reach him.'
'I'll check back with you.'
'Now then, Mr. Superman, is it true what everyone's saying? Did you really do all those things in Oman or wherever it is?'
'Only a few of them. They left out a lot of people who should have been included. Someone's trying to make me out to be something I'm not. How are you handling things?'
'The standard “No comment” and “Our boss is out of town”,' answered O'Reilly.
'Good. Glad to hear it.'
'No, Congressman, it's not good because some things can't be handled standard-wise. We can control the loonies and the press and even your peers, but we can't control Sixteen Hundred.'
'The White House?'
'The obnoxious chief of staff himself. We can't say “No comment” to the President's mouthpiece.'
'What did he say?'
'He gave me a telephone number you're to call. It's his private line, and he made sure I understood that less than ten people in Washington had it—’
'I wonder if the President's one of them,' interrupted Kendrick only half facetiously.
'He claimed he is, and in point of fact he said it's a direct presidential order that you call his chief of staff immediately.'
'A direct what?'
'Presidential order.'
'Will somebody please read those clowns the Constitution. The legislative branch of this government does not take direct orders from the executive, presidential or otherwise.'
'His choice of words was stupid, I grant you,' went on Ann O'Reilly quickly, 'but if you'll let me finish telling you what he said, you might be more amenable.'
'Goon.'
'He said they understood why you were keeping out of sight, and that they'd arrange an unmarked pick-up for you wherever you say… Now, may I speak as your elder here in Funny Town, sir?'
'Please.'
'You can't keep on running, Evan. Sooner or later you'll have to show up, and it's better that you know what's on their minds over there before you do. Like it or not, they're on your case. Why not find out how they're coming down? It could avoid a disaster.' 'What's the number?'
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 22
Herbert Dennison, White House chief of staff, closed the door of his private bathroom and reached for the bottle of Maalox which he kept in the right-hand corner of the marble counter. In precise sequence, he ingested four swallows of the chalklike liquid, knowing from experience that it would eliminate the hot flashes in his upper chest. Years ago in New York, when the attacks had begun, he had been so frightened that he could barely eat or sleep, so convinced was he that after surviving the hell of Korea he was going to die in the street of cardiac arrest. His then wife—the first of three—had also been beside herself, unable to decide whether to get him first to a hospital or to their insurance agent for an expanded policy. Without his knowing about it she accomplished the latter, and a week later Herbert bit the bullet and admitted himself to the Cornell Medical Center for a thorough examination.
Relief came when the doctors pronounced his heart as strong as a young bull's, explaining to him that the sporadic fits of discomfort were brought about by periodic spasms of excess acid produced, no doubt, by anxiety and tension. From that day forward, in bedrooms, offices, cars and briefcases, bottles of the white pacifying liquid were always available to him. Tension was a part of his life.
The doctors' diagnosis had been so accurate that over the years
