The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 18

'Zero hour, Mr. Kendrick,' said Colonel Robert Barrish, smiling pleasantly into the camera, his voice the soul of reason. 'We must be prepared for it, and with pre-emptive escalation we push it farther and farther away.'

'Or conversely, overstock the arsenals to the point where one miscalculation blows up the planet.'

'Oh, please,' admonished the army officer condescendingly. 'That line of rationalization has long since been rendered modus non operand!. We're the professionals.'

'You mean our side?'

'Of course I mean our side.'

'What about the enemy? Aren't they professionals, too?'

'If you're attempting to lateralize our enemies' technological commitments with ours, I think you'll find you're as misinformed about that as you are about the cost control effectiveness of our system.'

'I take that to mean they're not as good as we are.'

'A sagacious assessment, Congressman. Beyond the superiority of our moral commitment—a commitment to God—the high tech training of our armed forces is the finest on earth. If you'll forgive me here, I must say as part of a great team that I'm immensely proud of our splendid fellows and girls.'

'Golly gee, so am I,' said Evan, a minor smile on his lips. 'But then I must say here, Colonel, that I've lost your line of reasoning, or was it pre-emptive escalation? I thought your comment about professionalism was in response to my remark about the possibility of miscalculation with all those arsenals so full.'

'It was. You see, Mr. Kendrick, what I'm patiently trying to explain to you is that our weapons personnel are locked into manuals of procedures that eliminate miscalculation. We are virtually fail-safe.'

'We may be,' agreed Evan, 'but what about the other guy? You said—I think you said—that he wasn't so smart, that there was no lateralization, whatever that means. Suppose he miscalculates? Then what?'

'He would never have the opportunity to miscalculate again. With minimum loss to ourselves, we would take out—'

'Hold it, soldier!' interrupted Kendrick, his tone suddenly harsh, issuing no less than an order. 'Back up. “With minimum loss to ourselves…” What does that mean?'

'I'm sure you're aware that I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters.'

'I think you damn well better. Does “minimum loss” mean just Los Angeles, or New York or maybe Albuquerque or St Louis? Since we're all paying for this minimum-loss umbrella, why not tell us what the weather's going to be like?'

'If you think I'm going to endanger national security on network television… well, Congressman, I'm genuinely sorry to say it, but I don't think you have any right representing the American people.'

'The whole bunch of them? Never thought I did. I was told this programme was between you and me—that I insulted you on television and that you had the right to reply in the same arena. It's why I'm here. So reply, Colonel. Don't keep throwing Pentagonese slogans at me; I have too much respect for our armed services to allow you to get away with that.'

'If by “slogans” you're criticizing the selfless leaders of our defence establishment—men of loyalty and honour who above all want to keep our nation strong—then I pity you.'

'Oh come off it. I haven't been here that long, but among the few friends I've made are some brass over in Arlington who probably wince when you drag out your modus non operandis. What I'm patiently trying to explain to you, Colonel, is that you don't have a blank cheque any more than

I do or my neighbour down the street does. We live with realities—’

'Then let me explain the realities!' broke in Barrish.

'Let me finish,' said Evan, now smiling.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' said the familiar newscaster.

'I'm not casting any doubts on your commitment, Colonel,' Kendrick interrupted. 'You're doing your job and protecting your turf, I understand that.' Evan picked up a piece of paper. 'But when you said in the hearing—I wrote this down—“minor academic fiduciary procedures”, I wondered what you meant. Are you really above accountability? If you believe that, tell it to Joe Smith down the street who's trying to balance the family budget.'

'That same Joe Smith will get on his knees to us when it dawns on him that we're ensuring his survival!'

'I think I just heard a lot of groans over in Arlington, Colonel. Joe Smith doesn't have to get on his knees to anyone. Not here.'

'You're taking my remarks out of context! You know perfectly well what I meant, Congressman Partridge!'

'No, Colonel, he's the other guy. I'm the sub who was sent in at left guard.'

'Left is certainly right!'

'That's an interesting statement. May I quote you?'

'I know about you,' said Barrish ominously, threateningly. 'Don't talk to me about the guy down the street, pretending you're like everyone else.' Barrish paused, then as if he could no longer control himself, shouted, 'You're not even married!'

'That's the most accurate statement you've made here. No, I'm not, but if you're asking me for a date, I'd better check with my girl.'

No contest. The Pentagon's big gun backfired, the powder burns all over his face on national television.

'Who the hell is he?' asked Mr. Joseph Smith of 70 Cedar Street in Clinton, New Jersey.

'I don't know,' replied Mrs. Smith, in front of the television next to her husband. 'He's kind of cute, though, isn't he?'

'I don't know about cute, but he just told off one of those snotty officer types who used to give me a lot of shit in 'Nam. He's my buddy.'

'He's good,' said Inver Brass's Eric Sundstrom, rising and turning off the set in his flat overlooking New York's Gramercy Park. He drained his glass of Montrachet and looked over at Margaret Lowell and Gideon Logan, both sitting in chairs across the room. 'He has a quick mind and stays ice cold. I know that cobra Barrish: he likes nothing better than drawing blood in the spotlight. Kendrick buried him with his own bullshit.'

'Our man's kind of cute, too,' added Mrs. Lowell.

'What?'

'Well, he's attractive, Eric. That's hardly a liability.'

'He's funny,' said Logan. 'And that's a decided asset. He has the ability and the presence to shift rapidly from the serious to the amusing and that's no small talent. He did the same thing during the hearing; it's not accidental. Kennedy had the same gift; he saw humorous ironies everywhere. The people like that… Still, I think I see a grey cloud in the distance.'

'What's that?' asked Sundstrom.

'A man with such quick perceptions will not be easy to control.'

'If he's the right man,' said Margaret Lowell, 'and we have every reason to believe he is, that won't matter, Gideon.'

'Suppose he's not? Suppose there's something we don't know? We will have launched him, not the political process.'

Far uptown in Manhattan, between Fifth and Madison avenues, in a brownstone town house that rose six storeys high the white-haired Samuel Winters sat opposite his friend, Jacob Mandel. They were in Winters' large top-floor study. Several exquisite Gobelin tapestries were hung on various wall spaces between the bookshelves, and the furniture was equally breathtaking. Yet the room was comfortable. It was used; it was warm; the masterpieces of the past were there to serve, not merely to be observed. Using the remote control, the aristocratic historian snapped off the television set.

'Well?' asked Winters.

'I want to think for a moment, Samuel.' Mandel's eyes strayed around the study. 'You've had all this since you were born,' said the stockbroker, making a statement. 'Yet you've always worked so hard.'

'I chose a field where having money made things much easier,' replied Winters. 'I've occasionally felt rather guilty about that. I could always go where I wanted, gain access to archives others couldn't, study as long as I wished. Whatever contributions I've made have been minor compared with the fun I've had. My wife used to say that.' The historian glanced at the portrait of a lovely, dark-haired woman dressed in the style of the forties; it was hung behind the desk between two huge windows overlooking Seventy-third Street. A man working could turn and gaze at it easily.

'You miss her, don't you?'

'Terribly. I come up and talk with her frequently.'

'I don't think I could go on without Hannah, yet oddly enough, considering what she went through in Germany, I pray to God she leaves me first. I believe the death of another loved one would be too great a pain for her to bear alone. Does that sound awful of me?'

'It sounds remarkably generous—like everything you say and do, old friend. And also because I know so well what you would face by yourself. You'd do it better than I, Jacob.'

'Nonsense.'

'It must be your temple—’

'When were you last in church, Samuel?'

'Let's see. My son was married in Paris when I broke my leg and couldn't attend, and my daughter eloped with that charming helium-head who makes far more money than he deserves writing those films I don't understand—so it must have been in forty-five when I got back from the war. St John the Divine, of course. She made me go when all I wanted to do was get her undressed.'

'Oh, you're outrageous! I don't believe you for a minute.'

'You'd be wrong.'

'He could be dangerous,' said Mandel, suddenly changing the subject and reverting to Evan Kendrick. Winters understood; his old friend had been talking but he had also been thinking.

'In what way? Everything we've learned about him—and I doubt there's much more to know—would seem to negate any obsession for power. Without that, where's the danger?'

'He's fiercely independent.'

'All to the good. He might even make a fine President. No ties to the tub-thumpers, the yea-sayers and the sycophants. We've both seen him blow the first category away; the rest are easier.'

'Then I'm not being clear,' said Mandel. 'Because it's not yet clear to me.'

'Or I'm being stupid, Jacob. What are you trying to say?'

'Suppose he found out about us? Suppose he learned he was code name Icarus, the product of Inver Brass?'

'That's impossible.'

'That's not the question. Leap over the impossibility. Intellectually—and the young man has an intellect—what would be his response? Remember now, he's fiercely independent.'

Samuel Winters brought his hand to his chin and stared out of the window overlooking the Street. And then his gaze shifted to the portrait of his wife. 'I see,' he said, uncertain images coming into focus from his own past. 'He'd be furious. He'd consider himself part of a larger corruption, irrevocably tied to it because he was manipulated. He'd be in a rage.'

'And in that rage,' pressed Mandel, 'what do you think he would do? Incidentally, exposing us in the long run is irrelevant. It would be like the rumours of the Trilateral Commission promoting Jimmy Carter because Henry Luce put an obscure Governor of Georgia on the cover of Time. There was more truth than not in those rumours but nobody cared… What would Kendrick do?'

Winters looked at his old friend, his eyes widening. 'My God,' he said quietly. 'He'd run in disgust.'

'Does that sound familiar, Samuel?'

'It was so many years ago… things were different—’

'I don't think they were that different. Far better than now, actually, not different.'

'I wasn't in office.'

'It was yours for the taking. The brilliant, immensely wealthy dean from Columbia University whose advice was sought by successive presidents and whose appearances before the House and Senate committees altered national policies… You were tapped for the governorship of New York, literally being swept into Albany, when you learned only weeks before the convention that a political organization unknown to you had orchestrated your nomination and your inevitable election.'

'It was a total shock. I'd never heard of it or them.'

'Yet you presumed—rightly or wrongly—that this silent machine expected you to do its bidding and you fled, denouncing the whole charade.'

'In disgust. It was against every precept of an open political process I'd ever advocated.'

'Fiercely independent,' added the stockbroker. 'And what followed was a power vacuum; there was political chaos, the party in disarray. The opportunists moved in and took over, and there were six years of Draconian laws and corrupt administrations from the lower to the upper Hudson.'

'Are you blaming me for all that, Jacob?'

'It's related, Samuel. Thrice Caesar refused the crown and all hell broke loose.'

'Are you saying that Kendrick might refuse to assume the office presented to him?'

'You did. You walked away in outrage.'

'Because people unknown to me were committing enormous sums of money, propelling me into office. Why? If they were genuinely interested in better government and not private interest, why didn't they come forward?'

'Why don't we, Samuel?'

Winters looked hard at Mandel, his eyes sad. 'Because we're playing God, Jacob. We must, for we know what others don't know. We know what will happen if we don't proceed our way. Suddenly the people of a great republic don't have a president but a king, the emperor of all the states of the union. What they don't understand is what's behind the king. Those jackals in the background can only be ripped out by replacing him. No other way.'

'I understand. I'm cautious because I'm afraid.'

'Then we must be extraordinarily careful and make certain Evan Kendrick never learns about us. It's as simple as that.'

'Nothing's simple,' objected Mandel. 'He's no fool. He's going to wonder why all the attention is raining down on him. Varak will have to be a master scenarist; each sequence logically, unalterably leading to the next.'

'I wondered, too,' admitted Winters softly, once again glancing at the portrait of his late wife. 'Jennie used to say to me, “It's too easy, Sam. Everyone else is out there busting his britches to get a few lines in the newspapers and you get whole editorials praising you for things we're not even sure you did.” It's why I started asking questions, how I found out what had happened, not who but how.'

'And then you walked away.'

'Of course.'

'Why? I mean really, why?'

'You just answered that, Jacob. I was outraged.'

'Despite everything you might have contributed?'

'Well, obviously.'

'Is it fair, Samuel, to say you were not gripped by the fever to win that office?'

'Again, obviously. Whether admirable or not, I've never had to win anything. As Averell once said, “Fortunately or unfortunately, I've not had to depend on my current job to eat.” That sums it up, I guess.'

'The fever, Samuel. The fever you never felt, the hunger you never had must somehow grip Kendrick. In the final analysis he has to want to win, desperately need to win.'

‘The fire in the belly,' said the historian. 'We all should have thought of it first, but the rest of us simply assumed he'd leap at the opportunity. God, we were/coW

'Not “the rest of us”,' protested the stockbroker, holding up the palms of his hands. 'I didn't think about it until I walked into this room an hour ago. Suddenly the memories came back, memories of you and your—fierce independence. From being the bright hope, an extraordinary asset, you became a morally outraged liability who walked away and made room for all the sleaze-balls in and out of town.'

'You're hitting home, Jacob… I should have stayed, I've known it for years. My wife in a fit of anger once called me a “spoiled Goody Two-Shoes”. She claimed, like you, I think, that I could have prevented so much, if I accomplished nothing else.'

'Yes, you could have, Samuel. Harry Truman was right, it's the leaders who shape history. There could have been no United States without Thomas Jefferson, no Third Reich without Adolf Hitler. But no man or woman becomes a leader unless he or she wants to. They've got to have a burning need to get there.'

'And you think our Kendrick lacks it?'

'I suspect he does. What I saw on that television screen, and what I saw five days ago during the committee hearing, was an incautious man who didn't give a damn whose bones he rattled because he was morally outraged. Brains, yes; courage, certainly; even wit and appeal—all of which we agreed had to be part of the ideal composite we sought. But I also saw a streak of my friend Samuel Winters, a man who could walk away from the system because he didn't have the fever in him to go after the prize.'

'Is that so bad, Jacob? Not with regard to me, I was never that important, really, but is it so healthy for all office-seekers to be on fire?'

'You don't turn over the store to part-time management, not if it's your major investment. The people rightly expect a full-time landlord and they sense it when the call isn't basically there, aggressively there. They want their money's worth.'

'Well,' said Winters, his tone mildly defensive. 'I believe the people were not totally unimpressed with me, and I wasn't burning up with fever. On the other hand, I didn't make too many gaffes.'

'Good Lord, you never had the chance to. Your campaign was a television Blitzkrieg with some of the best photography I've ever seen, your handsome countenance a decided asset, of course.'

'I had three or four debates, you know… Three actually—’

'With wart hogs, Samuel. They were buried by congenial class—the people love that. They never stop searching the heavens, now the television screens, for that king or that prince to come along and show them the way with comforting words.'

'It's a goddamned shame. Abraham Lincoln would have been considered an awkward hick and stayed in Illinois.'

'Or worse,' said Jacob Mandel, chuckling. 'Abraham the Jew in league with the anti-Christs, sacrificing gentile infants.'

'And when he grew the beard, absolute confirmation,' agreed Winters, smiling and getting out of his chair. 'A drink?' he asked, knowing his friend's answer and heading for the bar beneath a French tapestry on the right wall.

'Thank you. The usual, please.'

'Of course.' The historian poured two drinks in silence, one bourbon, one Canadian, both with ice only. He returned to their chairs and handed the bourbon to Mandel. 'All right, Jacob. I think I've put it all together.'

'I knew you could pour and think at the same time,' said Mandel, smiling and raising his glass. 'Your health, sir.'

'L'chaim,' replied the historian.

'So?'

'Somehow, some way this fever you speak of, this need to win the prize, must be instilled in Evan Kendrick. Without it he's not credible and without him Gideon's mongrels—the opportunists and the fanatics—move in.'

'I believe that, yes.'

Winters sipped his drink, his eyes straying to a Goblin tapestry. 'Philip and the knights at Crecy weren't defeated by the English bowmen and the Welsh long knives alone. They had to contend with what Saint-Simon described three hundred years later as a court bled by the “vile bourgeois corrupters”.'

'Your erudition is beyond me, Samuel.'

'How do we instil this fever in Evan Kendrick? It's so terribly important that we do. I see it so clearly now.'

'I think we start with Milos Varak.'

Annie Mulcahy O'Reilly was beside herself. The standard four telephone lines in the congressional office were usually used for outgoing calls; this particular congressman did not normally receive many incoming ones. Today, however, was not only different, it was crazy. In the space of twenty-four hours, the smallest, most underworked staff on the Hill became the most frenzied. Annie had to call her two filing clerks, who never came in on Monday ('Come on, Annie, it ruins a decent weekend'), to get their bouffant heads down to the office. She then contacted Phillip Tobias, the bright if frustrated chief aide, and told him to forget his tennis game and drag his promotional ass downtown or she'd kill him. ('What the hell happened?' 'You didn't see the Foxley show yesterday?' 'No, I was sailing. Why, should I have?' 'He was on it!' 'What? That can't happen without my approval! ' 'They must have called him at home.' 'The son of a bitch never told me!' 'He didn't tell me, either, but I saw his name in the Post's late listings.' 'Jesus! Get me a tape, Annie! Please!' 'Only if you come down and help us man the phones, dearie.' 'Shit!' 'I'm a lady, you prick. Don't talk to me that way.' 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Annie! Please. The tape!'

Finally, and only because she was desperate, and only because her husband, Patrick Xavier O'Reilly, had Mondays off because he worked the high-crime shift on Saturdays, she called the two-toilet Irish detective and told him that if he did not come down to help out she'd file a complaint against him for rape—which was only wishful thinking, she added. The only person she was unable to reach was the congressman from Colorado's ninth district.

'I am so very, very sorry, Mrs. O'Reilly,' said the Arab husband of the couple who took care of Kendrick's house, and who Annie suspected was probably an unemployed surgeon or an ex-university president. 'The congressman said he would be away for a few days. I have no idea where he is.'

'That's a lot of crap, Mr. Sahara—’

'You flatter me with dimensions, madame.'

'That, tool You reach that horned-toad servant of the public and tell him we're going ape-shit down here! And it's all because of his appearance on the Foley show!'

'He was remarkably effective, was he not?'

'You know about it?'

'I saw his name in the Washington Post's late listings, madame. Also in the Times of New York and Los Angeles, and the Chicago Tribune.'

'He gets all those papers?'

'No, madame, I do. But he's perfectly welcome to read them.'

'Glory be to God!'

The pandemonium in the outside office had become intolerable. Annie slammed down the phone and ran to her door; she opened it, astonished to see Evan Kendrick and her husband shoving their way through a crowd of reporters, congressional aides and various other people she did not know. 'Come in here!' she yelled.

Once inside the secretarial office and with the door closed, Mr. O'Reilly spoke. 'I'm her Paddy,' he said, out of breath. 'Nice to meet you, Congressman.'

'You're my blocking back, pal,' replied Kendrick, shaking hands and quickly studying the large, broad-shouldered, red-haired man with a paunch four inches larger than his considerable height should permit, and a vaguely florid face that held a pair of knowing, intelligent green eyes. 'I'm grateful we got here at the same time.'

'In all honesty, we didn't, sir. My crazy lady called over an hour ago and I was able to get here in maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes. I saw the brouhaha in the corridor and figured you might show up. I waited for ya.'

'You might have let me know, you lousy mick! We've been going crazy in here!'

'And be slapped with a felony charge, darlin'?'

'He really is two-toilet Irish, Congressman—’

'Hold it, you two,' ordered Evan, glancing at the door. 'What the hell are we going to do about this? What's happened?'

'You went on the Foxley show,' said Mrs. O'Reilly. 'We didn't.'

'I make it a point never to watch those programmes,' mumbled Kendrick. 'If I do I'm expected to know something.'

'Now a lot of people know about you.'

'You were damn good, Congressman,' added the DC detective. 'A couple of boys in the department called and asked me to tell Annie to thank you—I told you, Annie.'

'First, I haven't had the chance, and second, with all this confusion I probably would have forgotten. But I think, Evan, that your only clean way is to go out there and make some kind of statement.'

'Wait a minute,' interrupted Kendrick, looking at Patrick O'Reilly. 'Why would anyone in the police department want to thank me?'

'The way you stood up to Barrish and clobbered him.'

'I gathered that, but what's Barrish to them?'

'He's a Pentagon hustler with friends in high places. Also a ball-breaker if you've spent a few sleepless nights on stakeout and instead of being thanked you're dumped on.'

'What stake-out? What happened?'

'Mister Kendrick,' broke in Annie. 'That's a zoo out there! You've got to show yourself, say something.'

'No, I want to hear this. Go on, Mr—may I call you Patrick, or Pat?'

'“Paddy” fits better.' The police officer patted his stomach. 'That's what I'm called.'

I'm Evan. Drop the “Congressman”—I want to drop it completely. Please. Go on. How was Barrish involved with the police?'

'I didn't say that, now. He, himself, is cleaner than an Irish bagpipe, which actually isn't too lovely inside, but he's purer than a bleached sheet in the noonday sun.'

'Men in your line of work don't thank people for clobbering clean laundry—’

'Well, it wasn't the biggest thing that ever went down; truth be told, by itself it was minor, but something might have come out of it if we could have followed up… The boys were tracking a mozzarella known to launder cash through Miami and points southeast like the Cayman Islands. On the fourth night of the stake-out at the Mayflower Hotel, they thought they had him. You see, one of those Bally shoe types went to his room at one o'clock in the morning with a large briefcase. One o'clock in the morning—not exactly the start or the shank of the business day, right?'

'Not exactly.'

'Well, it turned out that the Bally shoes had legitimate investments with the mozzarella, and the Pentagon logs showed that he'd been in a procurements conference until almost eleven-thirty and, further, he had to catch a plane to Los Angeles at eight in the morning, so the one o'clock was explained.'

'What about the briefcase?'

'We couldn't touch it. Much offence was taken in high dudgeon and lots of national security was thrown around. You see, someone made a phone call.'

'But not to a lawyer,' said Evan. 'Instead, to one Colonel Robert Barrish of the Pentagon.'

'Bingo. Our noses were shoved in dirt for impugning the motives of a fine, loyal American who was helping to keep the great US of A strong. The boys were reamed good.'

'But you think otherwise. You think a lot more than legitimate investments happened in that room.'

'If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck and looks like a duck, it's usually a duck. But not the pair of Bally shoes; he wasn't a duck, he was a slap-tailed weasel whose name was stricken from our list of ducks.'

Thanks, Paddy… All right, Mrs. O'Reilly, what do I say out there?'

'Whatever I suggest our boy Phil Tobias will probably object to, you should know that. He's on his way here.'

'You called off his Monday morning tennis? That's courage beyond the call of duty.'

'He's sweet and he's smart, Evan, but I don't think his advice can help you now; you're on your own. Remember, those vultures out there are convinced you've been grandstanding all last week—running a parlay from the committee hearing to the Foxley show. If you had ciphered out no one would give a damn, but you didn't. You took on a heavyweight and made him look like a fast-talking thug and that makes you news. They want to know where you're going.'

'Then what do you suggest? You know where I'm going, Annie. What do I say?'

Ann Mulcahy O'Reilly looked into Kendrick's eyes. 'Whatever you want to, Congressman. Just mean it.'

'The plaint of the swan? My swan song, Annie?'

'Only you'll know that when you get out there.'

The undisciplined uproar in the outer office was compounded by the sudden eruption of strobe flashes and the shifting, blinding floodlights of the television crews swinging their lethal mini-cams in the crowd. Questions were shouted and outshouted. Several of the more prominent newspeople were arrogantly demanding their rights for the closest, most prominent positions, so the congressman from Colorado's ninth district simply walked to his receptionist's desk, moved the blotter and the telephone console aside, and sat on top. He smiled gamely, held up both hands several times, and refused to speak. Gradually the cacophony subsided, broken now and then by a strident voice answered by the silent stare of mock surprise on the part of the shocked representative. Finally, it was understood: Congressman Evan Kendrick was not going to open his mouth unless and until he could be heard by everyone. Silence descended.

'Thanks very much,' said Evan. 'I need all the help I can get to figure out what I want to say—before you say what you want to say, which is different because you've got it all figured out.'

'Congressman Kendrick,' shouted an abrasive television journalist, obviously upset by his status in the second row. 'Is it true—'

'Oh, come on, will you?' broke in Evan firmly. 'Give me a break, friend. You're used to this, I'm not.'

'That's not the way you came over on television, sir!' replied the erstwhile anchorman.

'That was one-to-one, as I see it. This is one against the whole Colosseum wanting a lion's dinner. Let me say something first, okay?'

'Of course, sir.'

'I'm glad it wasn't you last week, Stan—I think your name is Stan.'

'It is, Congressman.'

'You would have had my head along with your brandy.'

'You're very kind, sir.'

'No kidding? It is a compliment, isn't it?'

'Yes, Congressman, it is. That's our job.'

'I respect that. I wish to hell you'd do it more often.'

'What?'

'One of the most respected members of my staff,' continued Kendrick quickly, 'explained to me that I should make a statement. That's kind of awesome if you've never been asked to make a statement before—’

'You did run for office, sir,' interrupted another television reporter, very obviously moving her blonde hair into her camera's focus. 'Certainly statements were required then.'

'Not if the incumbent represented our district's version of Planet of the Apes. Check it out, I'll stand by that. Now, may I go on or do I simply go out? I'll be quite honest with you. I really don't give a damn.'

'Go on, sir,' said the gentleman often referred to as Stan-the-man, a broad grin on his telegenic face.

'Okay… My very valued staff member also mentioned that some of you, if not all of you, might be under the impression that I was grandstanding last week. “Grandstanding. ”… As I understand the term it means calling attention to oneself by performing some basically melodramatic act—with or without substance—that rivets the attention of the crowds watching—in the grandstands—on the person performing that act. If that definition is accurate then I must decline the title of grandstander—if it's a word—because I'm not looking for anyone's approval. Again, I really don't care.'

The momentary shock was dispelled by the congressman's palms pressing the air in front of him. 'I'm quite sincere about that, ladies and gentlemen. I don't expect to be around here very long—’

'Do you have a health problem, sir?' shouted a young man from the back of the room.

'Do you want to arm wrestle?… No, I have no such problem that I'm aware of—'

'I was a collegiate boxing champion, sir,' added the youthful reporter in the rear, unable to contain himself amid humorous boos from the crowd. 'Sorry, sir,' he said, embarrassed.

'Don't be, young fella. If I had your talent, I'd probably challenge the head of Pentagon procurements and his counterpart in the Kremlin, and we'd solve everything the old-fashioned way. One challenger from each side and save the battalions. But no, I don't have your talent and I also have no problems of health.'

'Then what did you mean?' asked a respected columnist from the New York Times.

'I'm flattered you're here,' said Evan, recognizing the man. 'I had no idea I was worth your time.'

'I think you are, and my time's not that valuable. Where are you coming from, Congressman?'

'I'm not certain, but to answer your first question, I'm not sure I belong here. As to your second question, since I'm not sure I should be here, I'm in the enviable position of saying what I want to say without regard to the consequences—the political consequences, I guess.'

'That is news,' said the acerbic Stan-the-man, writing in his notebook. 'Your statement, sir.'

'Thanks. I think I'd like to get it over with. Like a lot of people, I don't like what I see. I've been away from this country for many years, and maybe you have to get away to understand what we've got—if only to compare it with what others haven't got. There's not supposed to be an oligarchy running this government and yet it seems to me that one has moved in. I can't put my finger on it, or them, but they're there, I know it. So do you. They want to escalate, always escalate, always pointing to an adversary who himself has escalated to the top of his economic and technological ladder. Where the hell do we stop? Where do they stop? When do we stop giving our children nightmares because all they hear is the goddamned promise of annihilation? When do their kids stop hearing it?… Or do we just keep going up in this elevator designed in hell until we can't come down any longer, which won't make much difference anyway because all the streets outside will be in flames… Forgive me, I know it's not fair, but I suddenly don't want any more questions. I'm going back to the mountains.' Evan Kendrick got off the desk and walked swiftly through the stunned crowd to his office door. He opened it, quickening his steps, and disappeared into the hallway.

'He's not going to the mountains,' whispered Patrick Xavier O'Reilly to his wife. 'That lad is staying right here in this town.'

'Oh, shussh!' cried Annie, tears in her eyes. 'He's just cut himself off from the entire Hill!'

'Maybe the Hill, lass, but not from us. He's put his not-too-delicate finger on it. They all make the money and we're scared shitless. Watch him, Annie, care for him. He's a voice we want to hear.'