A Thing of State, page 28
“We do,” Sarajevo said bleakly. “On the basis of the past, we do.”
“Johannesburg, South Africa,” Able said. “Hello!”
“Mr. President,” said Johannesburg, “would you be as determined to attack President Sidi if his skin were white?”
“Now, see here,” the President said, tone suddenly cold and genuinely angry, “stop dragging in tiresome, phony old clichés to confuse the issue. If I have to dignify your question by spelling it out as though you were in grammar school, President Sidi’s skin may be darker than mine but unless I much misread your voice, it is still considerably lighter than yours. Right?”
“That is right, man,” Johannesburg said.
“Very well,” the President said. “Try to be objective, if possible. The answer to your question is yes, I would be as determined to stop President Sidi’s dangerous ambitions and his extremely dangerous possession of atomic bombs and delivery system if his skin were white. Is that clear?”
“Clear as mud, baas,” said Johannesburg, and laughed.
“Baghdad, Iraq,” Able said. “Hello! Keep it short, please, we’re running out of time.”
“Mr. President,” said Baghdad, “will America stand firm in this situation? And why do you think it should?”
“America will,” the President said flatly. “As to why, because it is in the best interests of the region, and of the world community as well, that President Sidi be restrained from military adventures and that he submit to international inspection of the atomic arsenal he professes to have.”
“But it is only a small one,” Baghdad observed.
“One bomb in the wrong hands is one too many,” the President said.
“And you think too many wrong hands now have too many bombs,” Able interjected, “and that is why it is necessary to restrain Sidi, as an example?”
“And as a threat in himself,” the President said.
“We do not worry about such things too much over here,” Baghdad commented in an indifferent tone.
“No,” the President said dryly, “I imagine not. Someone has to act responsibly, however, and that is what I intend for America to do.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Able said smoothly, reaching to shake his hand across the respectful distance that separated their armchairs. “It is always a great pleasure to have you on the program and a great responsibility to be able to transmit your views to our worldwide audience. I trust its members now have a clear picture of where you stand and what you intend to do.”
“I hope so,” the President said, comfortable smile restored. “It’s always my pleasure to bring them to the country and the world through your splendid show.” He produced again the Earnest-Honest Look, straight into the camera. “I hope our viewers do understand now where we stand in this latest crisis to threaten the peace and stability of the world. Firmness without belligerence, is our policy. Strength through diplomacy. Peace by peaceful means.”
“Yes, sir,” Able said pleasantly. “I am sure that is all very clear now.…” His face suddenly crinkled with the pixieish little smile with which he couldn’t help telegraphing his punches when he thought he had his targets sufficiently relaxed. “By the way, Mr. President, one last question before we close—”
“Fire away,” the President said comfortably, though with a slight wariness in voice and expression. “Knowing you, Able, it will probably be a last-minute zinger.”
“No, sir,” Able said, smile broadening into a grin. “Hardly that. However—”
“I knew it,” the President said.
Able laughed, then turned serious.
“You probably didn’t notice, sir, but just a moment ago they put on the little screen that I have inset in my desk here the results of four major polls that are being released for use in tomorrow morning’s papers. There are slight variations, but overall they show an overwhelming public sentiment that Sidi is not worth a major American effort. The highest figure supporting your position is only 17 percent nationwide, and only 4 percent in all four polls approve of any kind of military action. When the question is put negatively, a very emphatic 63 percent—as high as 71 in one poll—are strongly opposed to the use of any kind of American force, ground or otherwise, in any confrontation with President Sidi. How does that jibe with your own position, sir?”
“Well, in the first place,” the President said calmly, “the sound instinct of the American people is always against the use of force and, insofar as possible, for the use of peaceful diplomacy. These positions coincide with my own. I thought I had made that quite clear.”
“Well, sir,” Able said politely, “not quite. You are prepared to abide by these popular sentiments, then?”
“Sentiments change,” the President observed. “The opinions may be different after the public fully understands the issues involved.”
“As a general rule,” Able said, “you do not think a President should be bound by the sentiments of his countrymen when they conflict with his own informed view of what is best for America?”
“I didn’t say that,” the President said, patience beginning to sound a little thin.
“There are some who would say that was leadership, sir,” Able pointed out, still politely. “To do what one believes as President is best for the country, and to educate and lead rather than consult the polls and follow. Or, as some might see it, consult the polls and retreat.”
“I’m not retreating,” the President said sharply.
“So we can expect, then,” Able said gently, “that you will continue to pursue your policy toward Sidi on all fronts irrespective of what public opinion may be in this country, is that correct?”
“Consistent with the best interests of America and the best interests of world stability,” the President said finally. “Always consistent with those. The country will have to be the final judge of the wisdom of my course. I think I have made my position abundantly and completely clear.”
“Yes, sir,” Able said pleasantly. “I think you have. Let us hope so.”
And again they shook hands and faded, a little more obviously wary of each other now, from the screen.
* * *
“Well,” the Secretary said as he switched off the set, “what do you think?”
“Clear as mud, baas,” Boo Bourassa said with a grin. “Clear as mud. Is this the policy you helped formulate, Ray?”
“He wants to keep his options open,” the Secretary replied, rather lamely.
“He lost me somewhere along the line,” Mary said. “But, then, he always does. So what else is new?”
“First he rules out the military option,” Joan Bourassa summarized, “then he reinstates it sans ground troops, then he waffles on other military means, then he winds up reaffirming a strong stand—almost. Or did he? He’s got me confused, that’s for sure.”
“He wants everybody to be confused,” Bets remarked. “Maybe it’s all part of his strategy to keep Sidi off base. Is that it, Daddy?”
“As I understand him,” Ray said carefully, “it is supposed to confuse Sidi.”
Boo snorted. Samir nodded solemnly in agreement.
“It sure confuses me,” Boo said. “How does he get away with things like that?”
“Presidents who have mastered the art of saying contradictory things with a straight face can get away with almost anything,” Mary observed. “The public is so impressed with a President who is Just Like One of Us”—her capitals were verbal but emphasized and sarcastic—“that when he apparently stumbles a bit in a human fashion, it is shrugged off and forgiven and forgotten. They don’t realize that sometimes behind the stumbling and bumbling a careful strategy is being put in place. Boo has a good question, Ray. Is this the policy you’ve advocated in your private talks with him?”
“They are private,” the Secretary remarked.
Bets laughed.
“Which means he’ll tell you later, Mother. Not in front of the children. Aren’t you going to call and congratulate him, Daddy? Isn’t that what faithful Secretaries of State are supposed to do?”
“I’ll get to it,” her father said. “Don’t rush me.” He was starting to add, “Would anybody like a nightcap?” when the phone rang.
“Don’t call me,” Boo said wryly. “I’ll call you.”
But it wasn’t the President. It was Hugo Mallerbie at State. His voice was grave.
“An urgent call for you, Ray,” he said.
An almost incoherent Big Bill Bullock was on the line from Greater Lolómé City.
Next morning the President had his headlines. But he had to share them.
Lead item, all news programs, right-hand column, page 1, all major newspapers:
PRESIDENT RULES OUT TROOPS AGAINST SIDI, CALLS FOR UN SANCTIONS IF HE REFUSES TO PERMIT ATOMIC INSPECTIONS
Second lead item, all news programs, adjoining right-hand column, page 1, all major newspapers:
SIDI BOOTS US EMBASSY, MASSES TROOPS ON BORDER, DEFIES BOMB INSPECTIONS, RAPS “PUNY US THREATS”
Almost a decade of American retreats from firm positions, of loud American threats followed by hesitant American actions, were coming home to roost.
Deeply aware of his responsibilities, the Secretary wondered how he and the President would handle things now
Somehow the world must be reconvinced that American words were backed by strong and unwavering American purpose; somehow the world must be induced to care again about what America said.
He hoped devoutly that it could be done.
He hoped, devoutly, that it was not already too late.
Four
1
The winds of spring blew along the East River, softening the memories of another harsh winter, bringing to the denizens of the great, tumultuous, contentious, impatient, impolite, cruel, and exciting city the revival of spirits, the encouragement of hope.
Against their better judgment, for the brightening season had much to do with the steadily growing chaos of the world—it was, as the Italian ambassador put it with urbane realism, “perfect killing weather everywhere”—the delegates to the United Nations entered in almost cheerful mood their vaguely phallic buildings, the Secretariat rising straight and rigid against the sky, the rounded contour of the Security Council and General Assembly bulging below.
It never took long for their illusory cheerfulness to dissipate, as all the problems of a global society racing headlong to chaos crowded in on them. They knew their efforts were at best feeble, their capabilities minuscule when measured against the enormity of the peace-keeping tasks they faced.
“Yet we must try, we must try,” the elderly ambassador of Norway, this month’s Security Council president, could always be counted on to admonish earnestly in moments of disillusion and despair.
“It is our responsibility, yes!” the plump little female ambassador of Pakistan could always be counted on to support him, with equal earnestness.
Arriving for the opening of the Security Council debate on “The Matter of Greater Lolómé,” the US Secretary of State and the Deputy Secretary paused for a moment in the lobby to contemplate the two-hundred-pound, gold-plated Foucault Pendulum given by the Dutch, which hangs from the ceiling on its seventy-five-foot stainless steel wires and slowly, endlessly swings back and forth across a metal ring below, in response to the rotation of the earth.
Engraved on the pedestal supporting the ring are the words of Queen Juliana on the occasion when the pendulum was presented to the United Nations:
“It is a privilege to live this day and tomorrow.”
“How like the Dutch,” Eulie Montgomery murmured, “to remind us always of how petty we are in the face of the forces of nature.”
“That’s nothing compared to how petty we are in the face of the forces of human nature,” the Secretary responded glumly. He gave her a shrewd look. “How are you doing? Seriously, now. You didn’t have to come with me, you know. I’ll send you home in a minute if it gets too much for you.”
“I’m fine,” Eulie said stoutly, though her eyes for the time being filled with tears at the slightest show of kindness, the slightest tone of sympathy. “I’ll get over this. It comes and goes.”
“But mostly comes,” Ray Stanley said. “It was only last Saturday after all, and this is Friday. You shouldn’t have forced yourself.”
“It was a beautiful funeral,” she said firmly, “and everybody came. He would have been very pleased. I was very pleased. And now back to work. It’s the only way.”
“You’re quite a gal, Eulie Montgomery,” he said.
“They say I’m tough,” she said with a wan little wryness that touched his heart. “But I’m not. I just rise above, rise above …” She dabbed vigorously at her eyes, blew her nose, shook her head in annoyance with herself. “Enough of that. Don’t try to make me weak, now. We have a lot to do here.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a smile. “We need all the strength we can muster.”
“Particularly since we don’t know what our marching orders are,” she remarked, as the ambassadors of Malawi and Romania walked by together and bowed. “Or do we?”
“Pretty much as he outlined on Able’s program,” the Secretary said, taking her arm as they joined the growing crowd of delegates, staff, and public moving along to the Council chamber. “An admonition to Sidi to back off—an insistence that he permit the International Atomic Energy Agency to inspect his atomic weapons, if any—and sanctions if he balks.”
“He’s already balked, hasn’t he?” she inquired dryly. “I don’t know how much balkier he could get.”
“The President obviously hopes a strong resolution here will give him pause.”
“Is that all,” she demanded, “that will ‘give him pause’?” That doesn’t seem a very strong approach, to me. Nor does it seem a very strong resolution if it’s only going to ‘admonish,’ as you say. You’re backsliding, Ray. What’s been going on in the department while I’ve been away?”
“I can only move as fast as he will let us,” he said, lowering his voice as they entered the chamber and immediately became the focus of intense delegate and media attention. “And we can’t push too strongly here, as you know.”
“Why the hell not?” she responded, maintaining a fixed smile but speaking in an intense whisper. “This pack of second-rate scum-bums just out of the jungle, plundering and slaughtering their own peoples all over the continent of Africa! What are we afraid of?”
“I’m glad you said that,” he whispered back with a chuckle, “and not me, because I couldn’t. Nor could you, publicly. And of course there are many who don’t warrant your kind description.”
“Oh, of course not,” she said impatiently. “But I do get fed up with them.”
“Control yourself if I ask you to speak, please,” he urged, not entirely in jest. “We need the votes.”
She nodded and moved along to the seats of the US delegation at the big round table, with its space in the center for secretaries and stenographers, which houses the Security Council in public session. Most of their work nowadays was done off-camera in a private conference room off the Council lounge, but the public didn’t know that. The public wanted a show, and most of the delegates wanted to give them one, so the preliminary skirmishing on The Matter of Greater Lolómé would occur here. What Big Bill Bullock described as “the real nut-cutting” would come in the conference room later.
He was already in a chair behind the Secretary’s, looking rumpled and tired from his two-day journey from Greater Lolómé but as combative as ever. He jumped up and greeted Eulie with a big hug when she came along to take a seat beside him.
“How ya doin’, babe?” he inquired, trying to be simultaneously jovial and sympathetic.
“Nobody’s called me ‘babe,’” she said, with what began as a smile but instantly became tears, “since—since—”
“Oh, hell, I’m sorry,” he said, looking stricken himself. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” she said firmly, sitting down beside him and patting his arm. “No, it’s my fault. I’m still a little—a little rocky, I guess.”
“And understandably so,” he said. He lowered his voice and became determinedly brisk. “So what’s going to happen here today, anyway? Are we going to get clobbered?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, accepting the diversion gratefully. “I think we’ll get pretty much what we want. If we fight for it.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And what is it we want? And how hard is he going to let us fight for it?”
“Ray is talking about ‘admonishing’ Sidi,” she said, trying to be dutiful but unable to keep concern out of her voice. “That doesn’t sound like much of a fight to me.”
“Hell, no,” the ambassador said, forgetting for a moment to keep his voice down, lowering it hastily when he became aware that the ambassador of Zimbabwe, nearby, was glancing curiously their way. “That bloody murdering son of a bitch is going to take more than ‘admonishing,’ I think. We’ve got to tromp all over him.”
“I agree,” she said, “but can we get them to do that here?”
The ambassador frowned.
“We can if the President will really let Ray put on the pressure. But will he? That is the question.”
“I think Ray would like to,” she said, and they both looked thoughtfully for a moment at the Secretary, who had paused near the door to greet with great cordiality the ambassadors of Ecuador and Argentina, entering together. “But, you’re right: will he be allowed to? He isn’t sounding very positive.”
“Sh—ucks!” Bill Bullock said, amending himself in mid-expletive. “Do you know what I think about that guy in the White House, Eulie? He’s a coward.”
“Shhh,” she admonished, glancing about with a determinedly comfortable smile at the curious faces studying them. “Keep it down, Bill. But you’re right, I think. It’s perhaps the worst legacy of Vietnam. The Soviet Union won a greater triumph than they perhaps ever imagined, when they supported the Vietcong. They left us with a new generation of military leaders, and a new generation of Presidents, who are scared to death of using American power.”
