Seven Days in May

Friday, 4 P.M.

Henry Whitney had spent twenty years schooling himself not to show uneasiness or emotion no matter what kind of company he might find himself in. But here he was in the private quarters of the President of the United States, unbidden, uninvited, and out of channels. That was the most unsettling part of it: out of channels. He followed Miss Townsend across the vaulted hall.

"The President is waiting in the Monroe Room," she said, and steered him through a doorway without bothering to knock. "Mr. President, this is Mr. Henry Whitney."

Jordan Lyman came quickly forward, hand outstretched.

"Nice to see you, Mr. Whitney."

"How do you do, sir," the consul general replied. He stood awkwardly, conscious of his soiled shirt, his rumpled suit and scuffed shoes. There had been no time to clean up. After a wild drive from La Granja to the Madrid airport, he had flown to New York, hurried across Long Island in a taxi and caught another plane to Washington. There had been just barely time to wash his face and run an electric shaver over it at Dulles Airport.

"Is it about Paul-about Girard?" asked Lyman. His voice was eager.

"Yes, sir. It is about Mr. Girard. I'm not sure how to begin, sir. I guess I better just give it to you."

Whitney put his thin attaché case on a chair, snapped the catches open, and took out a bent silver cigarette case.

"Look inside, Mr. President."

Lyman almost snatched the case out of Whitney's hand. He struggled with it and tore a thumbnail trying to open it.

"Here, sir." Whitney produced a little penknife and pried open the catch.

Lyman took out two sheets of folded paper, scorched brown at the edges and along the folds, but otherwise undamaged. He glanced quickly at the first few sentences, then turned to the second page and looked at the bottom.

"Sit down, sit down," he said to Whitney. "I'm awfully sorry. Just let me read this."

Lyman took the papers over to a window, adjusted his glasses and began reading. When he finished he went back over it to reread several passages.

"Have you read this?" he asked Whitney suddenly.

"Yes, sir." Whitney was sitting uncomfortably in a curved-back armchair across the room.

Lyman looked at the foreign service officer with the pleased curiosity of a man studying a stranger who has just done him an unexpected favor. He saw a slightly built man with red hair and thin features. Large blue eyes gave him an air of innocence that seemed incongruous in the light of his presence in the White House at this moment.

"Understand it?" asked Lyman.

"Not altogether, sir. I could only add two and two.

But I thought it would be ... important for you to have it. So I brought it."

"Did you discuss it with anyone?" asked Lyman. "Or show it to anyone? How about the ambassador?"

"No, sir, perhaps I should have, but I did not. No one has seen it except you and me. It seemed to be an eyes-only kind of paper. I'm quite sure the Spanish police at La Granj a never thought to look inside. The ambassador doesn't know I've come. I suppose I may have been missed by now."

"Ambassador Lytle knows nothing about this?"

"No, sir," Whitney said. "You see, Mr. President, the police chief at La Granja-that's where the plane crashed-gave me a box of things found in the wreckage. There was precious little, but what there was he turned over to me. I put the box in my car and had dinner. Then, before I went back to the scene to meet the investigators, I decided to see if any of the belongings could be identified as to owner. The cigarette case had no markings on the outside, and when I opened it, I ... well, I read it, and I thought you ought to have it right away."

Lyman folded the papers, put them carefully back in the silver case and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled a chair up close to Whitney and sat down.

"Mr. Whitney, I have other questions," he said. "But first, about Paul. Was he ... was there ... ?"

"No, Mr. President. Very few bodies were even whole, except those in the cockpit. The others were all burned." Then, seeing the look on Lyman's face, he added: "I'm quite sure that it all happened very quickly, sir. On impact."

Lyman looked away toward the window. Strangely, what he saw was Girard on Inauguration Day, his big head looking ridiculous under his rented silk top hat. They had joked about that; Paul had compared himself to the cartoonists' standard personification of prohibition and blue laws. Now he was gone, and Lyman knew how old men feel when they pick up the newspaper in the morning and see their lives flaking away each time they turn to the obituary page.

"He must have had that case in his hand when the plane crashed," Whitney said.

"Yes, he would have been trying to save it," Lyman said, almost to himself. Then, to Whitney: "We were very close, Mr. Whitney."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President."

Lyman forced himself back to questioning.

"So you didn't inform Ambassador Lytle?"

"No, sir." Whitney's blue eyes held Lyman's without blinking and there was no apology in his voice. "After reading the paper, I gave the box with the other stuff to a Trans-Ocean man, and then just drove to Madrid and got on the first plane to the States. I ... well, I don't even have a clean shirt with me."

Lyman waved away the sartorial reference. "I don't need to tell you that this is the most important paper handed to me by any State Department officer this year. You did the right thing. I don't suppose I need to tell you, either, that you must never mention what you read to anybody."

"I realize that, sir."

"And that you are never to disclose, or even hint at, its existence."

"No, sir."

"I emphasize the word 'never.'"

"Yes, sir."

"I have your word on that, Mr. Whitney?"

"Absolutely, sir."

Lyman spoke slowly. "Nothing like this"-he tapped his pocket-"has ever happened in this country. Needless to say, I don't want it to happen, but just as important, I don't want anyone ever to think that it might have happened. Thanks to you, I can now hope to deal with this privately."

"I understand, sir."

"Good." Lyman smiled. "Mr. Whitney, I think you have something of a future in your profession."

"Thank you, Mr. President. I hope so."

Whitney stood up, sensing that the President had neared the end of his questions. Lyman searched the diplomat's thin features for a clue to his reactions to this strange conversation, but found none. He merely stood politely, awaiting the President's next move.

"Now, you go clear yourself with the department. Make up any story you want to, and if they give you any trouble, just call Miss Townsend. She's a wonder at helping people. By the way, how did you get to her?"

"Well, to be honest, sir, the only names I knew in the White House-besides yours, of course-were Frank Simon and Esther Townsend. Under the circumstances, I thought I ought to talk to Miss Townsend. It took quite a while to get through to her."

"Good man. You go get some sleep now and forget all about it."

"Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?"

"That's all, yes. Except, again, thank you."

Lyman escorted Whitney to the elevator, waited until he started down, then walked swiftly back to the study. He threw open the door.

"Break out the Scotch!" His voice was suddenly triumphant. "Drinks are on the house!"

Todd stared at him, for once stripped of his poise. "My God! Did he bring it?"

Lyman pulled the case from his pocket and held it up.

"All there," he said. A real smile, the first in four days, spread across his face. "I think we're out of the woods, thanks to Brother Whitney"-he looked at the case again, then added gently-"and Paul."

"Mr. President," said Clark, shaking his head, "you're nothing but a goddam luckpot."

"Does it say everything you need?" asked Casey anxiously. "The paper, I mean?"

"This is the damnedest thing I ever read," Lyman said. "Let's just say it's enough to get a resignation from Scott."

Lyman wanted to take Ray Clark next door into the Monroe Room and go over the memorandum, sentence by sentence. But protocol-and Todd's presence-said the Secretary of the Treasury had to see it first.

"Chris, read through it," the President said. "Then I want the others to take a good look at it too."

The silver case opened more easily this time. The President extracted the papers and handed them to Todd. As the Secretary read, Lyman gestured to the others, offering drinks. Clark shook his head. Todd, deep in the memo, picked up his glass without looking at it. The President touched his own glass to Casey's and smiled at the Marine.

Todd read it through twice, slowly.

"I agree, Mr. President," he said. "This is indeed the God-damnedest thing I ever read. It tells quite a lot about Barnswell, too. He's slippery, all right. I'm glad we didn't call him."

Clark also read the papers while the others remained silent. But when it was Casey's turn, he shook his head.

"Sir, if you don't mind, I'd just as soon not. I take it there's enough there to meet your needs, and I don't think I need to see it all. In case anybody ever asks me, I'd rather say I haven't any idea."

Lyman grinned. "Jiggs, as that script writer said to you in New York the other day, you're kind of neutral."

"Sir, I'm still a Marine. And if any guy sticks his neck out farther than I already have, he'll be a giraffe."

For a few minutes the atmosphere of the room, which had been leaden for so long, lightened as the four men relaxed. Clark offered another Georgia political story. Lyman recalled the time, during his campaign for governor of Ohio, when he received a call from one of his opponent's advisers by mistake and poured forth counsel which thoroughly confused the opposition. Even Todd let down and told how his sloop once lost the Bermuda race because some pranksters bribed a Newport lady of easy virtue to stow away.

But Todd also brought the group back to reality with a law-school definition of "enthusiast": "One who believes without proof-and whose proof nobody will believe."

"The question is," he said, "what do we enthusiasts do now?"

"I've decided that, Chris," said Lyman without hesitation. "I'm going to call Scott tonight and tell him I've decided to go to Mount Thunder after all. I'll get him over here to give me a briefing. Then we'll have a little talk and I'll get his resignation."

"Sounds too easy," Todd said doubtfully. "How are you going to do it?"

"I intend to confront him with ECOMCON, with holding Ray a prisoner, with kidnaping Henderson, with sending out a fake message that actually was a code for a military take-over-the whole ball of wax."

Todd and Clark objected simultaneously.

"How about the tax return?" asked Todd.

"You mean you aren't going to use the Girard paper?" said Clark.

"Miss Segnier's tax return is out," Lyman answered. "I said that before, and I meant it. That's Scott's private business."

He tapped his glass on the arm of his chair and spoke almost as though to himself. "As for that memorandum, the less said about it the better. If I use Paul's report, Scott will know we have it, and it would be that much harder to keep it secret over the long run.

"We've still got a long way to go on the treaty, one hell of a long way, and I don't want to muddy it up with this. There are enough problems already without tossing in a military coup too. And even if there weren't, I can't afford to let that kind of poison get around."

The president paused and stared at Clark before continuing.

"Look, I hope the people of this country feel the way I do-that what is outlined in that paper is unthinkable here. Ray, you know how I feel about politicians who don't tell the truth. But I promise you right now that I'll lie about this one without the slightest hesitation if I have to. I think it's that important that the public never even suspects this kind of thing was attempted."

"Then why, for God's sake, all this fuss about getting the memorandum?" Clark asked. "If you aren't going to use it, why are we all as happy as goats in a junk yard?"

Lyman smiled. "Because it's insurance, Ray. Because I'm going to feel a whole lot better with it in my pocket."

"Suppose he denies everything?" asked Todd. "Or claims he had nothing to do with it?"

"I'll face that when I get to it," said Lyman stubbornly.

"If you can pull it off your way, you're a miracle man," Clark said dubiously. "Frankly, I think we ought to have something a little stronger in reserve."

"We will," Lyman said. "For one thing, Barney Rutkowski is going to keep those troop-carrier planes on the ground at Fort Bragg. And I'm going to put out that all-service message canceling a scheduled alert."

The phone rang. Lyman answered.

"Okay, Art," he said after listening a moment. "Come on in." To the others, he explained:

"Corwin says Prentice, Riley and Hardesty just left Quarters Six. They've been with Scott all afternoon."

Todd banged a fist into the open palm of his other hand. "I wish we had it on tape. They know that we know now. I wonder what I'd do in Scott's position?"

Casey frowned professionally for a moment. "That's not so hard," he said. "As long as he's got control of the all-service radio and the override switch for the TV networks, he can afford to wait. He thinks his troops are going to move tonight, and he probably figures he has the President blocked."

"Say, cousin," drawled Clark, "next time I decide to take over this house, I want you on my team."

"Any time, Senator." Casey was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. Lyman's new confidence was contagious.

"Unless I overestimate the man," Todd said, "he has studied President Lyman's character and has decided the President will not oppose him with an open move-and he thinks he's got it fixed so we can't move otherwise."

"I'll buy that if you include the damn Gallup Poll," offered Clark. "I think he might figure that anybody with only 29 per cent of the country back of him isn't a helluva lot of opposition."

"Go right ahead, gentlemen," Lyman said cheerfully. "Just pretend I'm not in the room."

Todd turned to him, his face serious. "Are you still going to tell Rutkowski what's up?"

"I think I'll have to," Lyman said. "I think he's already figured most of it out."

The President picked up his phone.

"Esther," he said, "please get me General Scott. I believe he's at his quarters. Fort Myer." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Ray, get on that other extension. I want you to listen."

The call was put through in less than a minute.

"General, this is the President." Lyman began briskly. "I've changed my mind again. I've decided to stick around tomorrow and do my duty instead of going fishing."

"Fine, fine, Mr. President," said Scott. "I'm glad you decided that."

"I thought you would be," said Lyman, measuring his words. "I thought it would make things smoother all around. And I decided I'd better keep in close touch right at this particular time."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, so I'll know enough to make it useful, I think I ought to have a rundown of the current force dispositions both here and overseas before we go up to the mountain."

"That's a good idea, sir. I'll have one of the Joint Staff officers from the war room over there at your convenience in the morning."

"If you don't mind, General, I'd rather have you take me through it yourself."

"Well, sir, I had planned to go up a little early tomorrow, you know, just to get on the ground ..."

"No, no," Lyman said. "I mean tonight."

"Oh. Tonight. I see."

"Yes, tonight. If you don't mind, I'd like you to come here, General. Would, say, eight o'clock suit you?"

"Well ... yes, sir. That would be fine."

"Good," said Lyman. "Then I'll expect you at eight. In the upstairs study. Just have your man park in the back driveway and come on up."

"All right, Mr. President. I'll be there."

Lyman hung up. Clark, dropping his phone in its cradle, shook his head.

"What do you think, Ray?" Lyman asked.

"How the hell could you tell from that voice?" said Clark. "That fellow doesn't scare easy, that's for sure."

Lyman looked at his wrist watch, then at Todd and Casey.

"It's five-fifteen now," he said. "I'd like you both back here at seven-thirty. Ray and I'll stay here and meet Barney when he arrives."

The President saw the two men out at the study door, then sank into the big yellow-covered armchair, undid his shoelaces and kicked the shoes off.

Clark looked at Lyman's unshod feet and shook his head dolefully. "Thank God, no photographer got a shot of those during the campaign, or the gag men would have been asking whether you expected to fill Ed Frazier's shoes-or surround them."

Lyman grinned, but then spoke seriously. "Ray, I'm proud of you out there in New Mexico, pouring two fifths down the drain."

Clark grunted. "Close call, Jordie. I killed half a pint on the flight out to El Paso. Oh, well. If I was a saint I wouldn't be mixed up in anything as crummy as this."

Lyman leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. Twirling his glasses in one hand, he began ruminating out loud about the reported Russian duplicity in opening a new Z-4 assembly plant at Yakutsk.

"You know, it isn't just that it lessens the chances of peace," he said. "It's that Feemerov can't imagine how much it lessens them. Look what it does for Scott and his case. General Scott, the American military idol-and the man who said all along he would never have agreed to any kind of disarmament treaty."

"Feemerov's word is worth about as much as Khrushchev's was," said Clark in disgust. "To think that I toasted the bastard in his own vodka in Vienna. The guy must be nuts."

"No, I don't think so," Lyman said. "I wouldn't have signed anything with him if I thought that. It's just that treachery has been a way of life in Russian politics for five hundred years, and they can't break the habit in foreign relations."

"Any word from Moscow yet?"

"No, but I'm not worried about it. At least not the first part. I'm pretty sure he'll agree to a meeting. The visit to Yakutsk is another matter."

"You think your plan will work?"

"I don't know, Ray. Who can tell? All I can do is try," Lyman said. "But, God, this will be dynamite in Scott's hands, whether or not he resigns. I just can't let him tell the country about it."

They talked at length about the confrontation with Scott. Clark funneled suggestions to Lyman and the President's mind sorted, filed or discarded them. They were still deep in analysis of Scott's probable reactions when Esther called to say that General Rutkowski had arrived.

"Send him up," Lyman said, reaching for his shoes.

In civilian clothes Rutkowski looked more like an off-duty bartender than a four-star general. He wore a sports shirt buttoned at the collar and a suit jacket, but no tie. His heavy-jowled face, blond hair and pudgy body made him seem no match for the trim, handsome Scott. But his first words dispelled any illusions of flabbiness: he spoke with the authority of the command post.

"Mr. President, I should get portal-to-portal pay. I made it in three hours and seventeen minutes."

Lyman put out his hand. "Barney, you know Senator Raymond Clark of Georgia, don't you?"

"Sure," said Rutkowski. "I spend too much of my life either before his committee or somebody else's."

"Look, Barney, I know you like straight talk," Lyman said. "The senator was held prisoner for about thirty-six hours at that classified base you were worrying about in New Mexico."

"What?" Rutkowski was incredulous. His match went out on the way to the tip of his cigar, and he had to strike another one.

"Also," Lyman added, "that base was started months ago-but I never knew it until Monday night."

The President went on to sketch the whole affair, skipping some details but leaving in everything the NORAD commander would need to make his own judgment. When Lyman finished, Rutkowski was folded in a haze of cigar smoke. He said nothing.

"If I nominated you for chief of staff of the Air Force tonight, assuming I get Hardesty's resignation, what could you do to stop this thing?" Lyman asked.

"Well, one thing I sure could do, Mr. President, is stop those planes from leaving Pope." Rutkowski looked at his watch. "If they've got an ETA in New Mexico at 2300 mountain time, that means they'll be leaving Pope about the same time by Eastern Daylight."

"You mean eleven our time?" Lyman asked.

"Yes, sir." Rutkowski grinned. "That's slicing the salami pretty thin for you, I know. But don't worry. It'll take them another hour to load in New Mexico, at least, even if they get in there."

"Would you take the job?" Lyman asked.

Rutkowski smiled again. "I take any orders the Commander in Chief gives me. It's strictly no sweat, Mr. President. If you have to fire Scott and Hardesty, and you make me chief of staff, we'll shut things down tight in half an hour."

"But apparently there's only one telephone line out of Site Y, connecting with some private switchboard in Scott's office-or somewhere else around the Pentagon."

"You leave all that to me," Rutkowski said. "Just give me a couple of guys with good legs to run errands around midnight."

Clark looked at the General with a puzzled air.

"You don't seem surprised, General," he said. "Aren't you a little thrown by this thing?"

"I did a lot of putting two and two together on the way over here, Senator. People always say it can't happen here, and I'm one of those people. But all of a sudden I figured out I was wrong. Given the right circumstances, it can happen anywhere. And don't quote me in the Senate, but the military has been riding awful high-wide-and-handsome in this country ever since World War II." He showed his teeth once more in his confident grin. "I ought to know, too. I've been doing some of the riding. But that's thirty years-and that's a long time."

Lyman pulled off his glasses again and chewed an earpiece. "You know, although I never thought about it from that angle, it's true. We never had so much military for so long before. But the idea still staggers me, Barney."

Rutkowski lifted his hands as if to say that he had no further answer. "Maybe my-pardon the expression -my boss, General Scott, will explain it all tonight."

"I wish he could," said Lyman unhappily. "I wish he could."

The President asked Clark to wait, then took Rutkowski to the third floor and showed him to a guest suite. He called the kitchen, ordered dinner for the General, and told him to relax until 7:30.

When he returned to the study, Esther Townsend was standing in the fading light with Clark.

"Mr. President, there's one thing you have to do right now," she said, holding out some papers. "Tonight's the deadline for you to act on that Social Security bill."

Lyman took the documents and riffled absently through them, trying to force himself back to routine.

"I never did talk to Tom Burton, did I?" he mused. Then, more crisply, he asked Esther, "What about the Budget Bureau?"

"Their report's in there, Mr. President. They raise some questions about interpretation and administration of the new sections, but they recommend approval."

"All right," Lyman said, sitting down and spreading the papers out. "They can work that out with Tom and his people." He scribbled his name on the bill. Esther scooped up the papers and disappeared.

"Ray, it's going to be a long evening," Lyman said. "Let's get a quick swim in before we eat."

"You're on, Jordie."

A few minutes later, the two old friends were cavorting in the basement pool that Franklin Roosevelt had installed to exercise his crippled legs. Clark spouted like a whale, swam underwater and demonstrated what he called "the Lyman crawl"-a mere flutter of the hands on the surface, but a powerful kick underwater. The President, sticking to a more sedate breast stroke, swam methodically up and down. They wound up, breathing hard, hanging on the drain trough at the shallow end of the little pool.

"Listen, Ray, I want you next door in the Monroe Room when I talk to Scott. I may need some help."

"Jordie," said Clark, "you know I'm always right next door."