“I didn’t hear anything to forgive, sir.”
“How’s Manny?”
“He’s not going to win, but he’s putting up a fight,” answered Evan. “I understand you visited him several weeks ago.”
“Was that wicked of me?”
“Not at all, but it was a little wicked of him not to tell me.”
“That was my idea. I wanted to give us—you and me—both time to think, and in my case I had to learn more about you than what was written in several hundred pages of government jargon. So I went to the one source that made sense to me. I asked him to be quiet until the other day. I apologize.”
“No need to, sir.”
“Weingrass is a brave man. He knows he’s dying—his diagnosis is wrong but he knows he’s dying—and he pretends to treat his impending death like a statistic on a construction proposal. I don’t expect to see eighty-one, but if I do, I hope I have his courage.”
“Eighty-six,” said Kendrick flatly. “I thought he was eighty-one, too, but we found out yesterday he’s eighty-six.” Langford Jennings looked hard at Evan, then, as if the Congressman had just told an extraordinarily amusing joke, he leaned back on the couch, his neck arched, and laughed quietly but wholeheartedly. “Why is that so funny?” asked Kendrick. “I’ve known him for twenty years and he never told the truth about his age, even on passports.”
“It dovetails with something he said to me,” explained the President, speaking through his soft, subsiding laughter. “I won’t bore you with the details, but he pointed out something to me—and he was damned right—so I offered him an appointment. He said to me, ‘Sorry, Lang, I can’t accept. I couldn’t burden you with my graft.’ ”
“He’s an original, Mr. President,” offered Khalehla.
“They broke the mold.…” Jennings’s voice trailed off as his expression became serious. He looked at Rashad. “Your Uncle Mitch sends you his love.”
“Oh?”
“Payton left an hour ago. I’m sorry to say he had to get back to Washington, but I spoke with him yesterday and he insisted on flying out to see me before I met with Congressman Kendrick.”
“Why?” asked Evan, disturbed.
“He finally told me the whole story of Inver Brass. Well, not everything, of course, because we don’t know everything. With Winters and Varak gone, we’ll probably never learn who broke open the Oman file, but it doesn’t matter now. The holy Inver Brass is finished.”
“He hadn’t told you before?” Kendrick was astonished, yet he remembered Ahmat saying that he was not sure Jennings knew everything Payton had told him.
“He was honest about it while offering his resignation, which I promptly rejected.… He said that if I knew the entire story I might have squashed the bid being made in your name for you to be my running mate. I don’t know, I might have, I certainly would have been furious. But that’s irrelevant now. I’ve learned what I wanted to learn and you’re not only out of the starting gate, you’ve got a national mandate, Congressman.”
“Mr. President,” protested Evan. “It’s an artificial—”
“What the hell did Sam Winters think he was doing?” interrupted Jennings, firmly cutting off Kendrick. “I don’t give a damn how pristine their motives were; he forgot a lesson of history that he above all men should have remembered. Whenever a select group of benevolent elitists consider themselves above the will of the people and proceed to manipulate that will in the dark, without accountability, they’ve set in motion a hell of a dangerous machine. Because all it takes is one or two of those superior beings with very different, unpristine ideas to convince the others or replace the others or survive the others, and a republic is down the drain. Sam Winters’s high-sounding Inver Brass was no better than Bollinger’s tribe of boardroom thugs. Both wanted things done only one way. Their way.”
Evan shot forward. “It’s precisely for those reasons—”
The doorbell of the Presidential Suite rang, four short rings lasting no more than a half-second each. Jennings held up his hand and looked at Khalehla. “You’d appreciate this, Miss Rashad. What you just heard is a code.”
“A what?”
“Well, it’s not terribly sophisticated, but it works. It tells me who’s at the door, and the ‘who’ in this case is one of the more valuable aides in the White House.… Come in!”
The door opened and Gerald Bryce walked inside, closing it firmly behind him. “I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. President, but I’ve just gotten word from Beijing and I knew you’d want to know.”
“It can wait, Gerry. Let me introduce you—”
“Joe …?” The name slipped out of Kendrick’s mouth as the memory of a military jet to Sardinia and a handsome young specialist from the State Department came into focus.
“Hello, Congressman,” said Bryce, walking to the couch and shaking hands with Evan while nodding to Khalehla. “Miss Rashad.”
“That’s right,” interjected Jennings. “Gerry told me he briefed you on the plane when you flew to Oman.… I won’t blow his horn in front of him, but Mitch Payton stole him from Frank Swann at the State Department and I stole him from Mitch. He’s positively terrifying when it comes to computer communications and how to keep them secret. Now, if someone will restrain the secretaries, he may have a future.”
“You’re embarrassingly kind, sir,” said Bryce, the efficient professional. “But as to Beijing, Mr. President, their answer is affirmative. Shall I reconfirm your offer?”
“That’s another code,” explained Jennings, grinning. “I said I’d jawbone our leading bankers on the QT not to get too greedy in Hong Kong and make it rough for the Chinese banks when the ’97 transition occurs. Of course, in return for—”
“Mr. President,” interrupted Bryce with all due courtesy but not without a tone of caution.
“Oh, sorry, Gerry. I know it’s top secret and eyes-only and all that other stuff, but I hope that pretty soon nothing will be withheld from the Congressman.”
“Speaking of which, sir,” continued the White House communications expert, glancing at Kendrick and briefly smiling, “in the absence of your political staff here in Los Angeles, I’ve approved Vice President Bollinger’s statement of withdrawal tonight. It’s in line with your thinking.”
“You mean he’s going to shoot himself on television?”
“Not quite, Mr. President. He does say, however, that he intends to devote his life to improving the lot of the world’s hungry.”
“If I find that mother stealing a chocolate bar, he’s in Leavenworth for the rest of his life.”
“Beijing, sir. Shall I reconfirm?”
“You certainly may, and add my gratitude, the thieves.” Bryce nodded to Kendrick and Khalehla and left, again closing the door firmly behind him. “Where were we?”
“Inver Brass,” replied Evan. “They created me and artificially put me before the public as someone I’m not. Under those conditions my nomination could hardly be called the will of the people. It’s a charade.”
“You’re a charade?” asked Jennings.
“You know what I’m talking about. I neither sought it nor wanted it. As you put it so well, I was manipulated into the race and shoved down everyone’s throat. I didn’t win it or earn it in the political process.”
Langford Jennings studied Kendrick; the silence was both pensive and electric. “You’re wrong, Evan,” said the President finally. “You did win it and you did earn it. I’m not talking about Oman and Bahrain, or even the still-underwraps South Yemen—those events are simply acts of personal courage and sacrifice that have been used to initially call attention to you. It’s no different from a man having been a war hero or an astronaut, and a perfectly legitimate handle to propel you into the limelight. I object to the way it was done as much as you do because it was done secretly, by men who broke laws and unconsciously wasted lives and hid behind a curtain of influence. But that wasn’t you, they weren’t you.… You earned it in this town because you said t
hings that had to be said and the country heard you. Nobody mocked up those television tapes and nobody put the words in your mouth. And what you did behind the scenes in those closed intelligence hearings had the Beltway choking in its fumes. You asked questions for which there were no legitimate answers, and a hell of a lot of entrenched bureaucrats used to having their own way still don’t know what hit them, except that they’d better get their acts together. Lastly, and this is from me, Lang Jennings of Idaho. You saved the nation from my most zealous contributors, and I do mean zealous, like in zealots. They would have taken us down a road I don’t even want to think about.”
“You would have found them yourself. Sometime, somewhere, one of them would have pushed you too far and you would have pushed back and found them all. I saw a man try to lean on you in the Oval Office, and he knew when a tree was about to fall on him.”
“Oh, Herb Dennison and that Medal of Freedom.” The President’s world-famous grin momentarily came back to him as he laughed. “Herb was tough but harmless and did a lot of things I don’t like doing myself. He’s gone now; the Oval Office did it for him. He got a call from one of those old firms on Wall Street, the kind where everyone’s a member of some exclusive club no one can get into and you and I wouldn’t want to, so he’s heading back to the money boys. Herb finally got the colonel’s rank he always wanted.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Kendrick.
“Nothing, forget it. National security, state secret, and all that other stuff.”
“Then let me make clear what we both know, Mr. President. I’m not qualified.”
“Qualified? Who in heaven or hell is qualified for my job? No one, that’s who!”
“I’m not talking about your job—”
“You could be,” interrupted Jennings.
“Then I’m light-years away from being ready for that. I never could be.”
“You are already.”
“What?”
“Listen to me, Evan. I don’t fool myself. I’m well aware that I have neither the imagination nor the intellectual capacities of a Jefferson, either of the Adamses, a Madison, a Lincoln, a Wilson, a Hoover—yes, I said Hoover, that brilliant, much maligned man—or an FDR, a Truman, a Nixon—yes, Nixon, whose flaw was in his character, not in his geopolitical overview—or a Kennedy, or even the brilliant Carter, who had too many brain cells for his own good politically. But we’ve come into a different age now. Drop Aquarius and insert Telerius—that’s the full-grown age of television; instant, immediate communication. What I have is the trust of the people because they see and hear the man. I saw a nation wallowing in self-pity and defeat and I got angry. Churchill once said that democracy may have a lot of flaws but it was the best system man ever devised. I believe that, and I believe all those bromides about America being the greatest, the strongest, the most benevolent country on the face of the earth. Call me Mr. Simplistic, but I do believe. That’s what the people see and hear and we’re not so bad off for it.… We all recognize reflections of ourselves in others and I’ve watched you, listened to you, read everything there is to say about you, and talked at length with my friend Emmanuel Weingrass. In my very skeptical judgment, this is the job you must take—almost whether you want it or not.”
“Mr. President,” broke in Kendrick softly, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for the nation, but in all honesty there are differences between us. You’ve espoused certain policies I can’t support.”
“Good Christ, I don’t ask you to!… Well, on the surface, I’d appreciate your shutting up until you talked to me about the issues. I trust you, Evan, and I won’t close you out. Convince me. Tell me where I’m wrong—without fear or favor—that’s what this goddamned office needs! I can get carried away on some things and know I should be pulled back. Ask my wife. After the last press conference two months ago, I walked into our kitchen upstairs in the White House and expected some kind of congratulations, I guess. Instead I got hit with ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Louis the Fourteenth with regal decrees? You made as much sense as Bugs Bunny!’ And my daughter, who was visiting us, said something about giving me a book on grammar for my birthday.… I know my limitations, Evan, but I also know what I can do when I have the best people to advise me. You got rid of the garbage! Now step in.”
“I repeat, I’m not equipped.”
“The people think you are, I think you are. It’s why the nomination is yours for the taking. Don’t kid yourself, you may have been forced on the ticket, but to deny you would be an affront to millions of voters, the PR people made that clear.”
“PR? Public Relations? Is that what it’s all about?”
“Far more than either of us would like, but, yes, it’s a large part of what everything’s about these days. To say otherwise would be to deny reality. Better it’s people like you and me than a Genghis Khan or an Adolf Hitler. Beneath our differences, we want to save, not destroy.”
It was Kendrick’s turn to study the President of the United States. “Good Lord, you are a charmer.”
“It’s my stock-in-trade, Mr. Vice President,” said Jennings, grinning, “That and a few honestly held beliefs.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“I do,” interrupted Khalehla, reaching for Evan’s hand. “I think Field Officer Rashad should really resign.”
“Also something else,” said President Langford Jennings, his eyebrows arched. “You should get married. It would be most unseemly for my running mate to be living in sin. I mean, can you imagine what all those evangelicals who deliver so many votes would do if your current status was revealed? It’s simply not part of my image.”
“Mr. President, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President?”
“Shut up.”
“Gladly, sir. But I should like to add a note of clarification for the record—for God’s sake, don’t tell my wife I told you. After both our divorces we lived together for twelve years and had two children. We tied the proverbial knot in Mexico three weeks before the convention and predated the marriage. Now, that’s really a state secret.”
“I’ll never tell, Mr. President.”
“I know you won’t. I trust you and I need you. And our nation will be better off for the both of us—quite conceivably because of you.”
“I doubt that, sir,” said Evan Kendrick.
“I don’t.… Mr. President.”
The bell of the Presidential Suite rang once again. Four short, sharp half-second bursts.
Read on for an excerpt from Robert Ludlum’s
The Bourne Identity
1
The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.
Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel’s pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.
A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.
The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler’s bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by bl
ood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.
He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface—only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.
And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice-like throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle—yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.
Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition. He could not submit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to be there!
He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up! Climb up!
A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn! Turn!