Seven Days in May

Thursday Evening

Hank Picot first heard the outboard motor coming around the island while he was cleaning a mess of fish down on the big flat rock just beyond the dock. Although the motor was running so slowly that the noise was muffled, he recognized it by its deep-throated tone as one of those big rental rigs from Edwards' place over at the landing.

Goddam, he thought, here it is only the middle of May and already the sports are beginning to show up. Pretty soon a man won't have this place to himself even in the winter, and it'll be all fished out too.

He watched the boat out of the corner of his eye as it slid around into view. In the fading daylight, he could see that it was one of Edwards' boats, all right, bigger than it needed to be and pushed by a 40-horse motor that was a lot more than enough for this little lake. The three men in the boat were not fishing at all, but were studying the island as they chugged along.

Then he remembered Jordan Lyman's call. Oh, those magazine people. Always wanting more pictures. You'd think they would have got enough last summer to last all the magazines in the country for a lifetime.

Picot had just finished gutting the last fish when the man in the bow of the boat pointed to him and spoke to the others. The man in the stern, who was running the engine, swung the boat toward the dock.

Picot stood up as they cut the motor and eased alongside the dock. They don't look like city fellows, he thought, at least not like any I've seen around Blue Lake before. Those three live outdoors somewhere, from their looks, and they're in good shape. Sure look like they can take care of themselves.

And only one small camera. Funny-looking crew for photographers. Picot swished his knife in the lake, dried it on his pants and slipped it back in its belt sheath. Then he washed his hands in the cold water. He said nothing.

"You take care of this place?" The speaker was the one in the bow, a black-haired man with heavy eyebrows and a scar along his jaw.

"That's about it," said Picot. "Something I can do for you?"

"Secret Service," said the black-haired one. "Just checking things out for the President's next trip, just checking things out."

Oh, is that so? thought Picot. Never seen them before, and when it's Secret Service it's always the same bunch. Besides, Lyman's already been here twice this year, and he didn't say anything on the phone about another check. Maybe they don't figure a Canuck fishing guide knows the difference.

The man who had spoken to him ran the bow line through one of the rings on the dock, and started to step out.

"Just a minute there," Picot said, moving from the flat rock onto the dock himself. "This here's private property."

The big man heaved himself onto the dock anyway and stood facing Picot. "Take it easy, friend, take it easy. We're just the advance men from Washington. We want to check out the island and run over the communications, the radio and stuff. They come through the winter all right?"

Picot took time to pull a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, light it, and rebutton the pocket. This fellow, he thought, is as ugly as a porcupine-and not a whole lot smarter. If he really was Secret Service he'd know all that from two weeks ago, and the Signal Corps men okayed the generators and transmitters a month before that.

"You got some kind of identification?" he asked.

The black-haired man stared at him. The one sitting in the middle of the boat tugged at his companion's trouser leg to get his attention, then clenched his fist in an unspoken question. The black-haired one, obviously in charge, shrugged but shook his head. He untied the line from the dock and got back into the boat.

"Well, I guess we don't need to go over everything," he said, "if you say it's all in good shape."

I didn't say no such a damn thing, Picot thought, but he said nothing.

The black-haired man signaled his assistant in the stern. He started the motor and the boat swung away from the dock and headed slowly toward the far end of the island.

Picot collected his fish and walked up to the house along the pine-needle path from the dock. He threw the fish in the refrigerator and then went out onto the porch. Although the house stood at the highest point on the small island, the trees around it hid much of the shoreline from view. But he could follow the boat's course by the sound of the outboard as it slowly went around. Once it stopped briefly at the far end, where the radio mast was set up and the telephone cable came out of the water, but it started up again in a minute and finally droned off at full throttle in the direction of the landing.

Well, Lyman had it figured right about visitors, thought Picot, but they didn't look like they worked for any magazine. They were up to something else, and whatever it was it wasn't good. Fact is, they looked more like they might have been figuring to steal something.

A loon broke the stillness with its rattling call. Picot shivered as he looked out across the lake, dead calm now in the final windless moments of twilight. Damn, he thought, it still gets cold at night. He turned and went inside the house to call Jordan Lyman.

When the phone rang in President Lyman's second-floor study, four men were sitting amid the litter of dinner dishes. Lyman, Christopher Todd, Art Corwin and Jiggs Casey had eaten at the long coffee table. The President's food was almost untouched; he had drunk two cups of coffee and tried vainly to keep his pipe lighted while the others ate.

Lyman had the instrument off the cradle almost before the first ring ended.

"Maybe it's Ray," he said, as if apologizing for his haste.

His face slackened in disappointment when he heard the voice at the other end, but he listened intently. After he hung up, he relayed Picot's account and his description of the three men in the boat.

"That's Broderick," Casey said. "That description couldn't fit one other guy in a million."

"He's a long way from home," said Corwin. "It's a couple of thousand miles from El Paso to Maine, isn't it?"

Todd tugged at the bottom of his vest like a lawyer who has just demolished a witness on cross-examination. He smiled confidently at Lyman, who was still frowning at the phone.

"Mr. President," he said crisply, "you're in luck."

"Luck?" asked Lyman. "Is that what you call it when the bottom drops out of everything?"

"Look," said Todd. He drew a silver-cased pencil out of an upper vest pocket and tapped it on the large yellow pad that now seemed as permanent a part of his attire as his watch chain or cuff links. "Ever since I became convinced of the existence of this operation-"

The President interrupted. "Which was all of twelve hours ago, Chris, as I recall it."

Except for a twinge of a smile, the lawyer ignored the remark.

"Ever since I became convinced of it," he said, "I've been wondering about one very important element, namely: how many allies does Scott have? If he has a great many, and this thing involves a lot of military units, large and small, we're in shoal waters. But if it comprises only a few men, even though they are the top commanders, the odds are all on our side."

"So?" Lyman was puzzled.

"So if General Scott has to dispatch Colonel Broderick all the way from El Paso, where he holds a command vital to this operation, up to Maine to do a job that any ordinary investigator could do, it means that Scott's trying to sail with a jury rig."

Lyman failed to brighten. He had been nervous and ill at ease ever since the little group had gathered an hour before. Corwin, who watched for such signs as part of his trade, was worried. Jittery Presidents meant more care and more work for him. Lyman stood up and paced the room, hands jammed in his pants pockets.

"I don't see how that helps much, Chris," he said.

"It helps if you decide to smash this thing out of hand," Todd replied, "and the time for that decision is getting mighty close."

Lyman's thoughts were elsewhere. "We've got to find out about Ray. My God, a United States senator can't just vanish." He looked at his wrist watch. "It's been more than thirty-six hours since Jiggs left him at the airport. I just don't understand it."

Todd was tempted to point to the bottles on the tray set against the wall of the study, but thought better of it. There was no use in flaying the President's temper any further. But what else could it be? They had called Clark's office. No one there knew his whereabouts. They had called his home repeatedly. No answer. They had tried the hotel in Macon where he stayed on his visits to Georgia, but that was a forlorn gesture. He must be somewhere around El Paso. Lyman had even suggested calling all the hotels and motels in the El Paso area, but Todd convinced him it would be dangerous.

"Jiggs," the President said now, "I think you better call Colonel Henderson's house in El Paso."

"I'm not so sure, Mr. President," Casey said, "that we ought to ..."

"I think you'd better try," said Lyman.

Casey knew an order when he heard one. He fished the Henderson number from his pocket and placed the call through Esther. Mrs. Henderson answered. Mutt was at the base and had said he probably would be there through the weekend. Yes, a Mr. Clark had called yesterday, but he said he was flying on to Los Angeles. No, nothing more from Mr. Clark. Why, was anything the matter?

The three others received Casey's account of his phone conversation in silence. Lyman poured himself another cup of coffee. That's three, thought Corwin, he's really getting the jitters.

Todd's face was wrinkled in thought. He rapped his yellow pad with a knuckle.

"I'd like to ask a blunt question," he said. "Is there anyone here who thinks that a military coup is not afoot?"

Corwin and Casey sat mute. Lyman said, "I wish there weren't. I think there is."

"So do I," said Todd. "Everything Casey and Corwin have found out indicates it. Girard's call told us so flatly. I think even General Rutkowski suspects more than just some covered-up propaganda effort by the chiefs opposing the treaty. And I think Admiral Palmer does too."

Todd paused, then bit out his next words like a prosecutor explaining a case to his staff. "But we have no evidence that a jury would believe, to say nothing of a public that's already in love with General Scott. Furthermore, I don't think we're going to get any- unless Senator Clark comes through soon."

"I'm counting on Ray," said Lyman stubbornly.

"That's a hope, not a fact, Mr. President," Todd said. "Getting any evidence that would force Scott to resign seems a remote possibility to me, at best. I suggest that now is the time to come to grips with this thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we have to decide right now-tonight-how you can break Scott and preserve your authority."

"What do you suggest, Chris?" Lyman's voice lacked interest, like that of a man resigned to hearing a sales talk when he is in no mood to buy.

"I've got a few ideas," said Todd. "We ought to thrash out every angle of this thoroughly, but if it were up to me, I'd do these things tonight:

"First, I'd get General Garlock down here and order him to put a reinforced, twenty-four-hour guard on that switch that controls the television and radio networks.

"And I'd order him to lock the gates at Mount Thunder and let no one-military or civilian-inside until I told him to, on pain of court-martial.

"Second, I'd call Scott over here and fire him-"

Lyman interrupted. "And what's the excuse?"

"Unauthorized establishment of ECOMCON."

"He wouldn't swallow that, Chris, and you know it," Lyman said.

"If he balked at that, I'd threaten him with the Segnier tax return, and if that didn't do it, I'd fire him anyway and lock him in a room in this house under guard by Art's people.

"Third, I'd dismiss Hardesty, Dieffenbach and Riley as members of the Joint Chiefs and heads of their services, for conspiring to nullify a treaty executed by the President and ratified by the Senate."

Todd was barking out plans like a top sergeant. No one moved to interrupt him and he plunged on.

"Fourth, I'd install somebody I trusted, maybe Admiral Palmer, as chairman of the Joint Chiefs and order him to dissolve ECOMCON at once. I'd recall General Rutkowski, commission him as head of the Air Force, and tell him to make sure that any orders for flying troop carriers to that base near El Paso are canceled at once. If some planes had already gone out, I'd tell him to get them back.

"Finally, I'd get a company from the Third Infantry and station them here, around the White House grounds, for a couple of days."

Casey was surprised that the Secretary even knew of the existence of the ceremonial regiment at Fort Myer, much less its proper designation. He had obviously done his homework.

Lyman had slipped down in his armchair, his thumbs hooked under his chin and his fingers pressing against his nose. He smiled wanly when Todd stopped.

"Well, Chris," he said, "that's quite a package. Are you sure you didn't forget anything?"

"Oh, yes." Todd seemed to be ticking off points like an accountant checking a balance sheet. "I'd call up the head of that network and ask him, as a personal favor, to keep that lunatic MacPherson from getting any time on the air Saturday."

Lyman said nothing to Todd, but turned instead to Casey. "What do you think of it all, Jiggs?"

"You mean, should you do it?" Casey hadn't expected to be asked for advice.

"No, I mean do you think it's feasible, as a military man?"

"I think it might work, sir, but only if you got a new chairman in immediately. And you'd be better off if you backed him up with a new chief in each service, so there'd be no confusion about the chain of command. I think I'd have the new chairman send out an all-service message, canceling all plans for an alert Saturday. That might surprise the people who didn't know there was one scheduled, but for anybody like General Seager at Vandenberg or Admiral Wilson at Pearl, it would mean the thing had collapsed."

"All points noted and accepted," Todd said. "Anything else?"

"Well, about confining General Scott here, sir," Casey said. "I'm not so sure about that. It's a cinch he couldn't run a revolution cooped up in a bedroom. But ..."

Lyman smiled. "But you think it might be rather poor public relations for our side."

"Well, yes, sir. There would be some repercussions, certainly among military people."

"Art?" Lyman had turned to his Secret Service man.

Corwin shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Don't ask me about heading off any political plots, Mr. President. But, strictly from a legal standpoint, I'd rather have you use soldiers, if you can, to guard General Scott. Our only excuse to do that would be to claim he had threatened your life. Still, in a way I suppose he has. Well, we'd do whatever you wanted."

Lyman walked over to the tray of liquor and looked at the others inquiringly. Casey and Corwin shook their heads. "Scotch and soda, please," said Todd.

The President mixed a drink and handed it to Todd, then made one for himself. He remained apart from the others a moment, squinting reflectively at the bubbles rising in his glass. Without turning, he began to talk.

"Chris, the only thing wrong with that is the same thing that was wrong with it Tuesday when somebody brought it up. The newspapers would go wild, yelling for my scalp. Congress would come back in a rage, ten bills of impeachment would be introduced the first day, and there'd be investigations till hell wouldn't have 'em. The country would demand a court-martial of Scott to 'get the facts.' "

He swung around to face the Treasury Secretary.

"My God, man, before it was over, they'd have me in St. Elizabeth's with half the head shrinkers in the country certifying I was suffering from delusions of persecution."

Todd leveled a finger at Lyman. "Granting all that, Mr. President-which I don't, by the way-isn't it true that it would leave Gianelli as president and the Constitution still operating?"

"For how long, Chris?" Lyman waved his glass as if to sweep away the other man's argument. "Scott would own this country, lock, stock and barrel. It would be a military dictatorship and Vince would be nothing but a figurehead."

"But Scott would be out," protested Todd, his voice rising again.

"Not for more than a week, if that long," countered Lyman. "There'd be so much pressure that Vince would have to fire Palmer, or whoever it was, and give the job back to Scott. From then on he could run the country."

"Confound it, Mr. President, you're conjuring up all kinds of fantastic visions," Todd snapped. "The fact is that you took an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, and unless you act fast you'll be violating that oath."

Todd had risen to his feet in the heat of his exposition. He and the President stood, no more than two feet apart, in the center of the room. Each held his drink as though brandishing a weapon. Both men were flushed now.

"Don't tell me about my oath," barked Lyman. "You may be a great lawyer, but how I do my job is my business."

"This happens to be my country as well as yours, Jordan," rasped Todd, "and I don't intend to stand by while it slips away because you can't face reality."

They had forgotten all about the Marine and the Secret Service agent as they stood arguing. Todd blazed and bit, aroused almost to fury. Lyman was on the defensive, his anger that of a sad and tired man who snarls when cornered.

"Chris, you just couldn't possibly understand it." The President's voice was infinitely weary. "No man who hasn't gone to the voters can."

"I've never noticed that the mere process of running for office conferred wisdom on a man."

"Chris, you couldn't be elected dog catcher." There was no trace of humor left in Lyman's tone.

"Well, at least now we know where we stand ... Mr. President." Todd bit off the title as though Lyman were unworthy of it.

Lyman glared at the lawyer, and for a moment Casey actually feared the two men might come to blows. Then Todd picked up his briefcase, pulled out Millicent Segnier's tax return, and flourished it in front of Lyman's face.

"Why don't you use this?" Todd's voice had risen sharply.

"No."

"You haven't got the guts."

"I do not participate in blackmail," said Lyman, "and I'm surprised that it seems to be accepted as a matter of course on Wall Street."

Todd waved the paper. "For God's sake, Mr. President, we're facing the destruction of the greatest system of government on earth and you insist on acting like some Victorian prude."

"Oh, Christ, quit waving that thing, Chris," Lyman complained. "You remind me of Joe McCarthy."

Todd crammed the tax return back into his briefcase and threw the portfolio into a chair.

"And furthermore," Lyman added, "your idea of surrounding this house with troops is just plain childish. I'd be the laughingstock of the Western world."

"You seem to be more concerned with your image than with your country," said Todd frigidly.

"Throwing troops around the White House would be the act of a coward." Lyman said it stubbornly.

"Well, confound it, then you suggest something- anything. I'm sick of talk. It's time to act. You're behaving like an ostrich."

Todd and Lyman were oblivious of the other men in the room. Corwin and Casey, for their part, were too embarrassed to look at each other. Corwin had seen emotion among high officials before, but never anything like this. Casey simply wanted to get out of the room; he felt like a neighbor who had blundered into a domestic squabble. He felt he had no right to look at the President. A feeling of great pity for this troubled man came over him, and he silently pleaded with Todd to stop.

But it was Lyman who subsided first.

"We'd just be cutting our own throats, Chris," he said. "It just can't be done your way." His voice trailed off. "I wish Ray was here."

"My God, Mr. President," Todd exploded, "can't you make up your mind without the senator from Georgia holding your hand?"

"At least I can count on him for some realistic advice," Lyman shot back. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he smiled wearily and put his big hand on Todd's shoulder.

"I'm afraid the General has succeeded in dividing the allies," he said. "Chris, it isn't that I'm afraid to act. I just don't know how yet. We're still dealing with a bowl of mush and we really don't know any more than we did two days ago."

Lyman turned to the other two men as if he had just noticed for the first time that they were in the room. His eyes silently beseeched them for advice. But neither Corwin nor Casey had anything to offer.

"Let's sleep on it," Lyman said finally, his eyes on the floor. "Something may turn up in the morning. If not, well, we'll see."

Todd led Casey and Corwin toward the door. With his hand on the knob he turned and spoke in a voice that was almost forcibly restrained.

"Let's just make sure we act before it's too late," he said. "It takes only one administration to throw the country away."

Lyman was standing by the tall window, swinging his glasses by an earpiece and looking out toward the lonely, dim figure of Jefferson in his rotunda down by the Tidal Basin. His shoulders seemed to droop with fatigue.

"That's right, Chris," he said softly. "You just reminded me of something. Good night, gentlemen."

My God, thought Casey as he left the room, he isn't even talking sense any more. He felt sudden exhaustion in his own neck and shoulders. If Lyman feels the way I do, he thought, he's done for.

But Jordan Lyman, though physically exhausted, was not done for, nor was he done with that day's work. As the door closed behind his three guests, he picked up the phone.

"Esther? Please get me the Secretary of State."

The Secretary was on the line in less than a minute. Apparently Esther had reached him at his home.

"George?" This is the President. I'm sorry to bother you, but this ought to be taken care of tonight, I think. I want to meet with Feemerov no later than the end of next week. That's right. Well, I don't care where-maybe Vienna again-but I want him there. Can you get a cable off to Moscow and have the ambassador go to the Foreign Ministry first thing tomorrow? No, he can't tell him why, but you know. Our friend from Detroit talked to you today, didn't he? I've got an idea that I think might do it. I'll go wherever Feemerov suggests, but tell them to put it to him hard. All right. Thanks very much, George. I'll explain it all to you as soon as I can."

Lyman hung up. It's got to work, he thought, because Chris is right: it takes only one administration to throw the country away. And it isn't going to be Jordan Lyman's administration if I can help it.

His eye fell on the liquor bottles on the tray by the wall. Where, he thought, where is Ray Clark?