endeavor. We are beginning to understand that the strongest of measures are called for, and that we alone must carry them out. Only then can the threat to Nicholas Augustine be neutralized.
And we are beginning to understand too, as we sit here alone in this quiet room, what those measures must be. After all, as has been demonstrated throughout history, there is only one just way to deal with traitors.
They must be executed.
PART ONE
One
When Christopher Justice entered the Oval Office, Nicholas Augustine was standing at the French doors behind his desk, staring out at the White House grounds. He turned as Justice approached, gave him a wan smile. “Sit down, Christopher,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
Justice sat on one of the leather chairs facing the desk, buttocks resting on only half of the cushion, feet planted firmly. He felt vaguely ill at ease, as he always did when the President summoned him here. There was something about the Oval Office that instilled a sense of awe and humility in him: the great men who had occupied these premises, the momentous decisions that had been made here, the heads of state who had maybe sat on this very same chair. He put his hands flat on his knees, waiting quietly.
Augustine remained standing before the French doors, framed between the American flag and the blue-and- white President’s flag, backlit by the wash of hot May sunlight coming through the scrubbed glass. To Justice the President looked imposing in that aspect, larger than life. But then Augustine came forward in heavy movements and sat at the desk, and the illusion vanished and he was just a handsome man in his mid-fifties-cool, sharply drawn features, fine cheekbones, gentle gray eyes. A weary man, too, Justice thought. You could see that in the faint slump of his shoulders, in the crosshatched lines under the eyes and around the wide mouth, in the distracted motions of his hands as he began straightening the clutter of papers in front of him.
“Well, Christopher,” the President said finally, “I suppose you’ve read this morning’s papers.”
“Yes sir, I’ve read them.”
“Do you think my comments at the press conference yesterday were anti-Semitic?”
“No sir, of course not.”
“Of course not,” Augustine agreed, and there was heat in his deep baritone voice. “I said, quote, Israel’s decision to conduct their first atomic experiments on the Sinai is as regrettable as Egypt’s similar decision, and I am distressed by the automatic trend of American foreign policy to support Israel in any dispute between that nation and other Middle Eastern powers. It permits us potentially to be held hostage to another’s rather arbitrary actions. In the event of conflict I would not commit this administration at this time to the defense of Israel or any Middle Eastern nation. Unquote. If that is an anti-Semitic statement I’m a steam locomotive.”
The President shook his head, ran a hand over a fan of cables. “These are communications from the distinguished secretary of state. He thinks I made a dangerous error, but that he might be able to save the situation. That’s how he puts it in one of these cables: ‘I might be able to save the situation.’ Oberdorfer, you know, can be a horse’s ass without half-trying.”
Justice began to feel uncomfortable. He was, after all, only a Secret Service bodyguard; he was not sure it was proper for Augustine to be talking to him so candidly about issues and personalities. But more and more of late the President had taken to summoning him for brief, off-the-cuff discussions that had become increasingly confidential. Justice was flattered that the President would choose him as a confidante, but he simply did not feel qualified to share the more intimate details of political life.
Augustine plucked a folded section of the Washington Post from under a pile of folders. “The editorial in here is damned near libelous,” he said. “Did you see it, Christopher?”
“I skimmed it, yes sir.”
“They not only infer that I’m a racist, they say I’ve been ignoring foreign policy, implementing superficial domestic programs, and spending too much time at The Hollows. They say I’m retreating from responsibility and insulating myself from the realities of my office.” Irritably the President tossed the paper into his wastebasket. “They want us to believe those are the sentiments of the American people. Well I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“Neither do I, sir,” Justice said.
The President fell silent again, staring down at the desk top. The desk was massive, six feet long and four feet wide, made from the timbers of a British sailing barque, a present from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1879-the same desk President Kennedy and then President Carter had used. On one corner of it was a small O-scale brass model of a locomotive, one of several of his collection of railroad items that adorned the office; Augustine lifted it, looked at it for a long moment, put it down again and picked up a gold-framed photograph of the First Lady taken at the White House Inaugural Ball.
At length he sighed, set the photograph down carefully, and said in a perfunctory way, “I wonder if those media bastards understand what it’s really like for a man in my position, how alone it makes you feel sometimes. I wonder if anyone understands that except my predecessors in this office.”
“I think I have an idea, sir,” Justice said.
The President looked across at him again with interest. “Do you really?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe you do, at that,” Augustine said. “You’re so supportive, Christopher. I’ve noticed that before, though I suppose I marked it down to the nature of your job. But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“I can remember when I was thirty-nine,” the President said. “I was a lot like you are now. A simple man, a man of the people. But that’s all changed.” He paused speculatively. “Maybe you’d be a better person to sit in this chair than I am.”
Justice blinked. “I, sir?”
“Yes. A young man, self-contained, in tune with the needs of the people. And what a magnificent name for a President-Justice! Have you ever been politically ambitious, Christopher?”
“No sir. I’m qualified to be a police officer, that’s all.”
“And you’re proud of your position, proud to serve your country in this capacity.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“You’d give your life for me, if it came to that.”
“You know I would, Mr. President.”
“That doesn’t seem just, now does it?” Augustine said. “Why should one common man die for another, eh?”
“Because if somebody like me dies, the world doesn’t lose much,” Justice said. “But you’re a great leader, the world needs you-”
“Does it?” Augustine said. “I wonder.”
Justice could not think of anything appropriate to say; he looked down at his hands. It grew quiet in the office, and when he glanced up again, the President’s head was bowed and he was wearily massaging his temples. Justice felt compassion stir inside him. It wasn’t fair what the media was doing to Nicholas Augustine, he thought; in fact, it was almost criminal.
Four years ago Augustine had risen from relative anonymity as junior senator from California to rally a party so badly split that it was given no hope of succeeding to power. When he had captured public favor with his low-key
