Dragonfly

“Good to see you, Bob,” he said, coming out from behind his desk, his right hand extended, his teeth gleaming.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” McAlister said as they shook hands. The elaborate, long-time-no-see greeting made McAlister ill-at-ease, for he'd spent an hour with the President just last evening.

“Nasty out there, Bob?”

“Wet enough to drown ducks, Mr. President,” McAlister said, listening to the other man laugh, remembering Beau Jackson, wondering if there was actually all that much difference between a cloakroom attendant and a chief of state.

The only other person present was Andrew Rice, the President's number-one man. To his credit, he didn't laugh at the duck joke; and Ms handshake was softer than the President's; and he had imperfect teeth. McAlister didn't particularly like the man, but he respected him. Which was exactly how he felt about the President, too.

“You look as exhausted as I feel,” Rice said.

“When this is over,” McAlister said, “I'm for the Caribbean.”

As Rice groaned and shifted and tried to get comfortable in his chair, McAlister wondered what David Canning, compulsively neat as he was, would think of the senior advisor. Rice's gray suit looked as if it had been put through a series of endurance tests by the idealists at the Consumer's Union. His white shirt was yellow-gray, his collar frayed. His striped tie was stained, and the knot had been tied haphazardly. Standing five ten, weighing two- eighty, he was easily a hundred pounds too heavy. The chair creaked under him, and just the effort of getting settled down had made him breathe like a runner.

Of course, Rice's mind was quick, spare, and ordered. He was one of the country's sharpest liberal thinkers. He had been twenty-six when Harvard University Press published his first book, Balancing the Budget in a Welfare State, and he had been electrifying political and economic circles ever since.

“I received your brief report of this morning's tragedy in Carpinteria,” the President said. “I called Bill Ryder at the Bureau to find out how in hell his security was breached. He didn't know.”

“We made a mistake putting Ryder at the FBI,” Rice said.

The President allowed as how his senior advisor might be right.

“Berlinson, Carpinteria… all of that's become moot,” McAlister said. “Mr President, have you had any new communications with Peking?”

“Thanks to a satellite relay, I had a twenty-minute talk with the Chairman a short while ago.” The President put a finger in one ear and searched for wax. “The Chairman isn't happy.” He took the finger out of his ear and studied it: no wax. He tried the other ear. “He half believes that the entire Dragonfly hysteria is a trick of some sort. They've examined about half of the five hundred and nine suspects, and they haven't found anything yet.”

“Nor will they,” McAlister said.

“The Chairman explained to me that if a plague should strike Peking, he will have no choice but to target all of China's nuclear missiles on our West Coast.” The President found no wax in the second ear.

“Their ballistics system is antiquated,” Rice said. “Their nuclear capabilities don't amount to much.” He dismissed the Chinese with one quick wave of his pudgy hand.

“True enough,” the President said. Dissatisfied with the results of the first exploration, he began to make another search of his ears, beginning again with the left one. “Our anti-missile system can stop anything they throw at us. They don't have a saturation system like Russia does. We'll intercept two or three hundred miles from shore. But the fallout won't leave either Los Angeles or San Francisco very damned healthy.”

Rice turned to McAlister. “The Chairman wants to know the name of the agent you're sending over to General Lin.”

“They want time to run their own background check on him,” the President said, giving up on his waxless ears and drumming his fingers on the desk. “They haven't said as much. But that's what I'd want to do if the roles were reversed.”

“The only problem is that The Committee may be able to monitor all communications between us and the Chinese,” McAlister said softly, worriedly.

“Not likely,” Rice said.

“It would go out on the red phone,” the President said. “That line can't be tapped.”

“Any line can be tapped,” McAlister said.

The President's jaw set like rough-formed concrete.

“The red phone is secure.”

“I'm not questioning your word, Mr. President,” McAlister said. “But even if the red phone is safe, we can get my man killed by giving his name to the Chinese too early in the game. The Committee will have sources in China's counterintelligence establishment. Once the Chinese have the name and start running a background check, The Committee will know who I'm sending. They'll have my man hit before he's safe in Peking.”

“For God's sake!” Rice said, huffing with frustration. “Look, we're dealing with dangerous, crackpot reactionaries who have gotten deep into the CIA, perhaps deep into the FBI as well. For fifteen years now they've corrupted the democratic process. I think we all agree on that. We all understand what a grave matter this is. But these Committeemen aren't omniscient! They aren't lurking everywhere/”

“I'd prefer to act as if they were,” McAlister said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

The President continued to drum his fingers on the desk, using his left hand to counterpoint the rhythm he had developed with his right. He looked at McAlister from under his bushy eyebrows and said, “I think Andy's right about this.”

“Caution is admirable,” Rice said. “But we've got to guard against paranoia.”

The President nodded.

Wondering if he had gotten into a position where he would once again have to defy a President or resign his office, McAlister said, “I don't want to transmit my man's name to the Chinese any sooner than twelve hours before he's due in Peking. That's cutting it close enough so that The Committee won't have time to organize a hit.”

“Twelve hours,” the President said.

“The Chairman won't like that,” Rice said. His small, deep-set eyes and his pursed lips admonished McAlister.

“Whether or not he likes it, that's the way I want it.”

Rice's face was gradually mottling: red, pink, and chalk-white. He was like a malfunctioning boiler swelling up with steam. A rivet would pop any second now.

In a surprisingly quiet voice the President said, “From the way you're talking, Bob, I assume that you've found a man you think you can trust.”

“That's right, sir.”

Taking his cue from the President, Rice controlled his anger. “An agency man?”

McAlister told them how his morning had gone thus far: a visit to the British Embassy to pick up the set of forged papers that the SIS had prepared for him, a thorough search of his Mercedes until he located the transmitter he had known would be there, a quick switch of the transmitter to the tractor-trailer that had stopped for a red light, a meeting with the agent who would be sent to China…

While McAlister talked, the President used a thumbnail to pick incessantly at his artificial teeth. He made a continual click-click-click noise. Occasionally he found a bit of tartar, which he carefully inspected. In public McAlister had never seen the man pick his teeth or bore at his ears or clean his fingernails or crack his knuckles or pick his nose. And even in the Oval Office he didn't begin worrying at himself unless he was under pressure to make a policy decision. Now, wound tight by the Dragonfly crisis, he was rapidly going through his entire repertoire: he stopped picking his teeth, and he began to crack his knuckles one at a time.

When McAlister finished talking, the President said, “You've neglected to mention the agent's name.” He smiled.

Crack!: a knuckle.

“Before I tell you,” McAlister said, “I feel strongly that I should receive your assurance that you won't pass it along to the Chairman any sooner than I want it to be passed.”

Rice started to say something, decided that silence was at least valuable if not golden, and glowered at the President's hands just as another knuckle cracked.