were in the White House, even though not in what they call a policy position. . . . Anyhow, they didn't treat it like any big deal, sort of routine, but I'm not sure they thought I'd run right out and tell you."

  She ran out of breath.

  She must have a diaphragm the size of a beach ball, Burnham thought. He said, "Where did they plant the new one?"

  "New one?"

  "They know she changed the . . ." He stopped himself. "They know a lot of new stuff."

  "I don't know."

  "Can you find out^'

  "I'm not sure."

  "Do they have a bug on me?"

  "They've got your file out. I saw it on the desk."

  "Christ, they've already done a full-field. And more, for all that Q-Clearance garbage. What the hell do they think they're gonna find out?"

  "Something about your connections with the Soviets."

  "The Soviets! I don't know a single Russian. Not one."

  "The President thinks you do. That's what Connie said."

  "What—Oh! That. Yeah, well, I wish them all the best. I hope they find out something. I'd like to know myself. Every time I see him, he brings it up."

  "Brings what up?"

  "That I'm supposed to have some fabulous in with the Russians. It beats the hell out of me." He smiled at Dyanna. "You are a great American, and a source of comfort and strength to me in this dark hour. I thank you."

  "My pleasure."

  "Keep listening."

  "Yes, sir." She returned to her office, and closed Burnham's door.

  He wanted to march in to the President and demand that all listening devices be removed from Sarah's home, car, purse and person. Him they were welcome to investigate, from his kindergarten records to his stool samples, but they were not to drag his wife and children into it.

  But he didn't. He didn't want to jeopardize Dyanna's privileged relationship with Epstein's secretaries. She had still more to learn, more to tell him, and if he blew her cover now, that channel would close permanently.

  The President might well refuse. After all, he'd say, if they hadn't been monitoring Sarah he never would have learned about Burnham's personal problems, could not have counseled him about his friendship with Eva, might have been presented with a nasty surprise too late to prevent Burnham from suffering irreversible harm. He'd insist that keeping track of one's trusted aides (and, by extension, their families) was not a question of morality but of security and common sense.

  The final reason that kept Burnham from bursting in on the President and taking his stand was the simplest: He didn't have the guts.

  Though he had never seen it in full cry, he knew that the President had a Vesuvian te
mper. When the most powerful man in the world explodes in a storm of fury, ordinary mortals scurry for a lee shore. He was not man enough to stand up to a pissed-off President. Not yet.

  Besides, he was just beginning to enjoy his new job, and there was nothing to be gained by throwing it down the toilet.

  The worms of rationalization began to gnaw at his soul . . .

  But there was one thing he would do, dammit.

  He dialed Sarah's number. His number. His home number.

  "Hello?" She sounded cheerful.

  "It's me."

  "Oh." It was as if he had pricked a hole in her balloon. He could hear a rush of escaping goodwill.

  "How are you?"

  "Late."

  "How're the kids?"

  "At school."

  "Oh." So much for pleasantries. "I found out who put the bug in your car?"

  "Oh, really? Who was it?" She added acidly, "The Chinese?"

  "No. It was Epstein's people."

  "They admitted it?"

  "No. I found out."

  "How?"

  "Never mind. The point is, 1—"

  "So you're quitting." She paused, and he could almost feel a crooked smile. "Right?"

  "The point is, I think there's another one somewhere."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you intend to find out?"

  "I'm trying. If I do, I'll let you know."

  "Sure, Timothy. What are you going to do about it?"

  "I think I'm doing something right now. D'you have any idea the risk I'm taking by—"

  "Risk!" She emitted a raspy noise that passed for a laugh. "Your idea of a big risk is jaywalking."

  Enough, he thought. I don't have to take this. "Put a cork in it, God damn it! I've told you. You know. Now you can do what you want."

  "No, Timothy, you do something," she spat. "Or do you want me to tell the walls and the dashboard what a joke you are in bed?"

  "Wha—"

  She hung up.

  His hand shook as he replaced the receiver. But as angry as he was, as fervently as he wanted to call her back and slap her in the face with his fling with Eva, he was even more startled by the depth of her rage. Never in fifteen years of marriage, not in the most bitter, vituperative moment, had she stooped to cheap, easy, tacky—and untrue! untrue!—cracks about his virility.