A God In Ruins

A God In Ruins

The three of them were draped around the living room,...

time of night, they were going to be talking “rotten apples,”

Greer came rumpled, and she showed the wear of executive decision making. “I got a call from Darnell Jefferson, two in the morning Washington time. They want to get together with us and nail down a debate.”

“They must be hurting,” Rita said.

Greer shook her head and, although it was a serious moment, she could not help but see how voluptuous and filled with Quinn Rita was. Greer felt a pang of jealousy.

“What did you wake us up to tell us?” Reynaldo Maldonado asked.

Greer took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lifted her face. “Pucky Tomtree has been having an affair for two years.”

“Well, you’ve got this old boy’s attention,” Mal said. Both Quinn and Rita stared, puzzled.

“Go on,” Quinn said softly.

“I’ve personally known Pucky Tomtree fifteen, maybe twenty years,” Greer began. “She chaired an awful lot of community services from Boston. Committee to Save the Llamas, Committee to Bring Caruso Back from the Dead, Up the Symphony, Artists Against Starvation, Artists for Peace. She either chaired or served on the boards of a hundred national groups. We’ve been on a dozen committees together. I find her to be a lovely woman.”

Orange juice all around.

“Providence has a very active theater life. Sort of a bedroom community for Broadway. She loved to hang out in the garret scene. There were a few moot whispers about affairs. Nothing to write home about.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” Quinn interceded.

“Shut up and listen,” Mal ordered his son-in-law.

“Okay, gang,” Greer said, “hand me the envelope, please.

And the winner is ... Aldo de Voto,” she said, “the reigning conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. I worked with him before he moved to Washington, when he directed the New York Philharmonic. Events .. . committees .. . fundraising. He’s a very charming guy with wife and kids safely tucked away in Spain. No, we were never lovers, but Aldo and I were bosom buddies.”

Greer went on that Crowley Media kept a company apartment at the Watergate where Aldo de Voto lived. They spent a lot of time rapping, as friends, each having the key to the other’s apartment.

“Why did you think you needed a key to his place?” Mal asked.

“Because my place often looked like the interstate, with the Crowder people coming and going and a line of politicians at the door. Aldo seldom came home until very late, and I could hide out there. Washington trips ain’t no fun, folks.”

To this day, Rita found discussions of infidelity discomforting, but she tried not to show her reaction. Quinn seemed to be hardly listening, while Mal cleared every sentence in his mind.

“I hadn’t been to Washington for about three months, and after the FCC hearings I had the bird dogs on me, even from my own network. I gave Aldo a ring, but his voice machine said he was in Philadelphia. Anyhow, his key still worked. I stretched out on his couch for a while, then went to freshen up. There was a cosmetic bag at the vanity mirror with the top opened. Have you ever noticed the jeweled Japanese fighting-fish brooch Pucky wears?”

“Yeah .. .” Mal sighed.

“It was there in the cosmetic bag as well as her lipstick, an initialed notepad, her perfume, et cetera. And, a name tag.”

“It would be impossible for anyone to plant it,” Mal said.

“Particularly a brooch worth several hundred thousand dollars,” Greer said. “There were a few other things in Aldo’s closet that a lady would wear for an afternoon tryst. Her size.”

“What about her Secret Service detail?”

“She drives her own damned car sometimes. Pucky is an independent lady.”

“Didn’t we stop all this with Clinton?” Quinn asked in disgust.

“It’s been eight years without a whisper of scandal in the country,” Rita said. “Do you think the American people even care?”

“Look, daughter, the President can ball any alley cat he gets his hands on. But the First Lady! The Capitol dome would fall to the floor,” Mal said.

“Adultery is a man’s misdemeanor and a woman’s felony,” Greer said.

“Who knows?” Mal asked. ;.

“We and the principals. They do not know that I.know. My educated guess is that Tomtree is oblivious of it.”

Quinn saw Rita shaken up by it all. His hand pressed her shoulder. “That’s all we need to hear,” he said. “We are going to do absolutely nothing except to vow to each other to do absolutely nothing. Done. End of discussion.”

“That is extremely decent of you, Governor,” Greer exploded. “But do you have any idea of the broadsides these people are going to fire at you on the Internet and TV and in the press? And don’t tell me the American people can tell the difference.”

“Quinn, if Tomtree found out, he’d want to keep a lid on it until after the election. Then he’d let it fly. This is a real ace in the hole. We squeeze just a little bit on the debate negotiations,” Mal said.

“I said no, and I mean no. Maybe I’ve come this far on the dead bodies of those kids in Six Shooter Canyon. No, no, no, no!”

“Vintage O’Connell!” Greer snapped. “Woweeeee!”

The four of them gasped at each other, as fighters who had gone a nonstop round.

“Maybe it is vintage O’Connell,” Rita said. “Maybe a lot of people out there are beginning to understand what kind of man he is. Maybe he’s the last honest politician the world will ever see. Maybe the thought of hurting me makes it too difficult for him to bear. Maybe he is self-destructing. But he’s a Marine. Take him or cut bait.”

Oh, man, did Rita chill them out.

“I need your promise you’ll never mention Pucky or your resignation,” Quinn said.

“Shit,” Mal groaned. “All right, include me in. You’ve my word.”

“It remains between us,” Greer promised.

At the last moment Greer decided she needed Rae O’Connell with her and Mal in Chicago. Rae, a successful, computer oriented businesswoman, had run the electronics at her dad’s Denver headquarters. After she gleaned and analyzed the incoming messages, she gave them to Greer, in order of priority.

The last time Greer had been on the road without Rae, her work had backed up unmercifully.

Overnight bags packed and ready to go, Greer had the charter jet switch to Colorado Springs in order to avoid a possible media alert.

Their red-eye express set down in the private-plane section of Midway Airport, where a limo pulled alongside, and they drove off to the Schweitzer Mansion on Lake Shore Drive, a Republican half-way house, and site of secret rendezvous.

The mansion was century-old-mahogany- and tapestry-clad. Each bedroom held a ponderous four-poster, and each bathroom had a freestanding sink, pipes to heat towels, and crested linens. It said “robber baron” all over it. The present Schweitzers lived magnificently on the old fortune. They were Chicago denizens of high order.

Alma, a robust former mezzo soprano greeted them and ushered each to their suites. Kurt Schweitzer was in Washington until after the election.

Darnell Jefferson would be arriving at dawn. A meeting in Mr.

Schweitzer’s study was called for ten in the morning.

Greer, Mal, and Rae went into power sleeps, after which they loaded up on orange juice and danish followed by a large transfusion of coffee.

Ten o’clock.

Darnell spilled out of Mr. Schweitzer’s chair.

“Greer!”

Jesus, he looked great, she thought. The wiry, bubbly white hair against his milk chocolate skin. Even in relaxed clothing he appeared like a model.

“Hi, handsome,” she said, running her fingers through his hair and giving him a hug and peck. “This is Professor Maldonado, and this is Rae O’Connell, the governor’s daughter.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Darnell said to Mal. “I have a pair of your figurines in my home.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“Russian ladies.”

Mal smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah.”

“I asked Mrs. Schweitzer last night,” Rae said, “to set me up as close to you as possible on a secure phone. I’ll have to run messages to Greer during your meeting.”

The study was pure Teddy Roosevelt, with stuffed heads of boars and lions and buffalo staring down at them and photographs of safaris, killing safaris. . good trip, fine .. .

“You know,” Darnell said, “every campaign plays hide-and seek on the debate, maneuvering for an edge. In the end there is always a debate. I hope we can hash it out.”

“We know you are ready to shotgun the country with ads saying Quinn was the one refusing to debate,” Greer said.

“Our attitude here, now, is that you really don’t want the debate,” Mal said.

“I refer to one debate,” Darnell said, “because two simply can’t be fit in. Here is our proposal for site and rules.”

“And here is ours,” Greer said.

Darnell’s paper ruled out university campuses. Universities were too volatile and apt to be too liberal. The cities suggested were San Diego, Portland, San Antonio, St. Paul, Baltimore, and Montgomery.

The debate would last ninety minutes, and there would be alternative moderators.

Three minutes on each new subject. Three-minute rebuttal. The last fifteen minutes, questions from the audience.

Rae came in from the adjoining office and laid a half dozen notes before Greer. She scribbled on two of them and set two aside. “This should excite you, Darnell. We have just qualified for federal matching funds for the balance of the campaign.” “The proposal?”

“Bullshit,” Mal said characteristically. “Montgomery, St. Paul, Portland. Why don’t we hold it in the middle of the Amazon? Besides, your October 11 date could well be during a World Series game. Otherwise, there is absolutely nothing we agree with in the balance of this proposal.”

Darnell held his hand up to be able to read the counterproposal. Rae came in with a half dozen more notes, two for Mal.

Darnell set their proposal down. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Well, your proposal was pretty sanitized.”

“And yours, revolutionary.”

“All we are trying to do,” Mal said, “is bring the art of debate up to where it was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Those kind of debates are won by artful dodgers,” Darnell said.

“I’d say both of the candidates qualify,” Greer said.

Darnell glared down at the paper on the desk. They would vie for a single three-hour debate with a twenty-minute break in the middle. Only one venue was proposed, the Celeste Bartos Forum Hall in the New York Public Library.

It would be an open debate. Either candidate could bring up any issue and argue it. Either candidate could rebut. The deadline would be five minutes. If a candidate ran under five minutes, he would be given credit for the time; if he ran over it, it would be deducted from his total speaking time.

One moderator.

“This is a prelude to a shouting match,” Darnell said strongly. “It’s a street brawl.”

“No,” Mal said, “we’re talking about getting truth to the people.”

“Truth is what we all seek,” Darnell thought, but declined to say it. They weren’t budging. Perhaps, he thought, they believed they had an edge. But wait! They have more to gain than we have. We’re out to neutralize this debate by cluttering.

Rae returned with an urgent message. Greer studied it, contemplated, then arose. “I have to take care of something,” she said. “It will take a few minutes, maybe more. You guys keep going and I’ll catch up.”

Mal faced Darnell, Darnell faced Mal. Darnell wondered if they were setting him up.

Knowing the Republicans were about to inundate the airways with nasty advertisements, Mal had formed a “Truth Squad” which had obtained copies of about half of the ads. Quinn would be ready to react instantly. Yet President Tomtree was still the power and owned the machinery to maul and grind under his opponent by sheer weight of numbers of dollars and had little appetite to be bound to the truth.

“I don’t think you get it,” Mal said.

“I think you’ve made preposterous demands. I won’t even show these to the President.”

“You intend to go through the motions of a debate reduced to no consequence and unleash your media barrage and turn the rest of the campaign into a fuck fest. Just skip the gutter and go straight down to the sewer. Okay, let’s play some sewer games.”

“I’d rather wait until Greer returns.”

“Sit still, Mr. Jefferson. Pucky Tomtree has been having an illicit affair with another man for over two years.”

Darnell’s mind ran a Pucky-check. If she had, she was extremely clever and careful. Would she? Little gossip bits had her with artists and writers, but that had been long ago, probably before Thornton. What seemed certain was that Maldonado would not try this if it wasn’t true.

“What are your intentions?” Darnel asked grimly.

“This campaign is not going into mud slinging. We demand a full, honest, open debate, without stunts. We demand decency in your advertising.”

Darnell had been scissored. He knew it. Yet Maldonado was not trying to shade his demands. Darnell had gotten to know Quinn with a lot of secondhand study. This was pure Quinn Patrick O’Connell, a sense of humility and honor that conveyed itself to the public.

“Who knows about this?”

“Greer learned about this first. She told the governor, myself and my daughter, who is Quinn’s wife. We are it.”

“The press?”

“Nada, nothing.”

“You are certain to be able to keep a lid on this till after the election, provided we remain in certain bounds?”

“I’m as sure as I can be about anything,” Mal said. “We’re dealing with three fine people. Greer doesn’t even know I’m confronting you. Quinn ordered us not to leak this at any cost. I’m taking it upon myself to offer it to you as a warning.”

“If I agree to carefully inspect our advertising and I agree to your debate conditions, will you give me the name of the gentleman?”

“Do you agree?” Mal asked.

“I agree, but how can O’Connell afford this gesture, a gesture that could deny him the presidency?”

“You just don’t get it, Mr. Jefferson.”

When Greer returned, Darnell watched the two very closely. Were they in cahoots, in a good-cop, bad-cop play, deliberately giving Mal time alone with Darnell so he could squash him while leaving her out? There was absolutely nothing in her demeanor to indicate she knew of Professor Maldonado’s revelation.

Through the next two hours of “negotiations,” Darnell began to “see” more and more merit to their proposal. He wondered out loud that it might even help Thornton. Two politicians facing each other honestly. Now, that’s a picture ... or an extended oxymoron.

Darnell won a few points in quibbling over this and that, and by early afternoon they broke camp to return to Midway Airport.

The final seal would be a simultaneous announcement with both candidates praising the honesty and openness of the debate.

Rae sat in the cockpit at the navigator’s desk, still directing the streams of information coming in.

The cockpit door was closed.

“You all right?” Greer asked.

“I feel very tired,” Mal answered.

“You told him while I was out of the room.”

“Yeah,” Mal sighed, “I nailed him.”

“That puts Quinn in a rotten position vis-a-vis the two of you.”

“I’ll save him the pain of having to fire me. I’m resigning.”

Greer patted his hand. “Maybe we see Quinn in too bright a light, Mal. Maybe he knew, in his heart of hearts, one of us intended to confront Jefferson about the Pucky affair. He’s that smart, you know.”

Rae came back with messages and gave them to Greer.

“Are you okay, Grandpa?” Rae asked.

“Just tired, honey.”

*

Quinn read the short note of resignation from Mal.

“This is terrible,” Quinn said.

“I got you the debate I think you need. So, don’t let’s rehash it.”

“I’m going to have to accept your resignation,” Quinn said, feeling a trembling wash over him.

“Yes, I know.”

“Mal. We are still family. We’re only humans. I wasn’t really all that surprised when you told me. Maybe I silently hung the bad deed on you. And you only did it to make the playing field level. I want to keep Rita and my personal rooms at your home. We are family, man!”

“Thanks, Quinn.”

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY—FIFTH AVENUE OCTOBER 1 5, 2008

On this day the grand repository of human existence and thought was the focus of the nation. On this day illicit lovers could no longer rendezvous at the statues of the lions, for the building was isolated by police barricades.

Forty-second and Fortieth streets and Fifth Avenue held

bumper-to-bumper privileged parking.

In the rear of the great edifice, running to the Avenue of the Americas, stood Bryant Park, a pocket park. Twice a year the fashion establishment raised a tent and models slunk down the runway. Cheers for Karan and Klein.

Beneath Bryant Park the greatest of treasures—an eight story bunker held a trove indicating human existence on the planet, from cuneiform to Stone Age arrowheads, from the Gobi Desert to Newfoundland. All of it was here, awaiting visitors from space.

The tattered elegance of the kodak CELESTE BARTOS Forum had received a face-lift for the affair, her imposing glass dome shined to a glitter and four hundred temporary stadium seats installed.

The overflow of media had to cover the event piped back to the fujifilmjohn Jacob Astor Ballroom.

Carter Carpenter, a hallowed father figure of the American media, had been resurrected to moderate the affair.

It was to be a wide-open debate, with the moderator stepping in only to preserve civility.

A buzz of anticipation hummed upward as the clock moved for nine. Outside, last-minute tickets, drawn by lottery, were hustled for over five hundred dollars each.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” Carter Carpenter said authoritatively. Controlled applause greeted the governor and the president as they took to their rostrums.

For that instant Thornton Tomtree was glad he had let Darnell talk him into the venue. His lead over O’Connell had slipped from double digits to a single digit of nine percent.

Thornton, the stoic master of a great corporation, a gigantic figure, organized and in control, now showed an addition of tragedy—Lincolnesque. He had humanized himself, somewhat, since Four Corners, after slipping the mantle of blame and gaining sympathy for “taking responsibility, because it happened on my watch.”

On this night he’d be facing the gun issue as never before. He was ready.

Carter Carpenter explained the very liberal rules. “Mr. Tomtree will go first, as he won the flip of the coin.”

Tomtree’s opening statement said, in effect, “We are in midstream in

several ways, leaving an old century behind and healing from a

catastrophic event. We don’t change horses in midstream. Having

ascertained that Four Corners was a national tragedy which demanded of

every politician and every American, to accept his share of the blame

.. .

“... what are we being offered in my place? A popular rodeo-style candidate who, in fact, is probably more at ease branding cattle.”

Quinn’s smile burped up to a short laugh. Tomtree pretended not to hear. Quinn knew what kind of brawl was coming up. Keep the powder dry for the last half hour, he told himself.

“The American people must not roll dice,” Thornton went on. “We must not mistake my opponent as a Western hero, the sheriff in High Noon. This is a reckless man whose claim to fame has come about through violence.

“In the AMERIGUN fiasco Quinn O’Connell put lives in danger a dozen times with tactics illegal in our system of justice.

“Do we want a shoot-‘em-up-first president? Do we want to trust the future of our nation to a man whose finger is always on the trigger?”

Strong, strong stuff and only two minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed. “Mr. Tomtree, you have credit for twenty eight seconds.”

Quinn slipped a high stool under him, found a comfortable position, and rested his arms on his podium, speaking without notes, as Carter Carpenter nodded that his time had begun.

“Thornton Tomtree has done an admirable job in the past year of helping us heal our wounds, but he has done an even more admirable job of salvaging his own reputation.

“The day on which Mr. Tomtree assumed office four years ago, the United States proliferated with a third of a billion guns, one for every man, woman, and child in America.

“Bogus militias had spread like pack rats in our forests and canyons and cities. Today, the White American Christian Arrival claims nearly two hundred thousand followers, followers of Adolf Hitler and purveyors of hate.

“From the time of his first inauguration until this day, Thornton Tomtree has never once raised the issue of gun control.

“He, like many Republicans, and Democrats, went stone deaf, dumb, and

blind during the intimidation waltz played by

AMERIGUN.

“Thirty thousand Americans are killed each year by guns. Match that against sixty thousand killed in Vietnam over a ten year period.

“Each year more Americans die by gunfire than are killed in traffic accidents! More people die by gunfire than die from Alzheimer’s ... or by leukemia .. . more than are killed by cirrhosis.”

Thornton tapped the bell on his podium.

“Those are pretty heavy numbers,” Carter Carpenter said. “Would you like to answer them?”

“Yes, I would,” Thornton said. “It is easy to bandy about superficial numbers.”

“I hope so,” Quinn said, “we drew them off the Bulldog Information Net, which guarantees their accuracy.”

“Raw data,” Thornton said, “can be manipulated to suit any argument. Private ownership of weapons has been an American tradition from the inception of the nation. They cleared the way as we moved west. Those so-called statistics all have ipso facto’s connected to them. The numbers are in the eyes of the beholder. We may have come to that point where there has to be new thinking on the subject. But we must wait until the investigations are done and all the information is in. We must not rush to judgment and in so doing endanger a basic American right.”

“Hold on, sir,” Quinn interrupted. “What about the monumental investigation you promised? It has been a year, forty-four million dollars has been spent, and there is no report.

“It is a matter of American justice that we get all the information in. When I received the Four Corners commission’s preliminary report last February, I had to go before the American people and tell them that Six Shooter Canyon had to become a permanent mass grave. I sensed, as president, that our people needed more time to heal. If we had released the thousands of pages of documents, it would have only served to intensify national pain and make the American people relive the incident over and over.

“No matter our history and traditions, the tragedy in the canyon was a three and a half billion to one shot. It cannot and will not ever happen again, no matter what resolution we come to on gun ownership.”

“Both of you gentlemen have stated your basic positions. Should we hold this data in mind and move on to another subject?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said quickly. “This is the issue that brought me here. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, fourteen children daily will be killed by guns. In addition to the thirty thousand slain, another hundred thousand are wounded, filling our emergency rooms with blood. Each gun death costs us $395,000. We are the shame of the civilized world. One of the richest forty nations in the world, the United States alone is responsible for half of all gun deaths.”

Thornton Tomtree felt his first blip of fear. He knew that Quinn had gotten a foot in the door of his Christian Right. He had known exactly what statistics Quinn would throw out. It was the pulsating manner in which Quinn delivered his message, without bullying. Thornton knew he could say the exact same words and never achieve the same effect. Thornton glanced at Darnell. He was a statue. The overall debate strategy now evolved in Thornton’s mind. To spring the trap? Yes? When to spring the trap?

Thornton smoothly shifted gears into his achievements, as immortalized on the Bulldog Information Network. Trade deficit down, budget surplus; Social Security funded for the century; great medical achievements; full employment; and world commerce, commerce in which the United States was the power that was!

Quinn’s list of achievements was paler stuff, but the kind of stuff which had held Colorado up as a light of the nation.

Thornton jumped on Quinn’s opening fusillade of helter skelter statistics as another example of his recklessness.

Now to hit Quinn with the “doom and gloom” speech Quinn had made during the primaries in Jackson, Mississippi. The two major elements of it were world population control and the finite resources of the planet.

Tomtree was almost overwhelmingly tempted to bring up the birth-control issue. But birth control and pro choice was a chancy subject. Most Americans, by a wide margin, favored and practiced both.

If somehow Thornton could drive a wedge between the issue and the fact that O’Connell was a Catholic. He caught a glimpse of Darnell, whose eyes told Thornton he might be setting a trap for himself.

Okay, then, the second part of the Mississippi address.

“Mr. O’Connell paints a brooding and grim assessment of the future of the earth’s resources. During my administration the United States has stood at the head of a consortium for the exploration of the seas. Using the great gift of computer science, we are in the process of mapping the bottom of every ocean, sea, bay, polar cap, and lake.

“Treaties have been concluded with most maritime nations in which America will do the searching and the mapping. Treaty nations will receive a share of the eventual profits.

“What have we found under our oceans? We have discovered hundreds of thousands of chimneys, maybe millions of them, spewing up a variety of basic metals and ores, from inner layers of the earth. If we keep exploration focused on our seas, I believe we will discover what we will need to sustain future life. So, let us drop our doom and our gloom. Our computer science is becoming so advanced, we know it will show us that the planet will continue to prosper.”

Carter Carpenter cleared his throat, sincerely. “Would you care to respond, Mr. O’Connell?”

“Yes, sir. I think that the intense underseas exploration may have some merit, but we cannot bank the future of the planet on it.”

Thornton’s bell rang as he sensed Quinn hesitating. “Do you have a position on this, Mr. O’Connell?”

“I sure do,” Quinn answered. “I’ve been briefed on this by Scripps

Institute, Woods Hole, and Long Island University School of

Oceanography. While we have gained enormous knowledge of the universe, we really don’t understand the lay of the land a few miles down. Space exploration feeds the human drive to explore, to learn, to have a romantic contact. Perhaps, in this century, we will make contact with intelligent life out there. But under any equation, we will never be able to replenish the earth’s shrinking resources. God does not run a trucking company from outer space. As for inner space, the chimneys on the ocean floors are truly God’s handiwork created over tens of millions of years. Heat from lower layers beneath the earth’s crust spouts from under the bottom of the sea, spewing minerals through the chimneys. Will we find infinite new sources of materials? If we tamper with these chimneys, which indicate fire below, then we are setting the table for underwater volcanos and the tidal waves they will create. We could be setting the table for a heating of our waters that would risk worldwide coastal flooding and a century-long El Nino.

“Does not this underwater exploration indicate a sense of desperation to replace what has been lost? Have we not done enough damage to our waters?”

Quinn went deeper into the perils of underwater mining. “Exploration is primitive. To take something from the bottom of the sea would cost a hundredfold more than surface mining.”

Thornton felt a surge of raw fear. O’Connell was explaining something in Thornton’s realm with utter clarity. Thornton could fire back with esoteric computer data, but it could well fail.

Thornton had believed himself incredible, close to godlike, the way he had fought his way back from the Four Corners. But more, the people believed their president had added a dimension to his character.

Thornton had toyed around to come up with a probe for the debate, one that would catch O’Connell cold. In actual fact, Thornton had grown a little sour on much of the underseas probing. Yet it was a good, tricky subject to show up his opponent’s ignorance.

Thornton glanced at the time-keeping apparatus. Quinn had built up a reserve of ten minutes while he, Thornton, was on borrowed time.

T3 had not come into the Great Debate without a hidden ace. He could wait till the clock wound down to five minutes. Meanwhile, Quinn had skillfully maneuvered him into an unwanted question-and-answer game.

“Mr. Carpenter,” Thornton said, turning to the moderator. “My position is that we need a study.”

“Mr. Tomtree, there is no restriction or limitation on any subject.

Mr. O’Connell can revisit anything he cares to.”

Thornton grimaced inwardly. That son of a bitch, Carter Carpenter, was at this moment the most powerful man in the world.

“What about child locks?” Quinn went on.

“That’s reasonable,” Thornton answered.

“How about a national gun registry, of which our police and other law

enforcement agencies unanimously approver1”

“We are floating into the potential of a massive bureaucracy.”

“We have registration in Colorado. The bureau has forty people in it who also double as instructors for certification of a weapon. What about the limitation on the number of personal arms a citizen can buy?”

“You can buy as many gallons of gas and chocolate bars as you want and need.”

“Well, it’s all right if each citizen purchased fifty guns, as have many citizens?”

“If we spell out numbers of guns, we may be endangering freedom of choice. Yes, there can be a ceiling, I suppose.”

“I have two pairs of skis, two tennis rackets, and between myself and my ranch manager we have three weapons. Sir, are you aware there are a hundred thousand licensed gun dealers in the U.S.?”

To let this run its course or not to let it run? Show dignity,

Thornton told himself. The damned point of all this was that as president, he was protecting both Democrats and Republicans who received huge contributions from AMERIGUN and its allies. Dammit, they’d never support any national gun law with teeth.

Quinn was going on about the Colorado gun law, saying that the provisions he was bringing up were commonsense matters.

“Tell me, Mr. Tomtree, do you believe the Second Amendment in the Bill of Rights of the Constitution should be repealed?”

“I am going on record with our moderator to say that your line of questioning is more like a prosecutor in an inquisition. But I’ll answer you, Mr. O’Connell. We do not play politics with our Constitution. It is like toying around with the Ten Commandments. A repeal will never happen because too many Democrats hold our belief that that could cause a domino effect on the Bill of Rights. What then? Attack freedom of worship? Freedom of the press? Freedom of expression?”

“Why so contentious about the Second Amendment?” Quinn asked. “Let us read the words: A well regulated Militia, militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” Can you tell me, Mr. Tomtree, why is it that the gun advocates never quote the first part? The great banner on the wall of the AMERIGUN convention read, “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” Well, where is the rest of it, and why is it missing from all your propaganda? Could it be you are hiding the first part because it is not a gun rights amendment but an amendment about forming militias?”

Thornton checked the clocks. O’Connell had used up all but two minutes of his time and they were coming up on intermission. Now to pull one out of the hat! Now to blast O’Connell before intermission so people will be hit by his words and level the playing field.

“Mr. O’Connell, I would like to get your input on the weekly newsletter published by the highly esteemed Longacre Institute.”

“I haven’t read their most recent bulletins, but to inform the audience, the Longacre is a Washington think tank closely allied to the Christian Coalition, the Falwell, Robertson people.

Thornton held up the newsletter. “And I quote. “The truth behind the Urbakkan raid,”” he said. “According to the Long acre Institute, sir, the Urbakkan raid, which occurred in 1977, was a myth. What actually happened? A rapid-response team, of which you were a member, was testing a prototype aircraft on a NATO training exercise in Turkey. You were testing various systems, and you went off course into Iranian air space. A tanker plane had been following you for an air-to-air refueling, and the cockpit spilled fuel and caught fire, killing five Marine officers, including a major general. They were burned to death. The Corps, desiring several hundred of these planes, made a coverup story. That cover-up story was the Urbakkan raid. The raid was a sham. The legends of bravery about yourself and others were likewise a sham.”

A murmur arose from a shocked audience.

“For years,” Thornton said, “I’ve heard rumors about Urbakkan. When I went to research it, I learned that the report on the raid was sealed and under lock and key. Now we know why,” he said, holding up the Longacre newsletter.

Jesus, Quinn thought, keep your cool! The bastard thinks he can create confusion that cannot be clarified until after the election. Quinn scratched his jaw as Tomtree continued to thunder.

“I respectfully request that you lower your tone, Mr. Tomtree,” Carter Carpenter admonished.

“On behalf of my courageous buddies who gave up their lives, I cannot dignify you.”

“Sham!” Tomtree repeated. “Convenient of you not to answer.”

“There are seventeen survivors of the Urbakkan raid,” Quinn said. “We have remained close down through the years. We have never missed an annual reunion. I have been stalked about Urbakkan since I first ran for state office over a quarter of a century ago. I knew this was going to come up. Fifteen of these Marines were able to come to New York and are in the audience. Both the former commandant of the Marine Corps and the former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of staff are now in the process of issuing statements to answer the Longacre Institute’s terrible lie. The reason the facts of Urbakkan were kept secret was because of the raid’s success. We did not want the enemy to learn how we did it. Moreover, the plane itself and many of its systems were kept secret for national security reasons. In fact, the surviving members of Urbakkan will hold a news conference in the McGraw Rotunda directly after the debate.”

Darnell hustled Thornton into a side office at intermission. A string of damage-control people trailed in. Darnell sat the President down. The President was a tombstone with eyes, staring at the floor. Darnell hovered over him like a manager whose fighter has undergone a beating.

“Mr. President, according to a snap poll at the Oyster Bar—“ Mendenhall began.

“You, Mendenhall, out!” Darnell commanded. “And you, Turnquist, out, and you, you, and you—out!”

“Mr. President—“ Turnquist demanded.

“Out!” Darnell yelled.

“Do what Darnell tells you to,” Thornton rasped.

Secret Service Agent Lapides moved everyone into the corridor quickly and closed himself in with Mr. Jefferson and the President.

Thornton looked up, crestfallen. “I fouled up,” he mumbled.

“Big-time.”

“Why, how did I do wrong?”

“You tried to turn this debate into a search-and-destroy mission,” Darnell snarled.

“It’s hard to get a handle on O’Connell,” Thornton went on.

“Yeah, he can beat you to death with the truth. If we are on a losing slide, you go out with dignity, Thornton. It’s liar’s poker, and you got called. You walked into a couple of sucker punches with your fucking ocean floor and Urbakkan raid. Who the hell at Longacre did you assign to write this newsletter?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Darnell turned to the door. “Lapides, the President is soaking wet. He has a clean shirt in the bathroom.”

Thornton was led to the sink and mirror. The damage was not beyond repair. He freshened up. Darnell tied his tie, watching his man’s mood go from self-pity to anger.

“Five minutes!” they heard a voice from the corridor.

“I think I’ll go back in early,” Thornton said.

“I know by your expression what you’re thinking,” Darnell said. “You can’t do it.”

“It’s legitimate!” Thornton said, gaining authority by the instant.

“You will not bring up an affair Rita O’Connell had thirty years ago.”

“She left her wedding bed to run off with a drug cartel lawyer!”

“You will not bring that up,” Darnell cried.

“I’m the president. I can do any goddamned thing I want!”

Darnell held him by the lapels. “Pucky has been having an affair for two years. O’Connell knows about it.”

Thornton tried to brush Darnell’s hands off him, but Darnell held on tightly. Thornton blinked, and blinked again.

“Was this affair with a male or a female?”

(( \ v

A man.

“Well, thank God for that. Do you think O’Connell will sit on it till after the election?”

“I warn you, don’t go after his wife.”

“I see,” Thornton said. “And you’ve known about this all along and didn’t tell me?”

“I learned about it when I meet with Greer Little and Professor Maldonado in Chicago.”

“Greer Little!” Thornton spat. “That bitch!”

“You’ve got it backward, Thornton. Greer uncovered Pucky’s affair. O’Connell made her swear to keep it a secret. Maldonado was the one who spilled it to me. When O’Connell learned, he fired Maldonado on the spot, his own father-in-law.”

“Who the hell is this O’Connell?” Thornton moaned.

“One minute!” the voice called from the corridor.

“Darnell, what should I do?”

“You have to apologize. You say that in Longacre’s zeal to get O’Connell, they fed you disinformation which you disavow!”

Thornton nodded his head. “Darnell, are you going to leave me?”

“No, I won’t leave you, Thornton.”

For the first time in their long years, Thornton threw his arms about Darnell and hugged him strongly, then went to the door.

“Thornton.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you want to know the name of Pucky’s .. . lover?”

“What the hell’s the difference? How could Pucky have done this to the presidency?”

Thornton Tomtree had a hundred seconds to resurrect himself, and he did. He spread his options out. The news of Pucky’s affair was annoying. Who the hell could have wanted her? That’s not the point, he told himself. How much damage would it do before the election? If O’Connell showed enough desperation to make an attack, Thornton’s spin people could throw it back in O’Connell’s lap and show the American people his Democratic opponent would stoop to anything. With the knowledge out Thornton would get to play “the wounded Lincoln” suffering.

Even as he followed Darnell to the door, a plan evolved. The Urbakkan raid still had enough mystery to it to cause confusion over the real facts.

The crowd had thickened in Times Square a few blocks away under the great news screen.

In this home and that, the intermission chores were closed up with a final flush of the toilet, snap of the Coke and beer bottles, and gathering in about the television.

America’s downtowns were empty.

This land, so diverse, realized that a particular moment of epiphany was about to take place.

“Thornton,” Darnell whispered, “the people know you are still the president. There is a fear of O’Connell. This next hour is the moment of your life.”

Thornton nodded to Carter Carpenter as he cozied to his lectern.

“Mr. Carpenter,” Thornton said, “because of the nature of our debate before the break, I’d like to make a statement.”

“It is not your turn, sir,” Carpenter said.

“I’ll cede to Mr. Tomtree,” Quinn said.

“It’s a rock-bottom humiliation for a politician to look in the mirror and see egg on his face. This Longacre report was only published today, and because the issue of the truth about Urbakkan has become vital to this election, I accepted it because of Longacre’s decades-long devotion to the truth.”

The loved ones in Quinn’s section paled. There seemed to be loved ones in Thornton’s seats besides Pucky, but they were faceless to a father who didn’t know their birthdays.

“Why did this spring up now? If Longacre published this account and it is proved false, then I would be greatly embarrassed. But, my fellow citizens, Urbakkan has been sealed for three decades. I believe the truth is that someone on O’Connell’s staff deliberately fed disinformation to the writer of this article. What media power fits the bill, and will she answer?”

“Mr. O’Connell?”

“Mr. Tomtree’s reference was to my campaign manager, Greer Little-Crowder. The Longacre think tank has marched to T3’s drumbeat for twenty years, fed by your generosity of over three million dollars.”

“You see there, how you are trying to distort—“

“Longacre didn’t verify a single fact, Mr. Tomtree. It was a hatchet job to create suspicion over the raid. There are only one or two persons who could have written it. We’ll know soon enough, and it won’t hold till after the election.”

Well, now, he had dared O’Connell and O’Connell had not thrown out the Pucky affair. Even if Quinn attacked, the revelation would backfire on him. O’Connell could then easily go down as a raider and a shark.

On the other hand, if Quinn misses this opportunity, he will I show he is too weak to duke it out with me, Thornton thought.

“The American people will have an answer on this in a few days,” Carter Carpenter said. “I think it propitious to move on to other issues.”

Just what Thornton wanted, to create doubt and confusion, leave it unsettled, challenge O’Connell’s hero status.

Thornton was now wired with charts and graphs—over the hills and down to the dales, to grandmother’s house we’ll go-lines and colored bars and round pieces of pie all sliced to percentages. Thornton was in a boardroom posture where he could lay a hundred and one booby traps with the figures distorted, omitted .. . and with three you get egg roll.

“I’ve got a real problem with your charts,” Quinn laughed.

“Yes, I know, of course you do,” Thornton replied. His blood circulated faster as his full strength returned. Thornton hung tenaciously to the visuals, unfinished portraits.

“Gentlemen,” Carter Carpenter said, “we are running low on time. You both have enough for a three- to five-minute summation. Mr. Tomtree.”

“So what if the Urbakkan article proves to be wrong? All it proves is

that after three decades under seal, someone in O’Connell’s court was able to slip disinformation to us, using an honorable institution as a dupe. It is this kind of confusion that the American people will be facing from the White House if this man is elected.”

“Hot damn!” Thornton congratulated himself. “I whacked him good! Now, nail it on, T3.”

“Is it not fitting,” Thornton continued, “to have had this debate in this great library? Nothing could better explain the difference between us. I am of the new American breed who has made possible transmitting every piece of information in this library anywhere on earth, in a fraction of a second. Since this new century began, we have moved to the cusp of forging a great electronic world. Men like Quinn Patrick O’Connell would rather carve in stone than have a printing press. Yes, there is greed and sin and garbage on the Internet and on the cable channels.

“When has the human face been free of greed? Every time a new invention comes into play for the betterment of the human race, greedy legions pounce on it.

“I know that. I also know who of the two of us is better suited to deal with this complicated new world technology. Quinn Patrick O’Connell has shown himself to be a one-issue candidate. The sophistication and needs of man’s new electronic age cannot be mastered by him.”

“May I?” Quinn asked.

“Yes, Mr. O’Connell,” Carter said.

“Thornton Tomtree will indeed keep us busy regulating the two-bit

stockbrokers, children’s porno, scams, and slap a wrist for the massive

invasion of American privacy. There will be sensational trials and

rigid regulations. That will be for the greedy little flies buzzing

around a dead carcass. But Thornton Tomtree will leave the big players

alone. T3’s seven hundred and forty industrial, commercial, shipping,

banking networks are the greatest instruments for greed this world has

ever seen. He’ll use his power to ride shotgun on the little fish

while, at the same time, he covers up billions of dollars moving daily in utter secrecy.”

Quinn had weighed carefully but quickly, and the words seemed to tumble out of his mouth.

“This is not a Tut’s tomb or an obsolete dinosaur. This is my father’s generation who gave more of themselves for the betterment of this nation than any other.”

A great door opened between speaker and listeners.

“I’ve lived on a ranch most of my life. My parents and I took a lot of trips. The moment of glory was entering this building and the Library of Congress in Washington. It was like coming into a sacred place. I knew, early on, that the writer afforded me a window to our past, an understanding of human relationships that set me on a bridge to cross and participate with my own generation. I was often lonely. It was not till I read Of Mice and Men that I realized I was not alone and that loneliness was a universal sadness of man.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with John Steinbeck. He bared his soul to bring light to me. He bared human frailty in his pages and in his own life—as did a hundred .. . no, a thousand other authors who knew what one little boy was going through and who stood tall for the dignity of man.”

What the hell is he getting at? Thornton wondered. He’s rambling. But would you believe the quiet in here? Believe it?

You ought to see Times Square silent. Taxis pulled over into parking lanes, and twenty-five thousand people, or more, watched the great screen.

“We tore down buildings like this not long ago,” Quinn went on, “in our

everlasting hunt for the mall and the skyscraper. What the hell! The

legacy of past generations can now be kept on a piece of software and

flashed up on the screen with a tweak of the mouse. “Something is

missing from that. What is missing is the personal relationship, the

love between writer and reader, all the hope and all the horror the

writer has to tell you. It is you and the writer alone, together, that will give you understanding about the joy and fear, the jealousy and love you have with your parents and your sisters and brothers.

“I glory in the electronic age, but do not tear this building down. I believe that the salvation of man will not come from an IBM printout, but from the words, on stone indeed, that came down from Sinai. Let us not abandon all the great thought in these rooms to the proposition of putting all our faith into an impersonal machine. By so doing, we will become something less than human beings ourselves.”

*

After the debate the ground shifted, radically. The Tomtree campaign seemed to run out of energy. O’Connell had splintered away part of the hard Right, not by politics alone, but by the growing charisma of the candidate. Is O’Connell too good to be true?

In Los Angeles, Quinn spoke to the Mexican American community with a candor they had not heard. “We have no right to interfere with Mexican internal affairs, but for Mexico to be a good neighbor of the United States, its institutionalized corruption must stop. No better example of that is the exploitation of Mexican labor in factories along our borders.”

It was another of Quinn’s daring speeches, but some people finally heard out loud what they had been saying in whispers.

The following night was a gathering in the Hollywood Bowl for a two-hour telecast from the community of stars. It was a love-in.

Rita knew the instant her daughter-in-law phoned. Siobhan had pulled herself together for coherence every night when her son phoned. For the last two nights she had been unable to speak to him.

“She’s in and out of lucidity. We just don’t know how long.”

Mal and Quinn had been able to keep up civil contact, a new bend in their years together. The pressure was taken off when Mal phoned first.

“I’ve been visiting with your mother,” Mal said. “She is in a bad wayr Quinn. If you can get back, you and Rita still have your wing at my place. I can book enough rooms in Grand Junction to fairly well cover the entourage.”

“It’s your dad,” Quinn said to Rita. “I need to go back.”

“Siobhan?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got your mother in a quiet place, adjoining the south veranda. Beside Duncan and Lisa, and Rae, there should be other rooms open at the ranch house.”

“Rita and I will fly directly into Troublesome. We should be there after midnight or so. Mal .. . Mal .. .”

“Don’t say anything, Quinn. Get it straight that I am not sorry I told Darnell Jefferson what the President’s wife was up to. If I hadn’t, Tomtree would have attacked my daughter and your wife. No job in the world is worth how they can ravage and savage. But, asshole that thou art, you are my son-in-law. Now, where do you want me to put Greer?”

“Greer, Greer. She stayed in New York to see her husband and clear up some business. Will you have room at your place?”

Mal laughed. “The room where Rita kept her stuffed animals. I’ll have Juan and a couple of the hands get it cleaned out. I’ll install what electronic and computer shit there is around to keep the wires buzzing.”

“Mal, thank you, man.”

“You’re a stupido bastardo, but I love you.”

Rita was on another phone. She canceled Quinn in the Northwest, then directed a press aide to put out a simple bulletin to the effect that it was family business.

Rita kicked off her shoes and stretched on the chaise longue. Quinn sat on the ottoman and massaged her feet.

“How are you doing, honey?” she asked.

“Media y media. Dan, Siobhan, and Father Sean are the only family I’ve ever known. I feel detached and floaty.”

“You’re very close to completing an American wonder work. You’ve restored a lot of faith, and you’ve come through intact.”

“Am I, Rita? All that clean? I knew when I sent Greer and Mal to Chicago to negotiate the debate with Darnell Jefferson that one of them was going to threaten him with Pucky’s dirty laundry. I warned them not to and I fired Mal, but I was not all that unhappy with what he did.” “From the moment you shared your darkest and most dangerous secrets with me, I realized you were the only whole man I ever knew or was apt to meet. Hey, you haven’t presented yourself to the voters as all silver-plated and shiny. You’ve told people a lot of things they didn’t want to hear. They get it. You don’t hide behind the Constitution, you stand in front of it. Your failings, your unbelievable courage in admitting to them—that is what they want.”

Quinn established a mini-office near his mother’s bedside. Even in those times when she was alone with her terrible pain, she seemed to know of his nearness.

Duncan and Rae alternated in bringing him messages.

“I need Greer,” Quinn said.

“Headquarters has made contact with her charter. She’ll be on your cell phone,” Rae said.

Quinn jotted notes on the communications, handed a couple for Rita to take care of. He looked from his mother to his son to his very pregnant daughter-in-law to his daughter ... to his wife. God help me, he thought, it’s mad, but Rita looks so sexy!

From the whine over the phone, Quinn knew the caller was in an aircraft.

“Quinn,” he said.

“It’s Greer. How is Siobhan?”

“She’s hanging in. She asked for you, Greer.”

“Look, I’m going to fly directly into Grand Junction. I’ll be there by noon. Have a car meet me. Something extremely important has come up.”

“Can you say what it is?”

“No. We should have a secure room to talk in.”

“I’m at Mal’s. His studio will be safe.”

From the studio porch of Maldonado’s villa, Rita could see to the cutoff road from Troublesome. A motorcycle escort led a car up their hillside.

Greer emerged with a stranger. Quinn and the man stared at one another.

“Come in, Mal, you’re a part of this,” Greer said, closing them all in a place flooded with sketches and wire statuettes and a work that had been in progress until the campaign began.

“I want you to meet Mr. Horowitz,” Greer said.

“Sir,” Quinn said, extending his hand.

“Governor O’Connell?” the man asked.

i(\r >J

Yes. “I am your brother, Ben.”

THE SOVIET-POLISH BORDER, 1945THE

END OF WORLD WAR II

In the mid-twenties after Lenin died, Stalin took power. The Communists set out to destroy Jewish communal life. Religious life, educational institutions, the theatej-, the press, were forbidden. Jews were reduced to second-class citizens.

The Soviet borders were sealed, and tragic isolation ensued. Would there be an identifiable Jewish community at the end of World War II?

Small groups of Zionists in Russia kept a thin thread alive to the outside world. Zionism was a cardinal crime, akin to treason. The Zionists, the only Jews to survive intact, were mostly in partisan units in the forests.

Yuri Sokolov was a teenager when he escaped the Warsaw Ghetto and found his way to Jewish partisans operating in White Russia, east of Warsaw. At the time the war ended, he was twenty-two and in command of four companies, and a whispered legend.

Yuri knew about the liquidation of the ghettos, the massive slave-labor camps, and, later, of the genocide. As a surviving Zionist, his mission changed to finding remnants of his group and starting them on the perilous journey across Europe, then running the British blockade into Palestine.

Marina Geller was not yet twenty when she met the fabled Yuri. She had survived the war more easily. She had been taken in by an aunt in Minsk who had married a Christian and converted.

Marina had also come from Zionist stock. At the instant of peace, she set off to find her parents and brothers and sister. After a futile search, she realized her family was just another tiny blip among the millions of murdered Jews.

Marina threw herself into working with the small Zionist units who were now desperately engaged in getting the survivors out of the graveyards of Russia and Poland.

She established a safe house near the Polish border, at Bialystok. They came in twos and threes at first, mostly Zionists who had fought the Germans as partisans.

Now and again the trickle included an orphaned child or one too ill to continue the hellish journey. She turned part of the house into an orphanage, giving a cover to the emigrant running operation. Marina was able to cull food and medicine as a “legal” orphanage. Soon she had twenty children.

Yuri and Marina were married in a partisan wedding, and even before their passion was spent, they went back to their bitter work.

They vowed, as couples vow, that if Yuri was ever captured by the Soviets, she would make a run to Palestine and wait for him.

It happened in quick order, by the hatred of an informer. Yuri was captured, taken to Moscow, and charged with Zionism. It was a good day for the Soviets, for Yuri Sokolov’s name was known far and wide. He would serve as an example to the Jews that they had to conform with the regime and not attempt to establish Jewish contact on the outside.

Although viciously tortured, Yuri refused to stand down. He was sentenced to twenty-five years in a labor camp in the Gulag Archipelago, a frozen waste on the White Sea. He was swallowed up, vanished, and all contact broken.

The time came to close the orphanage in Bialystok. An illegal emigration agent, a Palestinian Jew named Shalom Katz, set up a daring plan to evacuate Marina, her two helpers, and twenty children.

They rode out of Poland in a closed passenger car ostensibly holding high-ranking German prisoners. By the time they had reached the Czech border, the ruse was discovered, but they dashed into Czechoslovakia.

The Soviets demanded the return of the train to Poland. The British demanded the escapees be taken to refugee camps. The Czech president, Jan Masyryk, son of the father of his country, refused and granted safe passage through his country.

Marina arrived in Palestine by refugee boat just as the Palestine Jews declared independence and were attacked by the Arab nations.

Marina was a rarity the wife of a great Jewish hero, a hero in her own right. Ben-Gurion himself and Golda Myerson believed she would best serve in America, to wake up that nation’s Jews.

Marina traveled the American landscape endlessly to spread the message of the Holocaust and to plead for help in getting survivors to Israel.

Her husband, Yuri, had disappeared in the tundra of the north. Only the occasional rumor surfaced, but no direct word.

Traveling in America on the low side in 1948, she had the same mildewed hotel room, seemed to meet the same welcoming committee, speak to the same small but earnest audience, eat the same homemade meal, fly in the same jerky little airplane, until it all looked like a blur. San Francisco blurred to Oakland blurred to Los Angeles blurred to Phoenix. In those days before jet travel, none of the grand airports had been built. It was a smattering of daredevil pilots’ shows at jerkwater landing strips. The roar of the jet lay yet in the distant future.

She traveled with a huge, neatly wrapped poster depicting her husband,

which was unfurled and hung across the back of the podium. Her

open-ended tour took her into small towns in Pennsylvania and Oregon, where the few quiet Jewish families wanted to listen.

A year passed during which Marina made over four hundred appearances, building a small but active following. She simply burned out. Her life had been one long struggle. And God only knew what news of her beloved Yuri.

A friend from the Israeli embassy convinced her to remain in America. When she had gotten her vitality back, she would be a strong resource among the Jews. For now she just wanted to be alone.

Marina resumed her maiden name of Geller and vanished into a studio apartment in an area of New York City known as the Village. She was unable to make ends meet on her dole. Her knowledge of the Russian language and Russian history made her attractive for a position when she applied at New York University.

Professor David Horowitz, head of Slavic studies at New York University, thought that Marina was an excellent find.

Safely housed and able to meet her bills, Marina allowed the wonderment of New York to seep in. A bit of anticipation arose whenever she knew she would spend a bit of time with David Horowitz. Kind .. . soft .. . his smile and concern penetrated her depression. Soon it was lunches together, right? Just lunches. A social meeting.

Lunches expanded into dinners. Marina was exposed to the gem shows that played in shoe-box off-Broadway houses that dotted The Village. Four months into their acquaintance, a new sound emerged when she broke into laughter during The Fantasticks.

David was much the scholar. No siblings, both parents gone. He had married, had a child, and divorced. His three year-old son, Ben, was his weekends.

What reached Marina most deeply was the sense of peace that emanated from David. He was so unlike her bombastic Yuri Sokolov.

“Why am I comparing?” she cautioned herself. She had known a few men when she was on her speaking tour, but always awakened in the sludge of guilt. What was stirring her up about David was putting her into a compromising situation. She was married and promised, and promised to return to Israel.

Word reached her that all trace of Yuri had vanished. One of his fellow prisoners thought surely that Yuri was dead.

The woman was on the brink of madness when David Horowitz took her into his arms tenderly and led her into a safe place. Yuri was a fighter. David was a lover. She required love.

David’s loft in the Village was a little kingdom of laughter and music and heated scholarly discussion. Teachers knew the place. Students knew the place.

David’s great, great friend was a rogue priest, Father Mario Gallico, who taught Latin and ancient Greek at the university. Father Gallico was at their table twice a week, uninvited but always welcome.

Cardinal Watts of the Brooklyn diocese wanted desperately to mend his priest’s wayward ideas. The cardinal needed him as a strong arm in Brooklyn, a fixer. After watching Father Gallico make a non-pastoral advance at an adoring secretary, the cardinal shipped him to Manhattan and the lady was returned to her husband.

Marina had completely lost her mantle of freedom fighter. David totally filled her. Thoughts of marriage, of children, were not possible. When his son Ben came for Sunday visits, she hugged and loved him like her own .. . but was that enough?

How many years had gone by without a single word from or about Yuri? Over five years. The promise to go to Israel to meet her husband had lost its rationale. Must she grieve forever for a corpse? She became pregnant, and she and David chose to have the baby.

Alexander was born to them in 1950. The bliss of being, of existing, was theirs. On the weekends and for short trips, Alexander’s half brother, Ben, was there. The four seemed family, close and loving.

“Marina!” a man’s voice called.

She turned to see Shalom Katz coming toward her. She smiled and greeted him warmly, covering up her apprehension. He took her arm and pointed at a park bench in Washington Square.

“It’s been years,” she said. “Are you still running emigrants?”

“I’ve retired from Alyiah Bet,” he said, referring to the central underground organization. “I’m an Israeli diplomat at the United Nations. Second secretary, or something like that, in the mission.”

Marina smiled. Shalom was a cop. Cops looked like cops and acted like cops. The Israeli underground cops were a tough bunch.

“What to do?” Marina wondered. Tell him about her new life, as if he didn’t already know? Surely he was bringing her the news of Yuri’s demise. At the same time she wept for Yuri, she would scream out her new freedom.

“Why am I so honored by your visit?” she asked.

“With a real government, we are able to accomplish things impossible in the old days. I can speak to you, of course, completely confidentially?”

She nodded.

“We captured a high-ranking Soviet KGB station chief in Jerusalem. He was disguised as a priest in the Russian Orthodox Church. The Russians wanted him back. I was a negotiator. I gave him a list of Zionists they had imprisoned to exchange. Yuri Sokolov is alive.”

She leaned against Shalom and shook. “How long have you known this?”

“I wasn’t going to inform you until we got an absolute confirmation. We are going to bring out Yuri and two others in exchange for the KGB spy.”

“How is he?” she asked shakily.

“The gulag neither killed him nor broke his spirit, but he is a badly damaged man. He has been brutalized. It is a question of your being in Israel to meet him.”

“Meet me here tomorrow, same time,” she said, and moved away quickly.

Damnable Russian tragedy, the mournful music, the endless dull winters, the bleakness, the walls of cold stone, weeping women in babushkas, the drunk on the street, the listless eyes of a thousand men and women on the escalator coming out of the Metro underground.

Oh, David, what have I done to you? You are my love, greater than anyone. Yuri brought us together, and now he is taking us apart.

Yuri! I have been an unfaithful wife. I have betrayed you. When I had David’s child, I wanted to hear news of your death. What the hell, David and Alexander and Ben were nothing more than a dream. Russia is real. No matter what, she had to keep her rendezvous with Yuri in Israel. This great man could not be further broken with a scandal. Secrets had to be kept.

The safety of the child was a need greater than Marina and David’s agony. Alexander had to be put up for adoption, and she would return to Israel. But how? Through the Jewish agencies her name would surely be discovered.

Father Gallico was now Monsignor Gallico, a strong servant for Cardinal Watts. His relationship with David Horowitz remained.

“My dear friend, my dear, dear friend,” Gallico comforted him. “So, here we are. I will see how I can get it done.”

Alexander was a year old when Marina handed him over to Mario Gallico.

The child would disappear inside the Catholic bureaucracy.

From that moment on it seemed that death played a hand in silencing those people who had knowledge of the plot.

First to die was Marina Sokolov. She and Yuri knew a moment of peace.

They were given respite on a beautiful kibbutz on the Sea of Galilee.

But Yuri was a wreckage of a man, blind in one eye, one leg amputated, violent headaches from his beatings. Marina poured her life into him, but as she did, her own life ebbed from her. She continued to live the big lie, frightened every day that her secret would be discovered. Always wracking her, the terrible longing for Alexander and her beautiful lover, David.

Marina went silently, they said of congestive heart failure. It was a broken heart. Unable to go on without her, Yuri followed her to his grave a year later.

The little convent of St. Catherine held many secrets. One of their unspoken duties was to care for certain “nameless” orphans. Sometimes, these were children of priests and now and again a nun. Other children were sent there to protect them from the notoriety of revelation.

The less the mother superior knew, the safer for the child. “Baby Alex,” without a surname, became “Baby Patrick.” Parents, unknown. For the next two years Patrick was a centerpiece of the convent, a greatly gifted and adored infant.

During this time the priest Scan Logan had pleaded with Monsignor Gallico for a special child for his sister, Siobhan O’Connell, and her husband, Dan, to adopt.

David Horowitz, sucked of will to live after the loss of his lover and child, succumbed to pneumonia, brought on by neglect of himself.

At first Quinn didn’t want to hear the story, felt invaded, exposed in a manner that would bring the walls down on his head.

As Ben spoke, it changed. It turned into a moment he had dreamed of and played out ten thousand times. That moment! That exact moment!

“I was thirteen when our father died,” Ben continued. “We had become very close, although any mention of Marina and Alex was simply forbidden. Grief wore him out. Guilt finished him off. He knew nothing about where you were, who you were with, how you were faring. The last year of his life was pitiful. When I reached my bar mitzvah, he revealed to me the circumstances of your disappearance, and he told me that Marina Sokolov had died in Israel, bearing their secret.”

“Hell of a bar mitzvah,” Greer said.

“Our father told me that I was a man now, and had to assume a man’s burden. I only remembered my half brother in veiled tones, and somehow the name of Alexander stuck in my mind.”

The melting away of fear in Quinn changed to a flooding gladness as Ben stopped for a drink, noting that the altitude made him dry. He took a small photograph album from his overnight bag and opened it.

“This is our dad.”

Quinn felt Rita’s hand grip his shoulder as he stared, and said nothing.

Ben drew a deep breath, turned the page. “This is the only photo I have of your mother.”

Quinn spun out of his seat and turned his back to them, mumbling to himself in a jerky voice. Ben gulped another glass of water.

“I’m sorry, Ben, I’m being very selfish. Lord, what you must have gone through.”

“I knew I’d find you. The search became the hub of my life. I went into police work to specialize in missing persons. After I made detective lieutenant, I joined the faculty of John Jay College for Criminal Justice. For years only cold trails—here are my kids, two boys and two girls. Well, they’re not kids anymore. And these are the grandchildren.”

“I’m an uncle. God, that’s strange, Uncle Quinn. And I’m going to be a grandfather, and my daughter will have cousins and an aunt and an uncle .. .”

“Maybe I could have picked a more appropriate time, but Ms. Crowder convinced me it would be disastrous to hold on to this information ... so I came.”

Ben related the rest of his odyssey. All the principals were dead, and Alexander had disappeared as if into thin air. Ben had vague memories of Monsignor Gallico’s visits, but these stopped.

“When Dad died,” Ben said, “I was his main survivor. I was there with the family lawyer when we emptied the safe deposit box. There were a few things of value, some stocks, jewelry, certificates of ownership, insurance policies. What I did not know was that Dad had sent a sealed envelope to Monsignor Gallico and his successors. The front read: Not to Be Opened Until the Year of 2000 by Benjamin Horawitz or His Immediate Heirs. Here are the contents.”

Quinn looked at photos of Marina and David and a birth certificate for a “Baby” Horowitz.

“I tried to play the Catholic card but didn’t even get as far as the convent door. It’s a deep, dark, mystical world in there, with an understanding of God that is strange and different.”

“God sure has a weird sense of humor,” Mal grunted.

“It became a matter of numbers: matching footprints on the birth certificate. The FBI had hundreds of millions of prints, but computer clarification had not caught up to them. Footprints of a newborn infant can change, so I went by probable birth dates. Well, everyone gives up a print sooner or later. When yours popped up, it was a very close match to the one on the birth certificate.”

“My footprint? How the hell did anyone get my footprint?”

“I didn’t, but a certificate told me your name, the time you were born and where. Then I researched Catholic adoption records covering a five-year period. A single line said, “Baby Patrick, parents unknown.

Adopted by Daniel and Siobhan O’Connell, Troublesome, Colorado,

February 17, 1953.” The rest of it? Baby Patrick grew to be Governor Quinn Patrick O’Connell.”

“But how did you confirm your connection with Quinn?” Rita asked.

“Quinn has given innumerable pints of blood to the Red Cross to be used as a bank for a family emergency, and otherwise, he is a regular donor. I was able to get a hold of a pint and run a DNA on it, then one on myself. To make utterly certain, I had Father’s body exhumed and took enough to test him as well. The three of us are a match.”

“We don’t need DNA results,” Rita said, lifting off Ben’s glasses.

“Just look at the two of them.”

They drifted down from the tale of fantasia back into Mal’s studio.

“Thank God, Ben reached us when he did. If the public learned after the election, it would be a prelude to a national nightmare,” Greer said.

“Am I privy to this?” Mal wanted to know.

“Of course you are,” Quinn answered.

“All right, then. We must put this before the American people at once,” Mal said. “But no matter what approach you make, you’ve entered a mine field.”

“He’ll tell the truth,” Rita cried.

“Truth is in the heart of the beholder. Them that wants the truth will believe him. No truth can penetrate them who can’t comprehend the truth. They will cry wolf about a Zionist conspiracy. In ten minutes I can find someone in the media down in Troublesome and tip him off that a left-wing Catholic priest planted a Jewish child as part of a Zionist plot. You think that’s crazy? Nothing among the haters will be too farfetched.”

Mal looked at the brothers and shook his head. The resemblance was

remarkable. “The problem is, Jew hating has always been close to the

surface throughout the last two millennia. It’s the perfect system of

bigotry, time-tested—the Roman sacking of the nation, the divorce of Jesus from the Jews in order to make a new religion, Islam, the ankle-deep blood of Jews by the Crusaders on the Rhine, the Inquisition, Martin Luther, the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and lest we forget, the Holocaust.”

“Is the human race forever in a prison of bigotry?” Quinn whispered.

“Quinn, I don’t want you or Rita or the kids to have to walk into a blizzard of hate. Withdraw from the race,” Mal said.

Ben once again berated himself for his bounty-hunter zeal. Greer answered him that he had to do what he did. Neither Quinn nor Rita spoke of the terror they had endured before and after the AMERIGUN convention.

“We Jews are the most outstanding example of a patriotic minority,” Ben said. “At only two percent of the population, we’ve created great industries and writers and musicians and doctors. As I teach my students, there are over seventy Jewish American Nobel prize winners. Godammit, we deserve the respect of our countrymen!”

“There has been no crime ... no conspiracy,” Quinn said.

“Depends on who is telling the story and who is listening,” Mal said.

“They’re all in place, waiting for the news.”

“And if I quit, the Second Amendment will never be tested.”

“Remember what was done to the Clintons,” Rita said. “Destruction, sheer destruction.” Her quavering words were her first. She knew what lay ahead if he went on. Quinn was deeply jarred by her less than enthusiastic support. His strong allies in life were becoming his reluctant allies. Greer? What about Greer? She’d be too clever to slip one way or another at this point.

“It’s your call, boss,” Greer said.

“Like my old commander Jeremiah Duncan said, “If blood bothers you, don’t go on this mission.” Greer, buy some network and cable time. I’ll read a statement from here to the American people at one o’clock,” and then he laughed, “Rocky Mountain time.”

“Call me if you need me,” Mal said, and left the studio.

Rita hedged. She’d give no further resistance. She would come to his side. Only, it was shaky knowing what was ahead. Greer saw through it. She took Rita’s arm and spun her around.

“Here’s truth,” Greer snapped. “Quinn Patrick O’Connell cannot and will not walk away from this fight. Never has, never will.”

“I know,” Rita said with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I know.”

“What will you say to the voters, Quinn?” Greer asked.

“Straight up and down, I think. I won’t plead or defend. I won’t grovel. It’s going to be up to the people.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Greer sighed. “Ben, come with me. We have to sequence your story correctly for the press.”

“My nieces and nephews, Duncan and Rae?” Ben asked excitedly. “Isn’t Duncan’s wife due?”

“Their dad will tell them. You’ll be able to meet them in an hour. Excuse me, we’ve got work to do,” Greer said. She and Rita exchanged hard glances.

breaking news breaking news breaking news “This is Lou Luenberger, MS NBC Denver. We are in Troublesome, Colorado, the home of Democratic candidate, Governor O’Connell. The air around his traveling headquarters has been rife with rumors. The O’Connell people have kept a lid on things, skipping the daily afternoon press briefing. The center of this appears to be a new player on the stage, who flew in from New York this morning. He has been tentatively identified as Detective Lieutenant Ben Horowitz, also a professor of criminology. The governor will make a statement at eleven Eastern, two Pacific Coast time.”

Quinn sat, naked to the world. No notes, open collar, no flags, no mantel filled with photographs, no busts of Lincoln or statues by Remington.

“My fellow Americans,” Quinn said, “today I experienced one of the most joyous events of my life. As you are aware, I was orphaned at about the age of one year and was raised in a convent until I was three. I do not remember the names of any of the nuns, and I do not know the name of the convent or its location.

“At the age of three I was adopted by my mother and father, Dan and Siobhan O’Connell, ranchers near Troublesome, Colorado.

“My family and I were no more or no less dysfunctional than the average American family. Being Irish, we got into our Eugene O’Neill mode from time to time. In the end, we came back to a most loving relationship. Dan is gone. Siobhan is very ill. I am the most fortunate person in the world to have been their son.

“Yet for every orphan there is a dual life of fantasy. You cannot separate the orphan from this dream. The need to know your biological parents is a need to know yourself. Who am I, really? Where did I come from? God puts you on a relentless search. You are never a complete person if you do not find your roots.

“Today, I met my brother, Ben Horowitz, who has been searching for me for nearly half a century.”

Quinn briefly told the tale of David Horowitz, Marina Geller, and Yuri Sokolov.

“Herein lies the rub,” Quinn said. “I believe the American

civilization has reached a challenging moral plateau. We have made a

powerful attempt to rid ourselves of bigotry. We still have a long way

to go to rid our nation of racism. If I had been Alexander Horowitz, I

believe I would have been elected governor of Colorado. I also believe

that Governor Alexander Horowitz could have won the Democratic Party

nomination. And I also believe that Alexander Horowitz could win the presidency.

“I am the same man I was yesterday. I have not changed. I will carry on with the same issues I had yesterday. Along with my other commitments, I will fight for the repeal of the Second Amendment.

“I was raised as a Catholic. I will remain in the Church. Yet I cannot help but inquire into my Jewish heritage. Where this will take me, I cannot predict.

“The human race has had a checkered existence, from the beginning unto this very day, of blood and evil. Yet we come to moral imperatives, like slavery, where we must rise and create a new norm. The issue of guns, I believe, is such a moral imperative. I also believe that the crushing of anti-Semitism is such an imperative.

“I have come to you speaking the truth. If you believe me, if you want what I want for the American civilization, for American decency, then we will carry the day.

“Good day, God bless you, and God bless America.”

Balancing a bucket of ice and a bottle of vodka and glasses, Rita backed her way into the guest room and closed the door behind her with her foot.

Greer sat on the bed, back against the headboard, watching another gathering of pundits on TV. Her face bore a rivulet of tears dripping off her nose and chin and carrying down the colors of her makeup. On the nightstand, a dead pint of vodka.

“I’m a fucking mess,” Greer wept.

“Mal told me he is plugged into Denver. They’ve called for volunteers to man the switchboards.”

((/^\ s. r

Quinn?

“He’s with Mal fixing a plan for the balance of the day. No press conference till tomorrow.”

Rita set the tray down, poured another for Greer and a double for herself. She left and came back from the bathroom with wet and dry towels, sat on the edge of the bed, and wiped Greer’s face as one might a kindergarten pupil.

“What about Duncan and Rae and Lisa?” Greer said, still weeping.

“We saw them before Quinn spoke to the nation. They’re with their Uncle Ben now. He’s a really nice man.”

“I’d better get my shit together,” Greer slurred. “Lemme see.

Too late to get back to Denver. Then ... I better be here in the morning. You and Mal pissed at me?”

“I knew Quinn wasn’t going to quit,” Rita said, “but I just got damned frightened for a moment. I’d better get my attitude straightened out. I’ll not live in fear.” “I, uh, got to work out some damage control..

. this can run out of control like a wildfire,” Greer said.

“Take a deep breath, Greer, and let’s get drunk.”

“Hey, two shiker sikasl”

“The first reports from Denver and DNC are not that bad.”

“Well, now,” Greer said, “we have thirty channels of talking head experts taken out of cold storage and given electric shocks to get their batteries surging. Frankly, I get my in-depth news from E! Channel and Comedy Central. Oh, that goddamn Quinn is a bastard.”

“How well I know.”

“He’s so wonderful,” Greer wept. “I called Warren and told him to shag ass and get the yacht up from Florida. I’m going to spend five million dollars on myself in Paris. Son of a bitch .. . we came so close. Now, I’ve got to leave pretty soon ... I mean, for all time.” Rita dabbed a new downpour of tears from Greer.

“I’m a fucking mess,” Greer repeated.

“I want you to know what a courageous thing you have done, Greer. It was the work of a genius. And it was overflowing with love. I think I know how much you love him.”

“I love you, too, Rita. Only a very secure woman would have left me alone with Quinn Patrick O’Connell. As I grew to love you more and more, it made things bearable for me.”

This was followed by another slug from the bottle, which Greer scarcely needed. The women embraced and hung onto each other. Greer was feather-light. Rita rocked her back and forth and let her blurt.

Rita fluffed some pillows and stretched Greer out and lay beside her so that she held Greer as her baby, and she stroked Greer’s head and whispered a Mexican lullaby.

“I love you both,” Greer managed.

A moment later there was a knock and the door was opened. There stood Quinn. Rita held her finger to her lips for him to be quiet.

“Some rioting has started,” Quinn said. “Birmingham. Chicago is simmering.”

“Hadn’t you better try to reach the President?” Rita asked.

“He knows what happened and how to reach me.”

“Quinn, I’m with you, man.”

WASHINGTON

Marine Corps Helicopter Number One swayed from its Camp David pod and swished urgently for Washington. The President tried his earphones and switched on his mike.

“It’s a miracle, Darnell,” Thornton said. “I’ve never believed in divine intervention because it doesn’t have a website or a printout. Can we get the election turned around?”

“A lot is going to take place in the next seventy-two hours. You’ll have to play it statesman and big daddy.”

“Darnell! The man has left us an opening!”

“You’ve walked into his openings before. Don’t even think nasty.””

The President picked up his White House phone. “Martha, this is the President. I want Jacob Turnquist and Hugh Mendenhall in the Oval Office, pronto. Better run down Lucas de Forest,” he said of the FBI director. “I want to meet with them in my study alongside the Oval Office.”

“Don’t you think we’d better have Pucky attend this meeting?”

“Do you know where she is?” Tomtree asked.

“Unless she’s away on a campaign speech, she pretty much locks herself in her suite at the White House,” Darnell said.

“As a matter of fact,” Thornton said, “keep her at the White House. I think it would be wise if she and I made several campaign appearances together.”

He looked away from Darnell, lifting the White House phone again.

Darnell became awed for trie thousandth time at how the Capitol rose from the dark and dazzled with white, blaring focus on the dome and the monuments. There, the White House ahead. A crowd was gathering in Lafayette Park over the street. What would they chant this night?

Marine Corps One touched down silkily. With neither dog nor wife to greet him, Tomtree stretched his long legs over the lawn toward the portico. “Here they come!”

“Mr. President.. .”

“Mr. President.. . will you tell us .. .”

He turned at the door and held up both hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, as soon as I’m fully briefed, I’ll have a statement for you.”

“Has Governor O’Connell tried to reach you?”

“How is this going to affect the outcome .. .”

“Mr. President, were you aware .. .”

Thornton disappeared inside. Darnell glanced down the driveway, where TV trucks and the cars of correspondents were hurtling themselves onto the grounds.

Jacob Turnquist was in place as Mendenhall, shirttail askew, entered the Oval Office with a stack of late data.

“Martha! Where the hell is Lucas de Forest?”

“Just got a cell call. He’ll be here in ten minutes.” $

Thornton nodded for her to leave and shut out the world.; He pointed at Mendenhall.

“The buzz words,” Hugh Mendenhall said, “are general confusion and

disbelief. Too early for any kind of reliable polls, bufcj the cable

stations are filled with constitutional experts, yottj know, the

musical-chair crowd. The only piece of hard information is that

O’Connell is not playing in Birmingham. The KKK is? burning a cross

before a Jewish-owned department store. One}

synagogue trashed in Atlanta and inner-city rumblings all over: Watts, Oakland, Harlem, Detroit, East Saint Louis.”

“All black?”

“Yes, sir, seems like the Muslim preachers are really trying to get them stirred up. While the new data is pouring in, I’m trying to canvas tomorrow’s newsprint editorials.”

“Are any in yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Mendenhall answered, and reluctantly passed a special edition of the New York Times.

IS GOVERNOR o’CONNELL TO BE BELIEVED?

“There is nothing in O’Connell’s ancient past or recent candidacy to even hint he has ever lied or deliberately deceived the public. The New York Times finds no reason to withdraw our endorsement of him for president.”

“Jesus Christ!” Thornton said, hitting the desk.

“Mr. President,” Jacob Turnquist said, “don’t read in too much. The New York Times is a Jewish newspaper catering to an enormous Jewish population. We can expect a number of his endorsers to defect to us.”

“Mr. President, Director de Forest is here,” Martha said over the intercom.

Lucas de Forest, the nation’s first black FBI director, was Tomtree’s showpiece nominee. He had returned the New Orleans Police Department to a position of respect and then done the same in Philadelphia. Only thing about him, he was too damned assertive and at times played a bit loose with citizens’ rights. He and Thornton had bucked heads on Internet issues. The FBI wanted to be able to break into lines such as the Bulldog Network. One of the reasons Thornton was in the White House was to keep that from happening, and do nothing to fog up business transactions.

Nonetheless, de Forest was a great cop.

“What’s your read, Lucas?” Tomtree asked after they were bolted in.

Lucas looked like a cop, and even more like a boxer, whose face had caught its fair share. Yet he was a rock. He turned to Hugh Mendenhall.

“We’re only a couple hours into this thing,” Lucas said. “Hugh, what’s going on with the Internet?”

“Every little neo-Nazi and White Aryan Christian Arrival website is beating the keys. Real puss stuff.”

“What about the TV media?”

“Utter confusion amplified by their panels. No one has called O’Connell a flat-out liar .. . yet.” “For the moment, I think we are in good shape,” Lucas went on. “If the outburst is confined to the hate groups, we’ll have no problem dealing with them .. . and I don’t feel any of them has a great reach into the mainstream, or the stamina to make a continuing fight.”

“What worries me,” Jacob Turnquist said, “is the inner cities. The conditions are in perfect alignment to have a black pogrom against the Jews, cossack-style. “Now is the time, brothers, to vent all your frustrations against Jewish slum lords,” et cetera, et cetera.”

“You’re right,” Lucas answered directly. “We can’t allow brush fires to flare up in the inner cities.”

“Do you believe the situation will deteriorate that much?” Tomtree asked.

“Mr. President, a riot takes on a life of its own,” Darnell

answered.

Mendenhall whispered over the phone in the attached pantry. Knee-jerk reaction was coming in from the Christian Right, careful criticism with a tinge of rancor. Yet no one outside the hate groups had branded O’Connell as a flat-out liar. More hot spots were developing from the Aryans and the Klan.

“I think we’d better make a statement,” Darnell said.

“Press or TV?”

“Right now a press release will have to do,” Tomtree said.

“Those news dogs are hunting out there,” Mendenhall said.

“A statement will hold things for a while,” Darnell reckoned.

“Jacob:1”

“You are on to the events of tonight,” Jacob said as he stopped to ponder. “Something to the effect that nothing has changed, i/O’Connell is telling the truth. Then go on to say you hope all the facts are in before the election.”

“That’s accusatory,” Darnell said.

“I don’t think so,” Turnquist answered. “He doesn’t say Jew, he

doesn’t say liar—“

“He says,” Darnell interrupted, “if the dog hadn’t stopped to take a shit, he’d have caught the rabbit.”

Thornton closed his eyes and mumbled lightly as he ran through the words.

“Wall Street Journal editorial, Mr. President.” Mendenhall read, “The waters have been muddied. The safe course is to stick with the President.”

A thump of delight, of tension falling.

“Jacob, jot out my announcement. If O’Connell is telling the truth, and we hope we can learn that before the election, we can save the nation from a perilous direction.”

“Dammit! Cut the last part,” Darnell said, “we don’t have to issue a warning citation. Everyone knows what we’re talking about. Mr. President, you have a chance here to make a statesmanlike, brilliant, meaningful pronouncement.. .”

“Such as?”

“Well, try this on,” Darnell answered. “I’ve read the Constitution, and nothing in it says it is illegal for an orphan to find his parents. The question has no part in this election.”

Turnquist winced. Mendenhall winced. Lucas de Forest was politically noncommittal, but Thornton seemed unable to stop himself from taking a free kick at his opponent.

“We’ll go with if O’Connell, before the election. We’ll cut the part about saving the nation, for now,” the President said.

“Mr. Director, what kind of contingency plan do we have for this?” he asked Lucas de Forest.

The director took a large three-ring binder from his worn old briefcase, put it on the coffee table, and bent down to it.

TOP SECRET—OPERATION JOY STREETS, the title page read. “In the event of civil disobedience by anti-government groups-this is not a plan that includes students.”

“Don’t the damned campuses always erupt?” Tomtree asked.

“Mr. President, there is no occasion where a campus has rioted against the Jewish population,” de Forest said, “but we can’t rule them out. This is a unique situation.”

“Run this Joy Streets past me,” Thornton asked.

“Phase One, alert FBI; Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco; U.S. Marshal Service; establish local communications to Washington headquarters.”

Lucas buzzed down the page with his finger, omitting the details.

“Okay, here we go,” he read. “This is also part of Phase One: Contact our moles, informers, spies in suspected groups. This is key to Phase One .. . namely, ascertain from our infiltrators if their cell, group, Klavern, et cetera, have preselected bombing targets or persons to be assassinated. Name and address of cell leaders.”

“How many moles have we planted?” the President asked.

“A couple a hundred,” Lucas answered. “Of these, two or three dozen have totally infiltrated and are reliable. The rest from luke cold to luke warm.”

Thornton waved for Lucas de Forest to continue.

“Mr. President, let’s take a look at this Phase One. If we can have our people at the controls and if we can stop three or four bombings, it is going to disrupt their attack.”

“I disagree,” Thornton said. “If we initiate this first call-up only on the suspicion of what might happen, then the people will think we are trigger-happy, overplaying our hand and the like.”

“But the call-up is secret,” de Forest argued. “Hell,” Hugh Mendenhall popped in. “Five minutes after you initiated Phase One the press would know it.”

“You see, we’ve branded O’Connell, with some success, as being the reckless gunfighter,” Thornton said.

“But, sir,” de Forest persisted, “if we hesitate in putting Phase One into motion, it could entirely lose its effectiveness. The idea behind Joy Streets is to beat them to the punch.”

“Keep reading please, Mr. Director,” Tomtree ordered.

“Phase Two, deputize all urban police forces and county sheriffs to round up and detain suspects. Phase Three, call up the National Guard in threatened locales. National Guards to maintain a peace-keeping posture.”

“It’s starting to sound like the Keystone Kops,” the President said.

“How, sir? Once we have a list of priority people and buildings to defend and have the National Guard on the street and we have rounded up their leadership, we’ll snuff it by the middle of the day, tomorrow.”

“Let’s hear the rest of this plan,” Thornton said, knowing he’d made up his mind.

“The rest of the phases deal with a full-court press on the streets—curfews, ultimatums, finally call up the Army and Marines for martial law.”

“Bad news,” Mendenhall interrupted. “Jewish community center in Los Angeles was just bombed.”

“We can’t count this as a trend,” Jacob Turnquist grunted academically.

“Just sporadic incidents.”

“If we do not put Phase One into motion, we’ll be playing in a game we can’t win. If we allow fires to erupt, the fires will consume everything until they burn themselves out,” de Forest warned.

“And I say that jumping the gun sends a bad signal to the American people. It might be all over with by dawn,” said Tomtree.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” de Forest said. “This is a matter of public safety, sir ...”

“Mendenhall.”

/-i

Sir.

“Run off a copy of this Joy Streets for my personal use. You’ve got to know when to hold and know when to fold. What else have you got there, Mr. Director?”

“Release form, Mr. President. An executive order to be signed by you to put Joy Streets into motion.”

“Just leave it here. Thank you, gentlemen,” Thornton said, nodding to each. “Mr. Jefferson, remain, please.”

The three left, consumed with apprehension. Hugh Men den hall ran Joy Streets through a copier. A note was handed to Director Lucas de Forest.

“Shit. Synagogue torched in Baltimore.” He glared at Mendenhall, who threw up his arms.

“I don’t know why,” Hugh said defensively. “The chief plays a mean poker hand.”

Thornton unlaced his shoes and rubbed his feet. He’d never seen Darnell Jefferson suddenly become so haggard. “I think we’re on the right track, Darnell, but you looked like you were ready to explode.”

“Because,” Darnell said hoarsely, “I know something that I didn’t know before.”

“What would that be?”

“I really don’t think you can comprehend what I’ve got to say, Thornton.”

“It’s too late to speak in riddles, and we’ve got a bitch of a day

tomorrow. I’m wondering now, how do we approach the last days of the

campaign:1”

“Well, just travel right into the riot spots.”

“That could be messy. I think ... I think we buy two thirty minute time slots a day, one at noon, one at eight in the evening, and we’ll do a combination infomercial/upto-the minute report.”

Darnell Jefferson turned on his heel. “Darnell! Do not leave!” Darnell’s hand dropped from the doorknob, “Now, what is it you know you didn’t know before?”

“All about my life,” Darnell said. “It isn’t very interesting.”

“Sit down, have a drink,” Thornton said. “This thing could be

volatile, because—“

“Because you want it to become volatile,” Darnell said, looking down, then into the President’s eyes. “You want some more bombs to go off, cemeteries desecrated, synagogues burned to the ground, Kristallnacht, you want a Kristallnacht. Then their big daddy president will move in and save the day. You want to deliberately start Joy Streets late so you can take on the role of savior.”

“Are you trying to say I’m orchestrating these riots?”

“You knew they would happen, brother. And you knew you could have stopped them dead in their tracks a half hour ago. But there is more. You want some blood on the streets as well. Every time someone is killed or wounded, the pressure mounts on O’Connell to quit and withdraw.”

“That’s diabolical!” Thornton protested.

“It sure is. Thornton, stick this in your craw. Every casualty that puts pressure on O’Connell puts even more pressure on you.”

Thornton turned his eyes away.

“It’s down to simple math. If the people believe O’Connell, they will vote him into office next week,” Darnell said. “If they believe you, they will vote to reelect you.”

Tomtree averted his eyes from his friend’s piercing glare in a manner he had not done since they were teenagers.

Darnell became a bundle of sweating, pleading. “God, man, stop these riots!”

Knowing that Thornton was not going to budge, Darnell backed off, broken, to whine: “I’ve been following a black hearted man all my life. My daddy believed there was a bright star in the east the night you were born. Like Jesus! “Thornton’s mind can go into places where no one can follow. He will achieve ultimate greatness for himself and for the human race.” I believed that, too. I believed you would never make a decision that knowingly put America in danger.”

“That’s enough, Darnell.”

“No, it isn’t. The reason you are doing this tonight is that seed already planted in a gangly, pimply excuse for a basketball player in Pawtucket. You were pissed then, and you’re pissed now. World! T3 is going to even up the score for his friendless life.”

“I said, that is enough!”

Darnell ignored him. “The Bulldog Network, absolute secrecy guaranteed. A paragon of human achievement. Why did Thornton Tomtree love that? Big-time greed is where the power is, where the big bucks play. Greed is the curse of making yourself a deity in your own eyes up to a point where you cannot manage a human relationship. Greed is justifying any and all means of control. You’re an electronic monster! We have a president uncaring of how many people are killed on the streets so long as he wins his reelection.”

“I knew you’d end up weeping on your knees, big-time, when the going got tough. You didn’t know what the presidency is all about,” Thornton said.

Hugh Mendenhall slipped in.

“Muslims stirring up a riot in Detroit. That’s a very incendiary place. Michigan governor Grayson McKenney has just called up the National Guard.”

“Goddammit! Grayson’s a Republican. He should have called me first!”

“At the moment AMERIGUN is setting up for a TV and web site blast starting in the morning. Otherwise, these brush fires continue to pop up.”

“Colorado?” Thornton snapped. “Has O’Connell called up his guard?”

“Negative. Nothing seems to be happening in Denver.”

“Any idea how we might set Denver off?” Thornton asked.

“I don’t fucking believe this!” Darnell cried.

“Sit down and shut up, Darnell.”

More news of rioting. The downtown areas of a dozen cities began to flame to the beat of broken glass!

*

Kristallnacht!

Thornton moved to his study, adjoining his bedroom, where he had a setup of a dozen TV monitors. Snips were arriving of tear gas, swinging batons .. . now water cannons!

“Okay, buster,” Thornton said to himself, “so let us play chicken, O’Connell, let’s play chicken!”

Ben Horowitz was damn near inconsolable, taking the blame for turning the devil forces loose.

Quinn’s calm calmed them all. No chinks in the armor, no wringing hands, no shouts to God. He spoke softly as the news reached him and gave quick, thoughtful responses.

“Nebraska has just called up the Guard,” Greer said.

“I didn’t think we were doing that well in Nebraska. How many call-ups?”

“Nine states, six states pending. Twenty-eight states report no rioting activity .. . but, Jesus, if the President doesn’t issue an order .. . how long?”

A car bomber plunged into the plate-glass window of Feldman Toyota on the auto mile of San Francisco.

A gunman entered the Lew Singer Deli on lower Broadway and sprayed the place with automatic fire. Six are known dead, twenty wounded.

A bonfire of books from the Judaica sections of the Jacksonville Library licked the sky while encircling neo-Nazis saluted and chanted.

Ketchum, Idaho, Bank hit by a dozen militia. Half million dollars taken. One dead.

As the night settled in, the question at hand was the upcoming day.

Bitter O’Connell haters watched how the authorities were responding to see what situations would be ripe for daylight exploiting.

And the governors and mayors watched, to use their forces gingerly and not get into a situation of putting a thousand of their citizens against their own arms.

And the sound of Kristallnachtl

The Reverend Amos Johnson was the surviving icon of the early civil rights movement. He had risen to challenge for the presidency twice in primaries and walked off with eighteen percent of the vote.

His personal ambitions chilled by the white establishment, Amos became a dynamic wellspring of hope for his people and gathered in a large Hispanic following as well.

There was a time of separation between a liberal Jewish activism and the black community. Some African American leaders scolded their former allies as pious do-gooders looking down with pity on their black brothers.

Into this mix crept the inevitable ancient tentacles of anti Semitism. The slum lord, Jewish wealth, Jewish power, now grated on those downtrodden ghetto dwellers.

Amos Johnson himself took the view that the Jews were patronizing them without either deep love or conviction.

Attempts to heal a widening rift by covering the issues with a Band-Aid did not help.

The Black Muslim movement fanned a constantly smoldering pall of anti-Semitism. The Jew is the enemy!

The Reverend Amos Johnson had worked closely with too many Jewish politicians and leaders not to realize that the two communities were inexorably bound together by tragedies.

The Jews, as a people, had reached many of their goals. This angered some and enraged other blacks whose gains came slower and with more pain.

A cycle emerged of black for the sake of black. Reverend Amos Johnson always gave a wide berth to the hate teachings of the Muslim Nation. Despite his high regard in the country, Reverend Amos never publicly rebuked them on any issue.

It was not as though the history, leadership, and white citizens deserved better. They had wrought a system of injustice that was ending in black-white polarization. Black juries proved as prejudiced as white juries had always proved.

The firebrand days were behind Johnson, and three of his children, two of them daughters, were members of Congress. They badgered him constantly to lead the African American community out of perpetual victimhood.

As soon as the riots started, his children rushed to his home, held hands, and prayed for guidance. Outside, a crowd of believers started numbering in the thousands, backing up clear to both street corners.

The media included black cable TV channels and a black press.

“Now hear me!” Amos began.

“We hear you,” was the response.

“We have been driven to the wall time and time again throughout our tragic history in this nation. We are in pain!”

“Pain!”

“We are in agony! We still await our walk in the sun!.”

“You tell us, Reverend!”

“Slowly, slowly, always too slowly we have crawled the crawl, feeding on crumbs of this wealthy gate society. We yet await our walk into the sun!”

“Hallelujah!”

Tonight! “Amos cried.

“Tonight!” was responded.

“We will play the role given us by Yahweh to be full Americans. We

will set aside the injustices for the moment, and we will be Americans

first! We who have suffered the terror of lynchings and dogs and nightsticks and hate-filled policemen .. . we who suffered all this say: we will not be used as monsters to bring down another American community!”

“Amen!”

“Do not let the forces of evil in and out of our community let us be used to do unto another what has been done to us! No matter what our personal experiences with Jews, we just set them aside, for Yahweh has commanded us to save our brothers!”

Silence swept over them.

“We who have been denied the right of full citizenship will not be used to deny that right to others. Let no black man stain himself with the blood of a Jew, because, if the carnage is not stopped, the black man and woman will become the next target. America must exist with all its little communities intact, or it will not exist at all. We must now set our own grievances aside because tonight we are Americans!”

Amos turned away from the bank of microphones into the embrace of his wife and children.

“You said the right thing, Daddy,” his daughter told him.

“The hate is killing us,” Amos whispered.

Milwaukee was quiet. The skin heads of Milwaukee looked time and again for police on the streets. There were none. They grew bolder. A call went out on their web site for an immediate gathering.

Sixty bald heads swathed in black leather and adorned with swastikas

marched toward the Beth El Synagogue singing one of the good old black

shirt songs.

When Jewish blood is dripping from our daggers .. .

breaking news breaking news breaking news

“This is Charlotte Cassidy, CBS, Memphis. Southern Grand Dragon Potter Wesley has called for a four-state convergence of the Klan at Memphis to parade at daybreak. Mr. Wesley! Sir! May I have a few words with you?”

a-\ t yy

No.

“How many klaverns do you think can make it to Memphis by daylight?”

“What did you hear?” he growled.

“Upward of a thousand Klansmen.”

“I won’t dispute that, and while we’re at it, let me tell you

something. CBS is just another Jew network.”

“I understand that some of your people will be carrying weapons—“

“This is a peaceful march. The KKK does not believe in violence against niggers or kikes. Now, if some folks want to bring along a weapon to defend themselves, ain’t much I can do about that.”

“The KKK show of force,” Charlotte said, “will not be disturbed as long as it remains un destructive says the chief of police. However, a survey of college campuses in the vicinity indicates that the Klan will run head-on into growing ranks of students.”

breaking news breaking news breaking news

San Francisco.

Eric Cardinal Mueller, a dean and often spokesman, took his seat as the cameras honed in on him and the commentator spoke, softly giving the priest’s background.

“It is the never-ending mission of the Church to find truth and speak truth even to the point of admitting Church wrongdoing in the past. No church can survive on lies. Since World War Two our foundations have been rocked by the passive role of the Vatican during the Holocaust. In this search for truth, we are now investigating our role in the Spanish Inquisition.

“Only a half century ago Jewish citizens of Germany cried out in the

night for their neighbors to help them. As they slammed the door in Jewish faces, the gates of Auschwitz were opened.”

“A Kristallnacht is shaping up in the streets of our cities and in our countryside. In the end we have to earn our keep as Christians.

“We are still haunted by the Holocaust. The Holocaust is not a Jewish problem. The Holocaust is a Christian problem. We cannot permit this to happen, for if we do, we will wipe out our own teachings.”

“Turn that goddamned thing off!” Thorn ton snapped. “That goddamn kraut cardinal now wants to slap their guilt on us. Don’t forget, O’Connell is still a Catholic. And the Reverend Amos and his three kids are still Democrats.”

As Thornton received the minute-to-minute reports, Darnell all but hid himself in a corner, shriveling into a fetal position. It was befalling him to empty his head of his life and deeds. Surely, in a showdown Thornton Tomtree would come down on the side of decency. That proposition had kept them in place for over four decades. Why couldn’t he have seen what he saw now?

T3 was doing no more or less than making him an extension of himself. No, he would not curve the course. No, he would not go down graciously.

Yes, he would endanger the nation!

Oh, Lord! Darnell thought. There will be a still photograph to mark the era, like the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, or the little oriental war baby sitting in the middle of the road, or John-John Kennedy saluting his father’s coffin. What will this photograph be? A burning Star of David? Blood on the street? Someone’s stuffed bunny being clutched by a dead infant? What will be our Kristallnacht? Like the Monica LewinskyClinton embrace, the Kristallnacht will bring back an ugly moment.

Dr. Jacob Turnquist did not sit opposite the President with a great deal of comfort. He squirmed.

“As the hard right groups have had a chance to organize, we can expect a renewal of street activities at daybreak. Once these incidents hop from town to town ... I think we’ve reached a danger point.”

That was not what Thornton wanted to hear. He needed to speak to the vice president, to ascertain that the bedrock Christian Coalition was still in place. What was Thornton weighing? Why? How much danger should he allow?

Mendenhall came in sallow, a single sheet quivering in his fingers.

“Well!”

Mendenhall cleared his throat, a signal of a coming disaster. “Editorials for tomorrow, one hundred largest markets. Front page, ninety-two. Pro rioters, so long as they protest without destroying property or life .. . twenty. Call for the President to react ... eighty-one. Believe Governor O’Connell .. . seventy eight. Zionist plot.. . three. Postpone election .. . yea, twelve, nay, eighty..

.”

“Shit!” Thornton mumbled.

“Some of the editorials hit pretty hard,” Mendenhall said.

Thornton looked to Turnquist angrily. It was one thing to sit at a conference table espousing his political Princeton wisdom, but quite another to be in the bunker with shells flying all around.

“Vice president is on the phone.”

“Thank God,” Thornton said. “Where the hell did you set down, Matthew?”

“I’m in Tulsa.”

“Bring me up to date.”

“I have canvassed twenty-five of our largest Coalition churches. It’s

a very mixed reading, Mr. President. It seems that O’Connell has made

very significant inroads into our solid front. The women don’t seem to

want guns, many of the men idolize O’Connell as a great hero, school

prayer a non sequitur, and uh, right of choice “What!”

“Well, they’ve always been taking the goddamned pill and visiting abortion clinics. They just feel it shouldn’t be covered up any longer. You’ve got to make a move. All we are doing is reaching now. We have to put men on the street and go on the offensive.”

“I was hoping I could hold up the process until afternoon,” Thornton said. “It crosses a thin line for reelection.”

“It’s very dangerous,” the vice president insisted.

“How do you stand personally in this!” Thornton demanded.

“We are speaking of a very disturbing image of America creeping in.

Stop them now!”

Thornton slammed the receiver, then picked up another phone. “Find me Lucas de Forest,” he ordered.

It was four-thirty in the morning, a few hours left before the curse of darkness turned into the curse of daylight. He noticed the devastated Darnell Jefferson, an old slave in sorrow. Couple of good shakes and Darnell would be back on board.

“Hello!”

“Mr. President, this is Lucas de Forest.”

“Where the hell are you, Lucas?”

“At FBI headquarters. I’m cleaning out my office.”

“What! I did not fire you.”

“I resigned. I left an envelope for you on your secretary’s desk.”

“Well, I don’t accept the resignation,” Thornton said, alarmed that such news would all but seal his doom. “I’m declaring a national emergency .. . and you must stay.”

Lucas de Forest throbbed, head, heart, joints, eyes. “Are you ready to order Joy Streets into motion?”

“Tomorrow at... say, ten o’clock.”

“Mr. President,” wheezed Lucas, “you are a schmuck.”

“Don’t hang up ... don’t hang up ... all right, Lucas, what do you have in mind?”

“Joy Streets immediately. Phase One and Phase Two simultaneously.

Yea or nay, sir?”

Darnell had uncrumpled himself, went over and took the phone from Thornton’s hand.

The two men locked onto one another with a ferocity never known before.

He handed the phone back to the President.

“I agree,” Tomtree said. He hung up and continued his venomous glare.

“All I needed was a few more hours to make this work right.”

“Sure, boss,” Darnell said. “So, you’ve gotta know when to hold and know when to fold. I’m picking up my chips, Thornton.”

“What? Oh, you mean our heated little discussion? Forget it, pal.

We’ve got a pile of work to do to get the story out straight .. . Darnell, are you listening .. . Darnell, are you really going to leave me? You won’t be so godawful righteous without those humongous T3 checks coming in!” Thornton cried.

“Doesn’t make any difference, man. I’ve given most of the money away, anyhow. Got a spin for you, free. Why don’t you blame Forest de Lucas for the late start on Joy Streets. Overriding your FBI head shows real balls.”

“Do you think we can use it?” Thornton asked earnestly.

“Jesus, I’m all dry,” Darnell said. “Not enough to wad up a good spit in your face.”

What would the photograph of Kristallnacht portray? American hate?

American decency. Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light?

“I’ve never seen anyone with the will to equal Siobhan’s,” the doctor said.

“Five more days,” Quinn begged.

“I don’t see how. She sinks to a near comatose state then forces herself awake, in unbearable pain and saturated with drugs. She will fight until she has a half hour, an hour of clarity. On one of these slumbers, she is bound to go.”

Quinn sat at the bedside holding her fragile hand. The sun always crossed this room lovely in January. The big mountain outside became diffused and, as the sun inched along, it made a montage of colors, then dipped below the horizon.

Her books were varied, a generations old Bible in both Gaelic and English. They read to her now, Thoreau and Leaves of Grass. She’d nod that she understood and one could not help but feeling their content fortified her.

Siobhan’s eyes fluttered open, scared at first, until Quinn came into focus. “Son.”

“Can you understand me all right, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Rita and I have to leave tomorrow. We are already two days late. But they’re planning a party for you. Rae and Duncan and Ellie and the baby—Dan Wong O’Connell, named after our dads—will all be here.”

“They should be with you.”

“I’ll have Rita and Mal, and my brother Ben.”

“How gracious you all are.. ..” Her eyes rolled back and she winced, gripping his hand with what poor, little power she had.

“Bad, Mom?”

“I wouldn’t wish it on Hitler.”

Her pain passed through. “Four generations of O’Connells,” she said. “Now, that is a family .. . that is a ... family.” Siobhan rallied for she knew she’d go under again soon. “Dan’s Chinese great-grandson. Quinn,” she cried, “what of you?”

“God willing, we are beyond middle-ages inquisitions in our Congress. Clinton had to stand naked before the world and take more humiliation than an human being ever had. In the end, it was he and his wife who came through it with courage and dignity. Are you okay, Mom?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.”

“I believe in the decency of the American people,” Quinn said.

Siobhan made the tiniest of smiles and indicated he should read her to sleep from one of the books on the bedside table. Quinn knew his mother was starting her journey, fighting to understand the words he spoke, hearing his voice last, as she desired.

“From Generations,” Quinn said, “Ralph Waldo Emerson.” He opened the volume to where it was marked, then closed it and recited. “”Man is a god in ruins,”” he said. “”When men are innocent, life shall be longer and pass into the immortal as gently as we awake from dreams.””

Siobhan nodded.

“”Now, the world would be insane and rabid,”” he went on, ‘”if those disorganizations should last for hundreds of years. It is kept in check by .. . by .. .””

“Death,” she said.

“”It is kept in check by death and infancy. Infancy/ our Daniel Wong

O’Connell, “Infancy is the perpetual Messiah when it comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads with them to return to paradise.” Mom, I feel great love from the American people and they know I will brook no evil.”

Siobhan’s voice fell so low he had to lay his ear to her lips. “Can I say it, just once?”

Sure. “Mr. President,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

The authors of the Constitution overlooked a January inaugural, too damp and cold for the great American street carnival.

A thousand miles of bunting decorated Washington as icing on a big cake. The National Mall ballooned with science tents and food tents and history tents and technology and discovery and art tents.

And in all the auditoriums came the sounds of America singing, singing gospel and Mormon hymns and rock and samba and, of course, bluegrass. Bagpipes and the horns of Dixieland. There was a dance tent where Irish step dancers followed a Mexican folk dancing group and children’s choruses. There was a gay men’s chorus and drummers from Korea and Hawaii and India.

And in the Kennedy Center the National Sympathy played lofty, patriotic music of the great plains and seacoasts and mountains and cities reaching up as fingers to God.

On they disgorged from Dulles and Reagan Airports and the Union Station until the great statues smiled from their pedestals.

There would be thirty something inaugural balls and the faithful would wait breathlessly for the five minute appearance of the President and First Lady.

As the mood of the great party filtered over the land, a king would grumble with envy of it.

January 19, 2009 Quinn had disciplined himself to be able to sleep anytime, anyplace, for however long he was allowed. Without this, few politicians could survive.

Quinn reached over the bed for Rita. Where am I? Oh, that’s right. Blair House. He flopped back on his pillow, then propped up on an elbow as he caught sight of Rita penning something at the desk. She sat before the window, curtains open, snowflakes falling outside. He watched until she finished.

Rita folded the sheet of paper and wrote Quinn on it. She found the suit she had laid out for him and slipped it in his pocket. She drew the curtains and they cuddled in and lay thus until morning .. . each now so aware of the moment they could not speak.

By dawn the snow had stopped. Branches swayed and fluffed off their patches of white.

“The sun is trying to break through,” Rita said, as steam rose on the lawn. “Are you sure you don’t want me at the prayer breakfast?”

“It will be understood.”

“I’ll pray here for Siobhan. You pray for the country.” Rita disappeared into the dressing room to begin her countdown.

Rita had commissioned Stetson to make them a pair of matching Western hats, not too cowboy, not too in your face, but a sort of Clark Gable riverboat gambler hat. Quinn felt very Colorado for the moment.

After the prayer breakfast he would meet the congressional leaders and Rita would join him for traditional tea with the outgoing president.

Pucky, at her most gracious, was as gracious as they came. She schooled Rita to take over the enterprise of operating the White House. During these frosty days, Thornton Tomtree scarcely left his study. No songs to cheer him, no ladies to endear him.

There was the bittersweet moment Darnell Jefferson returned. They were destined to crash on a Noah’s Rock, together. Tom’s BULLDOG held no answers.

“I had control of the greatest single invention in the history of mankind. I thought we’d hit the ground running,” Thornton said. “What the fuck happened?”

“I could sure go for a Bloody Mary,” Darnell said.

“Go ahead. You don’t have to be on the reviewing stand. What the fuck happened?”

The first sip was good, the second sip delicious.

“Well?” Thornton pressed.

“You know, Thornton, people are driven by this machine, our personalities. We obey it even when we don’t know what we are doing. Our personality always tells us we are right. We cannot understand clashing with someone else’s personality who tells us we are wrong. That’s how you became a president. But, hell, your engine took you exactly where you wanted to go.”

“Then why am I so overjoyed? Thornton snarled.

“That personality drove you to earning twenty-five billion dollars, the American presidency, and for a fleeting moment you nearly gained control of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.”

“I had it right here,” he said, showing his fist. Darnell turned his eyes away. “Didn’t I?”

“The people didn’t think so, Thornton. Greed is endemic but when the time came to have the Lincoln Memorial sponsored by Nathan’s hot dogs, they shamed.”

Thornton tried to understand.

“We name our children after our father and mother, or an aunt or a hero. We bury our dead in green lawns and bring fresh flowers to keep their sainted memory. We weep on bad days of remembrance of our family. We toil for them. We are tender to our aged. And we fight them tooth and nail.”

“And .. . ?”

*

“I haven’t cried for a dead computer,” Darnell said. “Men like us, who were there at the beginning, should taught have computers their proper place, before they gained control over the morals of half the human race.”

“Hasn’t that always been the game?” Thornton asked. “The irresistible personality in man driving us to wars. So, what do we do, Darnell?”

“We may think we’re hot stuff now, but we’ve a lot of catching up to become as great as we have been in our past. Fortunately, there is a lot to draw on.”

Thornton Tomtree paled. “And Quinn O’Connell personifies our past greatness .. . and .. . the way to the future. That son of a bitch. You said I had no control over the drive of my personality.”

“That’s right, Thornton.”

Pucky entered. “The O’Connells are arriving. We should meet them at the front door.”

“This tea is a pretty shitty tradition, if you ask me,” Thornton said, creaking out of his seat. “What the hell do we talk about?”

“Oh, the Denver Broncos,” Darnell said, “O’Connell is a Bronco junky.”

“I, Quinn Patrick O’Connell do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

In all the heavens we know of and all the heavens we know nothing of, can there be a more almighty event to befall a single, lone person?

The thousands arrayed before him in chilled air did not budge.

“I have come to you for about a year to listen to your aspirations and

to present you with my vision of the future. You have told me,

resoundingly, that now is time for America to travel the high road. The high road requires of every citizen to lend their energy to one gigantic swell for progress and decency.. ..”

Quinn reviewed the things he wanted to bring to America, always with

reference to the most generous and decent people in the world.

And, in a few moments, because it was very cold, he concluded on his lofty theme, knowing he will be fought all the way, but daring those who would turn him back or those whose robber hearts who would take the planet down.

“The human race,” Quinn said, “has functioned from its first day on the proposition that some people are superior to others and thus empowered to rule and exploit those people of lesser stuff. Humanity is often mistaken as civility. Humans have always been somewhat less than human. Well then, how do we score this game? Every so often a MORAL IMPERATIVE demands that we must alter our sense of humanity or fade into the stardust of the universe.

“Slavery and our Civil War was just such a MORAL IMPERATIVE. After the Holocaust we believed, did we not, that no such event could happen again in the family of man. But genocide by the human race to the human race has happened over and over.

“In the beginning of the last century we awakened to the invention of electric light and airplanes and the X ray and the automobile and film. And, also, the machine gun, a weapon that killed twenty thousand men at the Somme River in a single day.

“We kick the door open now and march into this twenty first century with more promise that the human race can solve the enormous tasks before of feeding and giving a decent life and preserve this planet.

“When the sums are added, the meaning of the past century was a rising of people to liberate themselves from their masters. It was the century ‘

“Yet the seeds of hatred are within us all. Along with unrivaled

progress in our way of life, we must face the demand of a MORAL IMPERATIVE with the goal of eradicating racism. Racism from person to person, tribe to tribe, and nation to nation is the greatest blight on the people of this land, of this world.

“No, we can never defeat it entirely. But we must know to recognize it, confront it, and destroy it wherever it surfaces.

“And, in this matter, we have a richness of different communities and our basic decency to say, who better than America can lead the way.”

There was a long, long moment of silence as Quinn stepped away. Then from this side of the Mall and that side and from the stands a single word was chanted and swelled till the old town shook.

“QUINN!” they cried, “QUINN! QUINN! QUINN!”

Ah, it was a good thing Rita remembered to slip in a couple of pairs of apres-ski boots in the president al limo for the street was slushy. They walked to the White House as hands reached out begging for a touch, crying the chant.

Quinn saw an awed little fellow of about twelve whose clothing told him he was poor. Quinn halted for a moment, took off his new Stetson, and put it on the lad.

A few moments later they took their places in the reviewing stand and up Pennsylvania Avenue came the Marine Corps band. It stopped before Gunner Quinn and, behind the trumpet and drum roll, played “Hail to the Chief.”

And on came America.

Chinese dragon dancers.

And a man on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam.

And floats with coal miners and mules from Virginia and a lobster boat from main.

And up the street marched the Mount St. Joseph High School band of Bloemer, New Mexico, who traveled to the capital on money earned picking crops.

And the replica of the Statue of Liberty.

And the United States Army Band.

And prairie schoolers.

And a fly over nudging the sound barrier.

And minutemen.

And the fiercest posse in the West.

And the United States Navy Band.

And mountains and plains and rivers and streams and timber and paddlewheel boats and alligators and floats bulging with the bounty of the nation.

The last division of marchers were led by the United States Air Force Band just as the sun began to lose its zest.

It would be another hour before the some thirty inaugural balls would require their visit. Already the night was punctured by ten thousand fireworks.

Quinn realized he was quite out of the world this moment, but the sight of Rita dressing brought the biggest smile of the day. Better get a move on, he told himself as he patted his pants and jacket pockets before emptying them. He withdrew the note that Rita had written the night before.

For My Beloved

It has come to this

You beside me

This is my unwritten speech to you

Inaugural, a first poem

You found in your pocket

On this night I am my own crowd of supporters,

“Which trusts so much the familiar slope of your ear that listens to

you listen,

gives a fair account of what you hear,

surrounds your every cell as if each were its own true conviction,

and I am not afraid how many other distant from you may keep you this way.

For the want to know you as I know you,

just as after seeing a painting of a radiant faraway land.

You arrive there and find it unchanged.