Fowler looked at his watch: 9:15 A.M. on the dot. That bastard Putnam. He seemed to think that you showed people how important and busy you were by keeping them waiting outside your office door.
Fowler thought that George Putnam, erstwhile national security adviser and full-time asshole, was a good example of the truism that when the pendulum swung, it usually swung too far.
Several of Putnam’s predecessors had been highly professional career soldiers who’d somehow managed to get both themselves and the president they served in hot water. There’d been an outcry in the press and on Capitol Hill, and a whole slew of foreign policy pundits had come forward arguing that the next president should find someone who could work more easily within the constraints imposed by Congress and by domestic politics.
Well, that was advice the new president had taken — and Fowler thought he’d probably live to regret it. Putnam had been some kind of a staff bigwig on the Hill before the election, and then he’d wormed his way into a transition team slot with the incoming administration. After that, he’d managed to surprise everyone outside the Hill establishment by parlaying his temporary position into a nomination for the national security adviser’s job.
Fowler had to admit that Putnam knew how to operate. That didn’t make him any less of a jerk, but it did make him the jerk responsible for keeping the President up-to-date on national security issues.
Putnam kept him on ice for nearly fifteen minutes this time. And when Fowler walked in, he didn’t even look up from the notes he was scribbling. Instead he waved vaguely toward a chair. “I’ll be right with you, Blake. No rest for the righteous, eh?”
Fowler sat, trying manfully to conceal his disdain for his nominal superior. Putnam was still a young man, barely into his forties, but he looked older somehow. Not older and wiser. Just older. The national security adviser’s fleshy, freckled face and petulant, thin-lipped mouth made him look like an aging schoolboy, like the bully who’d never been beaten up.
After a moment Putnam laid his pen down carefully, flexed his fingers, and sat back looking smug. He brushed a wisp of graying, reddish-brown, curly hair back into place. “Always pays to keep your ear to the ground, Blake. Got some really hot stuff from the Hill this morning.”
Fowler knew that Putnam’s “really hot stuff” was probably the latest dirt on some senator’s love life, so he kept quiet.
Putnam looked a little exasperated that his subordinate hadn’t begged him to share the latest gossip. “Ah, well. Can’t expect you ‘professionals’ to care much about the way things really get done in this town, now can I?”
Putnam shook his head. “Someday, Blake, you’ll realize that this town doesn’t move on facts — it moves on perceptions. On rumors. On whispers.”
He leaned forward across his desk. “And the granddaddy rumor mill of them all is right over there.” He pointed off in the rough direction of the Hill. “That’s where the action’s at.
“Without the Congress, the President’s agenda is dead in the water. So we’ve got to keep on our toes. We’ve got to know who’s up and who’s down — who the Speaker or majority leader like and who they don’t. And we have to keep them happy. This administration has to have a sort of symbiotic relationship with the Congress. You know, ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’ Do you see what I mean?”
Fowler could name quite a few presidents who’d been at their best when they opposed congressional idiocy, but it seemed a little too early in the morning for another pointless political debate. Instead he reached into his folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Well, George, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the American political theory to you. I have a tough enough time keeping up with South Korean politics these days.”
Putnam frowned. “Oh, yes. South Korea. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He tapped a finger on his bare desk blotter. “Now look, Blake, we’ve got some real trouble brewing on the Hill over Korea. And the President needs to know just what the hell is going on over there.”
Fowler handed him the latest CIA analysis, a stapled selection of National Security Agency signals intercepts, and a telexed report from the general commanding U.S. forces in Korea.
“Jesus Christ, Blake, I don’t have time to read all this crap! That’s what I’ve got you for. Did you bother to put together a one-pager for my signature — or was that too much trouble for you?”
Control. Control, Fowler told himself. Don’t let him see that he’s managed to piss you off. He held out the single-page summary he’d written at around four in the morning.
But Putnam waved it away. “Just give me the gist for now. I’ll read it for details later.”
Fowler tried hard to keep his voice level. “Essentially, our most recent reports show some improvement in the situation. Seoul and the other major cities are still under a nighttime curfew, but there are signs that the government will lift it sometime in the next three days. There have been some minor incidents outside Seoul — small demonstrations, a few rocks thrown at police, that kind of stuff — but nothing really dangerous. The National University is still crawling with security troops, of course, but there hasn’t been any further trouble. The students still seem to be in shock.
“And so far the North Koreans haven’t tried anything funny. We’ve gotten the usual propaganda blasts, but we haven’t yet picked up evidence of anything worse in the works.”
Putnam interrupted. “What about the massacre? Do we have any idea who was responsible? That’s the kind of thing we’re going to get asked by the press.”
“Well, the government over there is probably going to lay the blame on some junior police officer — undoubtedly one of the ones who got himself killed. But that general of ours who saw the start of the whole thing argues the real culprit is whoever ordered the police to meet that demonstration with real guns in their hands.” Fowler shook his head. ‘And that had to have been someone pretty high up — probably at the cabinet level.”
Putnam snorted, “Stupid bastards.” For once Fowler was inclined to agree with his boss.
“Yeah. We’re still not sure just why whoever it was thought it was necessary. But we do know that the government’s been under a lot of pressure from the heads of some of the South Korean industrial conglomerates, the
Putnam looked across the desk at him. “So what’s the bottom line? Can the President tell the press and the Hill this was just a one-time screwup that won’t happen again? Or can we expect more of this?”
Fowler shrugged. “There’s really no way to tell. After the 1980 bloodbath in Kwangju, things were quiet for six or seven years. But this happened right on worldwide TV and it happened in Seoul. And Seoul is the heart of South Korea — it’s the capital, the population center, business center, cultural center, you name it. We just don’t have enough information yet to make an accurate prediction.”
“Now see here, Dr. Fowler. I’ve got to give the Man more than that. He can’t just go out there in front of the cameras and say, ‘Gosh, fellas, there’s really no way to tell if Korea’s gonna come unwrapped faster than you can say Iran.’ ” Putnam’s attempt to imitate the President’s voice fell flat, but the anger in it was real enough.
“And it’s not just the press,” Putnam continued. “We’ve got to deal with the House and Senate as well. You know about this Barnes sanctions bill that got dropped in the hopper yesterday?”
Fowler nodded. “I read the summary Legislative Affairs put out last night. Frankly, I can’t think of when I last saw such a piece of dangerous stupidity — ”
Putnam cut him off. “I don’t give a great big goddamn for your uninformed opinions on legislation, Blake.” He made a visible effort to control himself. “The point is, the bill’s not going to go anywhere, but we have to form an administration position on it. And for once I want a single administration position.”
Putnam looked over at his desk clock. “So what I want you to do, Dr. Fowler, is put together a top-notch, interagency working group to analyze the potential effects of the Barnes bill. Get all the key players involved — State, Defense, Commerce, CIA, and all the rest. Do it ASAP and make sure that all the documents flow through me, okay? I want a final report on my desk inside of two weeks from now.”
Fowler mentally wrote off two weeks’ worth of dinners at home with his family, his daughter’s school play, and a lot of domestic tranquility. “You know that either State or Defense will fight like hell to chair this thing. And they’ll want to route through their respective bosses first.”
Putnam smirked. “I know. So what you do is this. Put me on the group as chairman, and then I’ll just have you fill in for me. Got it?”
Fowler nodded his understanding. Putnam might be a slimy son of a bitch and he might not know squat about
