“ We’re in?”
“Yes. You, me, all of us in the party.”
“The way I see it, the only ones in trouble are you and your friends. I’d fire you right now, publicly, except that an open split won’t do me any good. When I’m reelected I intend to make that my first priority.”
“You’re not going to be reelected, Nicholas, because you’re not going to be renominated.”
“Oh yes I am. I’m in better shape than Johnson was in 1968 and he would have been renominated. I’m in infinitely better shape than Truman was in 1948 and he won. An incumbent president can’t be denied the renomination of his own party if he wants it badly enough. And I want it that badly.”
“You’re not going to get it,” Wexford said. He took a heavy breath. “I won’t mince words this time; I’ll just give you the hard-line truth. You’re losing credibility faster than any president in history, including Nixon. The media is saying it and the polls show it. In the past few weeks you’ve mishandled domestic affairs, you’ve lost all perspective on foreign policy and managed to alienate the Israelis and the Jewish electorate and to embarrass the Vice-President, and you come out here to California two or three times a month like Nixon in his last days running off to Key Biscayne or San Clemente. There’s no indication that you’re even maintaining an appearance of the presidency any longer. You’re harming the country and destroying yourself politically, and that’s bad enough; but you’re also dragging the party down with you, jeopardizing the careers of dozens of good men who are up for national and state reelection in five months.”
Bile burned in Augustine’s throat; he felt himself trembling. “That’s quite a speech,” he said thinly.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, but it had to be said. You’re a decent man and for most of your term you’ve been viable. But you’re not the same person you were even six months ago. I hate to say this, but you seem to be suffering from some sort of mental deterioration and plunging toward a complete neurasthenic collapse-”
“Bullshit.”
Wexford looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Nicholas, but that’s the way it looks to me and to a lot of others.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“No, I’m afraid it isn’t,” Wexford said, and raised his eyes again. “The point of all this is that the National Committee has decided-unanimously-to ask for party unity behind Kineen and there’s not much doubt now that we’ll be able to get it. There are quite a few angry people in this administration.”
“So you’re here to demand an immediate statement of withdrawal,” Augustine said. “Demand it, not ask for it.”
“We’d settle for that, yes.”
“Settle for it?”
“The party wants you to resign,” Wexford said.
Augustine went rigid.
Wexford said quickly, “It would turn public opinion around, you must see that. You’d go out on an act of strength and courage, you’d create sympathy and respect and you’d give the party the leverage we need to mend fences, restore confidence and put Kineen in the White House. Conroy is an intelligent man, he won’t have any difficulty assuming Executive matters until-”
“You son of a bitch,” Augustine said, “how dare you come onto my train and accuse me of heading toward a mental breakdown and then tell me to resign? How dare you tell me I’m not fit to continue as President of the United States?”
“Nicholas…”
Augustine came forward until he was standing two feet from Wexford, towering over him. Intimidated, Wexford drew back; he moistened his lips and put a hand up and started to speak.
Furiously Augustine cut him off. “Don’t you think I understand what’s really behind all this? The media starts blowing statements and actions all out of proportion, the polls reflect a temporary confusion among the populace, and right away front-runners like you begin believing things are going downhill because I’m losing control. You convince yourselves I’m to blame for all the country’s troubles and all the party’s troubles, and the only hope is for me to resign or at least to withdraw. Throw me to the wolves, let them feed on my bones, and meanwhile it’s business as usual. Who the hell cares if my good name and my career die in ignominy? Who the hell cares if everything I’ve tried to do and have done winds up in ashes just so long as the goddamn party can run a whitewash?”
Wexford struggled to his feet, backed two steps away from Augustine. “That’s not true,” he said. “None of that is true-”
“It’s true, all right, and I’m not going to sit still for it. You hear me? I won’t resign, I won’t withdraw. You go back to Saint Louis tomorrow and tell them that-first thing tomorrow, right after we arrive at The Hollows station. I don’t want you at the ranch; I don’t want to see you anywhere except in Washington on urgent cabinet matters. Is that clear?”
Tight-lipped, Wexford said, “I’m warning you, Nicholas, if you keep on this way you’ll wind up broken and humiliated.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
“It will happen,” Wexford said grimly, “because it’ll be all gloves off. If you force us to take harsh measures to keep the party in power, we’re prepared to do it.”
“Are you threatening me, Julius?”
“No. I’m just telling you you mustn’t and you won’t be renominated. For the good of all of us.”
“Personalities, smear tactics?” Augustine said. “Would you really go that far?”
“I hope to God you don’t make me find out.” Wexford turned to the door, opened it, stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll be in my compartment if you want to talk again after you’ve calmed down a little-”
Augustine caught the door and slammed it shut.
Bastard, he thought. Bastard! And went immediately to the bar cabinet to pour himself another drink.
Six
Harper let a full forty minutes pass before he left his compartment and went again to the President’s office. When he knocked on the satinwood panel there were several seconds of silence, and then Augustine’s voice said thickly, “Who is it?”
“Maxwell.”
Another few moments of silence. “All right, come on in. The door’s open.”
Harper entered. The office was dark, but an elongation of light from the corridor reached across to where Augustine sat behind his desk. He had both elbows propped on the blotter and he was holding the stem from one of his pipes up in front of the window, peering through it as though it were a telescope. There was a glass of whiskey in front of him and his cheeks were flushed, peppered with flecks of perspiration. He looked tense and angry.
Harper’s edginess increased as he closed the door. First the sudden decision to leave for California, then Claire’s inexplicable behavior a little while ago, and now Augustine looking as though something had disturbed him since they’d last spoken. The crisis and the way it kept escalating was bad enough, but at least he could deal with that on an intellectual level; it was the undercurrents, the dark and hidden complexities that seemed to be developing, which worried him most.
Augustine lowered the pipe stem, picked up the glass instead and sipped from it. Then he made a face, appeared to shudder, and took his elbows off the desk and set the glass down again. He fixed Harper with a slightly bleary look. “Well, Maxwell?”
Harper took a chair opposite the desk. “I’d like to know,” he said slowly, “why you decided to come to The Hollows today.”
“I told you that in Washington. I need a few days’ rest.”
“Yes, but you also told me you planned to leave on Sunday. Why did you move it up two days?”
“Do I have to have specific reasons for everything I do? I’m in California because I want to be in California.”
“But it’s a matter of timing. The media-”
