A Thing of State, page 38
“Probably,” Ray whispered to Eulie, “he’s had Jaime’s call on hold for the past ten minutes.”
“Probably,” she agreed. “But it makes an impressive bit of business.”
“Jaime!” the President exclaimed heartily. “Are you exhausted?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Jaime’s voice boomed over the amplifier. “I am tired. Eet ees a long trip. But I ’ave seen him. Ambassador Burton will tell you.”
“Mr. President,” came the gravely dignified tones of Arthur Reeves Burton, “your special envoy is exhausted but he has done his duty. He has seen the Sheikh. In my company, as you requested.”
“And—?” the President inquired.
There was a noticeable hesitation at the other end.
“It was not an entirely satisfactory interview,” Arthur Reeves Burton said carefully.
“He ees peessed off,” Jaime said, which broke up the solemnity in the Roosevelt Room for a few moments.
“What’s the problem, Arthur?” the President demanded when they had settled down again. “Did you boys tell him we would support him financially in any way he requires?”
“His Majesty does not seem to think that is sufficient under the circumstances,” Ambassador Burton said.
“He ees an old bandit,” Jaime remarked. “He wants millions—billions, probably. He also says he weel not budge out of ‘my ’istoric ’ome-land and my ancien’ royal heritage.’”
“He is indeed quite adamant, Mr. President,” Arthur Burton observed. “Very hostile to your proposals.”
Ray looked again at Eulie; something profoundly uneasy was growing in their minds. This time they both looked at Helen. She returned their glance with an almost imperceptible but definitely quizzical shrug. They all went back to listening intently.
“Did you outline them in full to him, Jaime?” the President inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Jaime said in a tired but exasperated tone. “He is a steenking old camel-lover. I don’t think we can deal with him.”
“It is not we who have to deal with him,” the President said, voice suddenly cold. “It is he who has to deal with us. Tell him that.”
“We have told him virtually everything we could think of,” Arthur Burton said, “except possibly that—or, at least, not quite that bluntly. He is not impressed.”
“I want to talk to him,” the President said flatly.
“We thought you might,” Arthur Reeves Burton said. “He is here.”
“In the next room,” Jaime said. “Probably cooking cheeken on the floor.”
“Get him in,” the President ordered. “Tell him I demand to speak to him.”
“Oh, he’s ready,” Ambassador Burton said. “He wants that. Be prepared, Mr. President.”
Jaime uttered a cheerful laugh.
“He called me so many bad names in Arabic I gave up counting,” he said. “I couldn’t understand him anyway, the old fart, but he understood my expression.… Wait a minute. Here he is.”
“Your Majesty,” Ambassador Burton said politely. “If you will take a seat here by the telephone. Mr. President, His Majesty will speak through an interpreter, as he knows very little English.”
“How convenient,” the President remarked. “Put the old fart on. Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, voice firm but respectful. “What an honor it is to speak to you directly today!”
A slither of liquid Arabic erupted from the amplifier. For approximately one solid minute, by Ray Stanley’s watch.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter reported, “that he considers it a dishonor to speak to you, traitorous infidel.”
“My, my,” the President said, winking at his wife. “Does he really? To what do I owe the honor of these kind words?”
Again the liquid verbal lightning rushed forth, perhaps half a minute this time.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter reported, “you are faithless, worthless liar. He say you always promise to defend him and now you want him to surrender to that piece of camel dung from the desert, Sidi.”
“What?” the Secretary of State demanded, too startled and dismayed to be diplomatic about it. His deputy looked equally dismayed. El Barnes looked cynically unsurprised. An expression of growing relief appeared upon the faces of the Secretary of Defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The Vice President struggled to look earnest, attentive, and devoid of thought, which, the First Lady reflected, was probably an accurate depiction of what was going on inside. Her own expression remained impassive though her private reaction was every bit as dismayed as Ray’s and Eulie’s.
The President placed his hand over the mouthpiece.
“You must admit,” he said blandly, “I have to do something. This seems best for all concerned.”
“But to surrender Lesser Lolómé to Sidi?” Ray demanded with increasing dismay. “To give Sidi everything he wants without a fight? To condone aggression? To leave his atomic arsenal untouched and uncontrolled? To lie down and let a two-bit nothing walk all over the United States of America?”
“And its President,” Helen murmured, just loud enough to be heard.
Her husband shot her a sudden sharp glance.
“We will fight this out in a minute,” he said, beginning to look annoyed as he realized the depth of the opposition he was arousing. It had literally not occurred to him. “Please let me finish with this character first, if you will.” He returned to the phone.
“Tell His Majesty,” he ordered in a voice abruptly hard and unyielding, “that His Majesty knows that I defended him successfully against Sidi before. Tell him that it is impossible for me to defend him in the same way this time. Therefore we must all make compromises. Tell His Majesty that he may fight Sidi if he wishes, but the United States will be unable to come to his assistance. Tell His Majesty I wish him well. May Allah give him victory, because the United States cannot.”
And he gave his listeners a look both annoyed and defiant.
This time the Arabic lasted almost two minutes. Its liquid flow was interrupted at regular intervals by a series of explosive gutturals whose meaning was not in doubt.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Eldridge Barnes observed.
“Tiresome old son of a bitch,” the President said.
Presently the flow stopped. The interpreter cleared his throat. It was obvious from his voice that he agreed with his ruler.
“His Majesty say,” he said, “that he despises you, Mr. President. His Majesty say you are a worthless coward who becomes less than a man in the face of battle. He say you are a coward who becomes a woman when Sidi threatens you. His Majesty say—”
“Listen to me!” the President snapped. “Tell His Majesty to listen carefully! My representative, the Honorable Jaime Serrano, national security adviser to the President of the United States, has offered His Majesty all that His Majesty will get from me and my government. We are offering him money to aid him and his family if they feel they must leave Lesser Lolómé, though we are well aware that His Majesty and his family have plundered his innocent people until they are beggars in the streets, and have taken from them so much gold it would make Aladdin blush with shame. If His Majesty wishes to remain in Lesser Lolómé in the hope he can work out some arrangement with President Sidi, we are willing to offer our good offices in working out such an arrangement, and we will guarantee it when it is put in place. Mr. Serrano has explained the details of these suggestions to His Majesty. His Majesty knows them. I will not repeat them here. It is enough to say that His Majesty now has my pledge to see that his interests and those of his family will be protected in the event of a full-scale invasion of Lesser Lolómé. His Majesty may accept them or reject them as it suits him. It is entirely up to His Majesty. But remind His Majesty of one thing: if he rejects these proposals and Lesser Lolómé is invaded, and if by some awful chance, which Allah forbid, his stubbornness should force President Sidi to use the atomic weapons at his disposal, then His Majesty and he alone will be responsible for calling down upon Lesser Lolómé, and perhaps a far greater area of the earth, all the horrors of hell. Tell that to His Majesty!”
For several moments there was silence, in Lesser Lolómé and in the Roosevelt Room. Finally, there was a very short rejoinder in Arabic, and more silence.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter said finally, “that your word is as worthless as a snake in the desert. He despises you and has no more to say to such a perfidious one.”
More silence, and then Arthur Reeves Burton said in his usual dignified tones, filled now with an obvious regret, “His Majesty is now leaving the embassy. I am sorry your talk proved so fruitless, Mr. President. I shall continue to try to persuade His Majesty to take a more reasonable line, although,” he hesitated and then went on, “although I must confess, Mr. President, that your proposals are far from what a reasonably self-respecting head of state, even a small one such as this, would normally be expected to accept. And, I must add, far from what your previous statements in this crisis have led the world to expect.”
“Good for you, Arthur,” Eulie murmured to Ray.
“You can always resign if you want to, Arthur,” the President suggested with a calculated indifference. “Put Jaime on the line, will you. Thank you for your assistance.… Well, Jaime, I guess we now go to Phase Two, right?”
“Whatever,” Jaime said.
“You don’t sound very happy about it,” the President said with a defensiveness they could all sense, a sensitivity to implied criticism that they had not anticipated.
“I am here, Mr. President,” Jaime said simply. “Whatever you direct, I do.”
“Very well,” the President said with a sudden sharp impatience. “Do it!”
“Yes, sir,” Jaime said. “You will notify him I am coming, please. I would not want Air Force Two to be shot down by mistake.”
“He will be notified,” the President said. “Let me know what he says.”
“I would expect,” Jaime said dryly, “that his reaction will be quite obvious to the whole world. But I will call.”
“Thank you, Jaime,” the President said. “Keep in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” Jaime said, reluctance now quite clear. “As you direct.”
He went off the line; silence ensued. The President hung up.
“Well,” he said, looking around the room with an almost defiant satisfaction, “that’s that.”
“Where is he going, Mr. President?” Ray Stanley inquired.
“Greater Lolómé City,” the President said. “Is that all right?”
“No, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State said crisply. “It is not.”
“You can always resign too, you know, Ray,” the President said as the tension in the room suddenly shot up.
The Secretary gave him a long, thoughtful look.
“I will take your permission under advisement, Mr. President,” he said levelly.
“Good for you,” Helen said quietly, and ignored the look her husband gave her.
The Vice President gasped audibly.
“What are the other details of the proposal you have made to Mustafa, Mr. President?” Eulie Montgomery inquired after a moment. “Are we permitted to know?”
“Not at the present time,” the President said. “They will all become clear when His Majesty”—he gave the title a sarcastic twist—“finds that he must bow to the pressure of world opinion.”
“Do you think world opinion will be on your side in this, Mr. President?” Eldridge Barnes inquired.
The President smiled comfortably, back on top of things.
“Of course,” he said. “Where else can it be? Surely not on the side of a—to quote Jaime—steenking camel-lover from the desert. Right?”
“I’m not so sure, Mr. President,” El said. “But it will be interesting to watch. I assume Jaime is going to Greater Lolómé City to unleash Sidi and tell him to go to it, right?”
“He will be informed of what has transpired with Mustafa,” the President said. “That is only simple diplomatic courtesy.”
“And when Sidi strikes, that will force Mustafa to accede to your demands,” Arlie McGregor said in a bemused tone, as though he was just now beginning to grasp all the implications of what was happening here and in the far-off Lolómés.
“I have made no demands,” the President said blandly. “Only proposals. How he reacts to them will be up to him. Meanwhile, Ray and Eulie, I want you to contact the UN tomorrow and arrange for them to appoint the United States as their agent to negotiate a lasting peace between Greater and Lesser Lolómé.”
“Is that an order, Mr. President?” Eulie inquired.
“As long as you remain on board,” the President said with an indifference so well acted they could almost believe he meant it, and was not secretly fully aware of the domestic political implications if he suddenly lost several of his top diplomatic people over an issue of conscience. “You can line that up, can’t you, Ray? It isn’t as though it would be a major crisis they’re convening for.”
The Secretary studied him a moment.
“Isn’t it?” he inquired thoughtfully. “It was, up to yesterday.”
“But now it’s all being solved,” the President remarked; and added with an almost cruel challenge in his voice, “Don’t you agree?”
But Raymond Cass Stanley refused to rise to the bait; just stared back at the President expressionless, until the President, flushing, finally glanced away.
“Well,” he said with a sudden busy briskness, “thank you all for coming. You now know where we stand. We’ll all close ranks and see it through.” He gave his wife a mischievous, charming look. “Isn’t that right, Helen? You’ll help us see it through, won’t you?”
She shrugged and gave him an enigmatic little smile; but, like the Secretary of State, did not speak.
“I’ll hear from that later!” the President predicted with a jovial laugh as he rose from his chair and started out. “As all you husbands know full well!”
“And,” Eulie Montgomery said with a certain angry relish as she and Ray reported to their department colleagues, “I hope to hell he does hear from her. How she stands it, I don’t know.”
“She’s one tough lady,” Basil Rifkin said. “That’s how.… So the fix is in, right, and he’s going to solve the great crisis with the great compromise of turning tail in the face of Sidi’s bluster and throwing Mustafa down the well as the sacrifice. What a triumph!”
“So it appears,” Ray Stanley said bleakly. “The details, as he told us, will develop as the triumph unfolds.”
“How can he do such a barefaced thing?” Joanie Bourassa inquired in a disbelieving tone.
“He can do it with the arrogance of Presidents,” Ray said. “Not all of them have enough arrogance to get away with it, but when they do, watch out. When they have it, they have it. They can convince the country the moon comes up in the morning and the sun rises at night. It’s all in the confidence and the manner.”
“And the words,” Eulie said glumly. “The cancer is in the words.”
“So are you two going to quit?” Basil Rifkin inquired bluntly.
The Secretary sighed and looked at Eulie. She sighed and looked at him. Then they both began to laugh, ruefully, and with the almost despairing wryness of two old friends who find themselves caught, after many years of success together, in the same dilemma.
“Give us a little time,” the Secretary said.
“We’ve got to consult,” Eulie said. “Meanwhile,” she added sternly, “I don’t want to see any speculation popping up from this quarter, please. This is a difficult time for us, and we have a right to work it out without distraction.”
“Right,” Hugo Mallerbie said. “You have our word.”
And apparently the secrecy held, for no speculation emerged in the next few hours from either the department or the NSC; no speculation, either, about what might be happening in the Lolómés. By some miracle in the age of universal prying, Jaime’s mission and the consequences flowing from it slipped by, for the time being, unreported.
In New York the next afternoon, the Security Council took time from routine matters to approve a sense-of-the-body resolution that “The President of the United States, or his accredited representative or representatives, is hereby designated to represent the United Nations in negotiations leading to a permanent solution of the crisis existing between Greater and Lesser Lolómé.”
Delegates were pleased to hear, from Li Peng Liu of the People’s Republic of China and Vladimir Novotny of the Second Soviet Republic, of their complete confidence in the President of the United States in these negotiations, and their absolute certainty that the outcome would be satisfactory to the United Nations and beneficial to the whole world community.
A broadly smiling Kwazze Kumbatta (“KWA-zee Koom-BAH-tah”) announced the unanimous vote. Thus, he thought happily, were the mighty brought to heel and the arrogant humbled.
Above the Atlantic, Jaime Serrano flew home, staring out the window between spells of fitful sleep, wondering if he had done the right thing in being such an obedient servant to his devious master in the White House.
Across the border of Lesser Lolómé, the troops of Sidi bin Sidi bin Sidi were already beginning to move north in a slow but steady advance into the Middle Range of the Mountains of Lolómé. The range was a jumble of harsh, barren peaks—some rising as high as seventeen thousand feet—and harsh, narrow valleys that could easily be used to block invasion if the will was there. It did not seem to be. In any event, Sidi was not particularly concerned. The land advance was basically a show for the television anchormen who would soon swarm onto the scene from their bunkers in New York; he wondered if it would last long enough to make their trips worthwhile. His air force, strengthened by the fifteen new fighter jets he had just been given, was already pounding the capital of Lesser Lolómé in an unrelenting assault that promised to reduce it largely to rubble in another twenty-four hours if the attack continued in its present fury.
In The Matter of Lolómé, the final nut-cutting, to use Big Bill Bullock’s term, was about to begin. The public, as always, would not be allowed to see it. They would not have believed it anyway. Reality is much too cynical for the innocent to comprehend. The great majority cannot grasp, even could they know, the brutalities that all too often lie behind the stately march of historic events.
