The Power

13

President Bradford March sat sprawled in his swivel chair behind the antique desk in the Oval Office. His stance was, to say the least, inelegant. The chair was pushed well back from the desk and his stockinged feet rested on the surface, crossed at the ankles. He was looking out of the tall Georgian windows at Washington's Pennsylvania Avenue. The view was fuzzy due to the grey drizzle still falling. He turned back to face the only other occupant of the room, a woman.

'Shit, Sara, I'm goin' to have to kick ass to get those jerks in Europe movin' -Norton hasn't reported for two days.'

'He does have a difficult assignment, Brad,' she reminded him.

'Which is why I appointed him head of Unit One. Time he wrapped up the whole job in my book.'

Unlike most presidents – who were often six feet tall or over – Bradford March was a stocky man of medium height with a lot of black hair and thick black brows. Fifty-five years old, his aggressive chin was running to jowls, black as his hair. He shaved twice a day, when he felt like it. Above his short thick nose his ice-cold eyes moved restlessly.

He wore crumpled blue denims and a creased check shirt, open two buttons below the neck, exposing the dense hair on his barrel chest. He belched loudly, slapped his hard rounded stomach.

'That's good beer. Fix me another. Then call Norton. I'm going to kick ass.'

'Is that wise, Brad?'

Sara, March's personal assistant, the only person privy to his secrets, was a hard-faced woman of forty with long dark hair, a prominent nose and a wide thin-lipped mouth. She had been with him since the early days of his career -all the way from when he had sneaked in to become senator of a Southern state by a handful of votes. A' handful delivered by a power broker after Sara had handed over to him one hundred thousand dollars in used currency.

Tall and slim, always dressed in black, she was the only person – apart from his wife – permitted to call him Brad. March's wife, Betty, had drifted away from him although she still lived in the White House. Sara was the one who kept a watchful eye on her.

'Time for Betty to have a lollipop, Brad,' she would say.

'Jesus Christ! Do I have to? Again.'

'We don't want her walking, do we? A sable stole will settle her for a while.'

'OK. If you can find the cash.'

'Brad, I can always find the cash. I just twist someone's arm, somebody who owes us a favour. Plenty of them around…'

March sat facing the north wall occupied by an elaborate marble fireplace. Sara came back with a bottle of beer from the fridge, uncapped. Knowing what he wanted she wiped the top and neck of the bottle with a crisp white napkin. March took the bottle from her, upended it and drank.

That's better,' he said, placing the bottle on the desk and wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. 'You know what? Some faggot on the staff here – I posted him to the Aleutians – wanted me to see a speech therapist.' He opened his mouth and bellowed with laughter. 'A speech therapist! You know how I barnstormed my way into the White House? Because I talk like the folks down in the street. It's called empathy – whatever the hell that is. Get Norton on the private phone.'

Sara was used to these sudden switches in subject. She stood with her arms folded, frowning at him. He looked up, spat out the question.

'You got something on your mind?'

'Brad, what is it Norton's looking for? Besides certain people?'

'Certain people being Cord Dillon and Barton Ives. Is my ass covered with Dillon runnin' out? Deputy Director of the CIA. Questions will be asked when the press wakes up, finds he's gone missing.'

'Your ass is covered. I've spread the rumour he's been ill, has gone abroad for a long vacation.'

'Long vacation?' March grinned to himself. When Norton found Dillon his vacation would be permanent. No point in letting Sara know how rough he could play. 'What's getting to you?' he snapped.

This Unit One. I think Senator Wingfield has caught a whiff of its existence.'

'That aristocratic old creep? Just because he happens to be Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Maybe his ancestors were one of the Pilgrim Fathers. He looks like one.'

'He carries a lot of clout, Brad. And Unit One is strictly an illegal organization. Trouble is, some members of Unit One are still here, not in Europe.'

'You're smart.'March grinned again. 'Real smart. So we may send the rest to Europe to Norton as reinforcements. Nothing left here then for old Wingfield to get a whiff of. I'll think about that.'

'That would be best. As you say, nothing left for him to get a hold on.'

'It's like tapes and documents,' March went on, folding his hands behind his thick neck. 'Never record anything on tape – reading about Nixon taught me that. Nothing goes down on paper. That way, no evidence. We go on keeping everything verbal.' He winked.

'Best way,' Sara agreed. 'It's worked like a dream so far.

Is the British Prime Minister co-operating?'

'The Brits do what I tell them to do. Norton is operating in London like he was in Louisiana. No interference. Their Prime Minister has no balls. He has two volcanoes smoking on his stoop – Russia and the Mid-East. He daren't move without my backing, which I'm withholding.' 'Sitting in his shoes I wouldn't either,' Sara commented. 'How do you handle the guy?'

'Oh, I borrow a tactic our wily Secretary of State uses if he wants to stall…' March was referring to the American equivalent of the British Foreign Secretary. 'I tell him I have the problem under consideration.'

This FBI agent, Barton Ives, who has also disappeared – how does he fit into the picture? Operated in the South, didn't he – when you were a senator?'

'He could get in my way.' A crafty expression appeared on March's face, his eyes half-closed like a hyena poised to strike. 'You can leave him to Norton.'

'Pardon me for treading in the wrong territory.' Sara smiled. She knew she'd made a mistake. 'Brad, I don't tread on sensitive ground – could be a minefield.'

'Sara Maranoff,' the President said slowly, 'you could get blown to small pieces doin' just that – walking into a minefield.' His expression changed, became amiable as a family man. 'That was a clever idea of yours – suggesting I tell the Prime Minister we have people over there tracking a gang of terrorists planning to assassinate me. He shut his trap fast when I fed him that one. You're a real smart lady.'

Sara, arms still folded, bobbed her head in acknowledgement of the compliment, but she wasn't fooled. March had used that trick on her before – first hammering her for an indiscretion, then following that up with a tribute to her loyalty. Bradford March might have come from the sticks but he had a native cunning when it came to manipulating people. Wisely, she changed the subject.

'Can I ask you something else? Has Norton found the two pieces of equipment he's endeavouring to locate? I don't know what they are but I do know they worry you.'

March's expression became brooding. 'No, he hasn't. But he will. His job's on the line and he knows it. Sara, maybe we should put a tail on Senator Wingfield? Don't trust him as far as I can spit.'

'Don't do it,' Sara warned. 'He'll know. Then he'll guess there's something to conceal. He could start digging up dirt about Unit One. Let him rest in peace.'

'Which is where I wish he was. In the cemetery. Now, try and get me Norton on the private line. Then go take a shower or something…'

Which was another precaution March had learned from reading up the history of previous occupants of the White House. Never completely trust the one closest to you -man or woman. In a crisis it was the loyal friend who stabbed you in the back. Today's friends – tomorrow's enemies.

Bradford March was not psychic, but on that cold drizzly February morning a meeting of three men was being held not a world away from the Oval Office. The meeting took place in one of the luxurious mansions in Chevy Chase, the most sought after – and exclusive – residential district near Washington.

The small group was seated round a Chippendale table in the study of Senator Charles Wingfield. Even though it was daytime the curtains were drawn closed in the large room at the rear of the house. Illumination came from the glass chandelier suspended above the table.

The Senator, a white-haired vigorous man of sixty and Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, looked at his guests as they began sipping the excellent coffee he served.

The short plum-faced guest, in his fifties, was the most powerful banker in the States. Alongside him sat a man known as an elder statesman. The latter was of medium height, bulky build, clad in an immaculate suit and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses strange penetrating and shrewd eyes watched the other two men. The Senator opened the meeting, going straight to the point.

'I'm getting more and more worried about the President's behaviour. There are two crises brewing up in Europe and both could damage our vital interests.'

'And March is doing nothing to support Europe,' the statesman snapped. 'All he can think of is his "America First, Last and All the Time".'

'Which was the slogan which won him the election,' the banker pointed out.

'You can interpret "America First" as the best reason for our intervening in Europe, for supporting the British in this situation,' the statesman replied waspishly. 'God knows enough history has proved our front line is on the European continent. The Veep has more grasp of foreign affairs in his little finger than March has in his ugly ape-like head.'

By Veep he was referring to the Vice-President, Jeb Galloway. March had chosen Galloway as his running mate because he was from Philadelphia and was popular in the north-east and the so-called 'rust' states of Michigan, etc.

'Galloway is a very different man,' Wingfield agreed. 'He's a cultured man with a global view. But he's still the Veep.'

'Nothing more than a decoration with no say in policy,' the banker reminded them. 'So what can be done?'

'Politics is the art of the possible,' the Senator said in a soothing tone. 'March has done nothing yet we can openly criticize him for. He's quick on his feet and a master of the Washington ball-game. Gentlemen, all we can do is wait.'

'You did say you'd heard rumours that March has secretly organized his own private paramilitary force,' recalled the statesman.

'Rumours. Nothing I can get my teeth into. Washington abounds in rumours. The private army thing may be a trap March has set. We go public about what is nothing but a rumour, he proves we're off the wall, and any influence we possess is destroyed.'

'I may make a statement criticizing his inaction over foreign policy,' the statesman insisted. 'The position is we have no foreign policy. It might stir Galloway into urging immediate action.'

'I still advocate silence,' Senator Wingfield replied.

In certain circles, limited to a very few old Washington hands, they were known as the Three Wise Men. Wingfield was very strong on the strategy of their remaining in the shadows.

They talked for a little while longer. The banker could hold himself in check no longer. He burst out with unusual vehemence.

'The President has done nothing to reduce our soaring deficit. America is going bankrupt. The way he's increasing our debt, we're heading for a crisis right here.'

'He's very popular still,' the Senator warned. 'I would advise both of you to make no public statements pending our next meeting.' He looked at his watch. 'And I am due at the Senate in thirty minutes. ..'

Courteously he ushered them into the hall, shook them by the hand, but was careful not to be present when the front door was opened. The statesman and the banker left the mansion separately – with five minutes between their departures. Outside a chauffeured limousine waited in the drive when each man hurried out of the front entrance.

Back in his study Wingfield decided he would make a few very discreet enquiries. The problem was always to find an ear where the mouth would stay shut afterwards. Calm and dignified during the meeting, inwardly the Senator was a very disturbed man.