“Damn the media! I’m sick unto death of the media.”
“We all are,” Harper said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve further jeopardized your position for no good reason that I can see. Or is there a reason, something you’re keeping from me? You’ve been acting strangely all day.”
For a moment, lips pursed, Augustine stared at him with sudden enmity; but then it seemed to fade from his eyes-or into them, like something sinking in dark water-until they were clear again. He picked up his glass but did not drink from it, only peered at the dark liquid as if searching for something within its depths.
“I have nothing to tell you about my moods or my private decisions,” he said. “There are some things I choose not to share with even my closest advisors; you understand that, I hope.”
I do not understand it, Harper thought. He watched the President take another sip of whiskey. “Will you at least tell me why you’re drinking so much at this time of day?”
“It happens to be five o’clock. The cocktail hour.”
“You’ve had more than one or two drinks.”
“And what if I have? I don’t have to justify my drinking habits to you, do I?”
“I suppose you don’t,” Harper said stiffly.
Augustine made an abrupt slicing gesture with one hand. “Oh all right,” he said, “you might as well know. You’d find it out anyway before long.”
“Find what out?”
“Wexford is here on the train,” the President said. “He flew out to Los Angeles this afternoon and came aboard just before we left. I finished talking to him not ten minutes ago.”
Harper’s hands clenched. “Why did he come?”
“A goddamn search-and-destroy mission, that’s why.”
“Don’t give me metaphors, Nicholas-”
“He wants my resignation,” Augustine said. Matter-offactly, as if he were delivering an irritating but not particularly important bit of news. “On behalf of the National Committee and the party-at-large. They’re not requesting now, they’re issuing ultimatums.”
My God, Harper thought. Oh my God…
Seven
Elizabeth.
Yes, Mrs. Augustine?
Are you familiar with the twenty-fifth amendment?
To the Constitution?
That’s right.
I know what it says, yes.
What does it say?
Well, it empowers the President to nominate a successor if the Vice-President should die or resign from office. And it stipulates what’s to be done if the President himself should die or be incapacitated But you know that as well as I do, Mrs. Augustine.
Yes. How long has it been since you read it closely?
Not since college. Why are you asking me about the twenty-fifth amendment?
This is really terrible coffee. I can’t understand why the kitchen staff can’t make better coffee.
Mrs Augustine, why did you ask me about the twenty-fifth amendment?
I was just thinking of Vice-President Conroy, that’s all. He has a weak heart, you know, and there are reports that he’s been having palpitations after what happened in Phoenix. I understand he’s returning to Washington and will be checking into Walter Reed for a few days.
Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious.
So do I. But it gives one pause to reflect.
It does, doesn’t it. Would you like me to have the kitchen make you a fresh pot of coffee?
No, I’ve had enough coffee. I think I’ll lie down again. I shouldn’t have asked you in again we haven’t anything to do that can’t wait until we get to The Hollows
You do look exhausted, Mrs. Augustine. Haaen’t you been sleeping well?
Not very well, no. I’ve had insomnia.
You should have seen Doctor Whiting and had him give you something.
Maybe you’re right, Elizabeth. Yes, I should have seen Doctor Whiting. Elizabeth?
Yes?
Draw those window shades, would you, before you leave? It’s much too bright in here. Much too bright.
Eight
Justice entered the dining car a few minutes before eight and took a seat at an empty table at the far end. The car was less than half full, mostly with staff aides and a few Secret Servicemen; white-jacketed waiters glided along the center aisle, balancing trays and silver ice buckets and bottles of California wine. Conversation was muted, and there was none of the relaxed camaraderie, the easy laughter, which normally prevailed at dinnertime on the Presidential Special. The faces of the diners were as sober as they had been on the flight from Washington; it was obvious that each of them, too, was deeply concerned about the negative trend of recent events.
A pitcher of ice water stood on the table. Justice poured some into a glass, drank a little of it and then opened the menu that lay across the place setting in front of him. Crabmeat cocktail, Crenshaw melon, liver pate; roast beef, abalone steak, chicken baked in wine sauce; salad and vegetables; strawberries in cream or three different kinds of cheese. A good selection-but none of it appealed to him. He closed the menu again, put it aside. He was simply not hungry.
When a waiter appeared beside him Justice ordered a cup of coffee. Then he sat staring out the near window. Green and brown farmland now; fields of alfalfa and lettuce and tomatoes. The sun had dipped behind the mountains of the Coastal Range, and the sky was suffused with a fading brick-red glow that turned scattered cloud wisps into stark luminous streaks, like designs in an abstract painting. But it all had a hypnotic effect on him, as had the scenery he’d observed from his compartment window, and when he felt his thoughts turning introspective again he shook himself and looked away.
The waiter arrived with his coffee. There was nothing to hold his attention while he drank it, and after a time he lifted the copy of Murder on the Calais Coach that he had brought with him and tried once more to read.
He had managed to absorb two full pages when he sensed someone standing close by, watching him. He glanced up, and it was Maxwell Harper.
Harper wore a sardonic expression, and his eyes were as hard and shiny as polished opals. He stood in the aisle with arms akimbo, swaying slightly to the motion of the train. “Hello, Justice,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”
Reluctantly Justice said, “No sir, not at all.”
Harper sat down across from him. A waiter appeared immediately, but Harper gestured him away and watched as Justice closed the book and laid it to one side of his cup. “A mystery story,” he said. “I might have known that was the kind of thing you’d read.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, no offense,” Harper said neutrally. “Lots of people read them. The President himself, as long as they have railroad backgrounds. Like Roosevelt with pulp westerns and Kennedy with James Bond spy novels.”
“Yes sir.”
Harper shrugged. “Personally I find popular fiction dull and totally lacking in literary merit and intelligent ideas. A soporific rather than a stimulant.”
