Conspiracy

146

McSweeney engaged in his pre — meet and greet ritual — he took a quick shot of bourbon from an ancient metal flask, then washed it down with a squirt of mouthwash. He peeled off a Wint-O-Green mint from his roll of Life Savers and popped it in his mouth, reaching for the door of the car.

Jimmy Fingers met him outside the car. “You’re not going to believe this,” said Jimmy. “The President wants to talk to you to night.”

“What, does he want to make sure we don’t wear the same dress tomorrow?” snapped McSweeney sarcastically.

“He didn’t say. It may have to do with Iran — there was just an assassination attempt on the prime minister. It’s just hitting the Internet now.”

“Oh,” said McSweeney. He couldn’t decide whether to feel flattered or to suspect a trick.

Being from New York, McSweeney had a significant number of Jewish constituents and was considered close to Israel; ironically, he also represented a substantial number of Iranian-Americans and had twice spoken to pro-reform groups.

Before becoming President, Marcke had spoken with him regularly about the Middle East. Now that there was a crisis, McSweeney thought, he had no choice.

“Where does he want to meet?” McSweeney asked Jimmy Fingers.

“At the Paley house. It’s on his way to the airport, or so he says.”

“The Paley house? He’s up to something.” McSweeney considered what that something might be.

While the President changed his schedule the way some politicians changed their socks, this was the sort of deviation the press couldn’t miss. Why go out of his way not just to meet McSweeney but also to do it on what was metaphorically his turf?

“Marcke is always up to something,” said Jimmy Fingers.

“The question is what.”

McSweeney thought back to the meeting with Dean—

was that what this was about?

Jesus.

“Should we put him off?” said McSweeney.

“We don’t want to look like we’re ducking him. He is the President.” Jimmy Fingers rubbed his knuckle along his lower lip. “He wants to get you on the record.”

“What if I don’t want to go on the record?”

“It’s a no-brainer. You back Israel. Be very strong.”

“I can’t take the meeting.”

Jimmy Fingers gave him a look McSweeney hadn’t seen in years.

“What do you mean?” said the aide.

“It’s some sort of trap. It’s got to be.” Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Marcke coming here — frankly, even if you didn’t give him a commitment, you’ll still look good.”

McSweeney thought about the man who had confronted him the day before — Dean, clearly sent by the President. After dissecting the meeting, McSweeney had decided that Dean didn’t know everything, and that he certainly couldn’t tie him to the money. But maybe he’d been wrong — maybe the President could.

If that was what the President wanted to see him about, then he couldn’t run away, could he? Marcke might be hoping he would.

It would be just like Marcke to get on his high horse, to try to confront him — try to trick him — to get sanctimonious with him.

Let him. He’d find a way to turn it around.

He would. And in any event, it was too late to run away.

“Maybe this has to do with the whacky Vietnam theory,” Jimmy Fingers suggested. “Maybe he wants to tell you personally.”

“Maybe.”

McSweeney teetered on the brink of telling Jimmy Fingers the entire truth, but he pulled back. It would be a mistake, a bad mistake. He had to tough it out.

“Do you want to take the meeting or not?” asked Jimmy Fingers.

“Yes,” said McSweeney quickly. “I have nothing to fear.

Bring him on. It makes me look good, right?” Jimmy Fingers studied him for a moment. Should they call it off? McSweeney wondered. Would that make it look worse?

He was being paranoid, he told himself. This certainly had to be about Israel and Iran.

“It’ll make you look good,” agreed Jimmy Fingers finally.

“Very good.”