policy implications of the legislation. And he wouldn’t approve a document that recommended strong administration opposition and a presidential veto if the Barnes bill got that far.
Blake had tried everything he could think of to get the State Department on board — short of soft-soaping the Working Group’s recommendations. He’d even made several attempts to get in to see the secretary personally, without result. The man’s flunkies had used every excuse in the book. The secretary was always away on “national business,” or had an “urgent policy board meeting,” and once they’d even tried the old standby that he was “receiving an important foreign delegation.” Blake hadn’t even been able to secure an appointment with the assistant secretary for East Asian and Pacific Affairs.
The message was clear. The State Department, or at least its political leadership, wasn’t interested in getting into a shitting match with the Congress over South Korea. He’d been given a reason for that over a hasty lunch in the White House commissary with a friend from the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency.
“Look, Blake,” “Tubby” Barlow had said, “there’s no way you’re gonna get the boys at Foggy Bottom to risk pissing off the Speaker and the majority leader right now. They’re within inches of a new missile agreement with the Soviets. And they aren’t taking any chances that some irate congressman might blow the thing because his favorite bill got dumped on by the administration.” The way the upper echelons of the State Department saw it, South Korea just wasn’t in the same league with a possible superpower arms control treaty.
And so the Working Group had decided to go ahead without State’s sanction for their final product. It was either that or come up with nothing at all. From the way Putnam was carrying on, it was clear that he might have preferred that.
“Goddamn it. This thing is practically useless to me the way it is.” One of Putnam’s reddish-gray curls had broken lose from its hair-sprayed moorings and was flopping around over an eyebrow. The national security adviser impatiently brushed it back into place.
Blake shook his head. “I don’t see how you can say that. Okay, State doesn’t agree with our recommendations. BFD. Five other agencies do. That’s about as solid a bloc as you’re ever going to find in any administration.”
Putnam glowered at him. “That’s not going to cut it with the media, Dr. Fowler. You and I both know that somebody at State will leak the secretary’s displeasure with this report to the Post or the
Blake had to admit that Putnam had a point. But it was moot.
The State Department wasn’t going to reverse course and approve the report. And the South Korean situation was too critical for the White House to simply sit idly by as the Barnes legislation moved through Congress. Jesus, he hoped there were at least a few red faces over in Legislative Affairs. They’d been telling anyone who would listen that the Barnes bill was just a typical piece of election-year foofaraw. Something introduced to soothe angry voters and then slated for quiet extinction after the ballots were cast. Well, every passing day put that prediction more and more in the column headed by the
Blake looked back across the desk at Putnam. “So you’re not going to present our recommendations to the President?”
“I didn’t say that.” Putnam reached over and tore off a piece of tape. “The President’s asked for a briefing on this Korea thing something in the next few days. My calendar’s pretty full, but I’m going to try to squeeze it in somewhere — after I’ve had time to go through this stuff in a little more detail.” Putnam started rolling the piece of tape in between two fingers, wadding it up into a tiny, sticky ball.
Blake wanted to ask why Putnam didn’t just ask him to deliver the briefing. But he already knew the answer. Putnam didn’t know much more about Asian and Pacific affairs than the average daily newspaper reader did, but he did understand the mechanics of power. And in Washington, D.C., access is power.
Putnam guarded the right to personally brief the President with jealous vigor. In nineteen months on the job, he’d never yet allowed a member of his staff to lead the President through the tangle of position papers, charts, maps, and satellite photos that made up a typical NSC presentation. His rules were clear and absolutely inflexible. The staff experts prepared the briefing and he delivered it. If Putnam still felt uncomfortable with the material, he’d bring a staffer along. But always with the understanding that they would respond only to direct questions from the President or from Putnam himself.
Blake thought it was a shitty way to conduct business. But he understood Putnam’s intentions. It made the red-haired bastard look very much like the all-knowing whiz kid he claimed to be — at least to the President. And that was what mattered.
He looked up as Putnam flicked the little ball of tape off into his wastebasket.
“In any event, Blake, I’ve got a few edits to make in your report.” Putnam smiled. “You’ve done a pretty good job in putting this thing together, I guess. But it needs a little work to make it more readable. Can’t risk putting the Boss to sleep during the presentation, now can we?”
Oh, crap. Putnam’s idea of clear prose made federal bureaucratese look like something written by Ernest Hemingway. The man never saw a short, simple, clear word that he didn’t think could be replaced by an impossibly long, convoluted clause.
Blake knew there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. He and Putnam had tangled over the written word nearly as often as they’d clashed over policy. Beside, Putnam probably wouldn’t let him see the hash he’d made of the Working Group’s paper until just before they briefed the President.
He was almost right.
Jeremy Mitchell watched the flickering totals on the vote board with one eye and kept the other on his boss, Ben Barnes, working his colleagues down on the floor in front of the Speaker’s chair. He smiled as the totals changed once again, reflecting another congressman who’d buckled to persuasion from Barnes or pressure from the Speaker.
Getting the Speaker on board had been the best thing he’d ever done. The man was an oily little snake- charming s.o.b., but he knew the rules and procedures of the House backward and forward. And he’d bend any of them to get his way. Mitchell looked up at section of the vote board that showed the time remaining. It read “0:00.” Just as it had for the last twenty minutes or so. He smiled again. Votes in the House of Representatives were usually supposed to last fifteen minutes or less. If a congressman hadn’t made it to the floor by then or hadn’t made up his mind, that was just too bad. In practice, though, the Speaker controlled time in the House, and fifteen minutes was whatever he said it was — no matter what the clocks might say.
The sharp crash of the chairman’s gavel brought his eyes back to the floor. The vote was over. The congressman acting as chairman of the Committee of the Whole took a small piece of paper from one of the clerks. “On this vote, the ayes were two thirty-eight. The nays, one eighty-one. The bill is passed.”
Mitchell headed for the door grinning from ear to ear. They’d done it! And now it was up to the Senate. The majority leader’s chief aide had already assured him they’d bring the Korea sanctions bill up as soon as it passed the House. Jeremy Mitchell could smell victory. Victory for the bill and victory for Ben Barnes when he ran for the Senate two years down the road.
He was only half right.
CHAPTER 12
Low Profiles
Captain Tony Christopher did not regret coming into Seoul that day. He had planned on a little shopping. But he hadn’t planned on spending almost all of his time in the same store.
Back at the base that morning there had been the standard warning about “the possibility of civil disturbances.” Fine, he was no fool. But Seoul was huge — more than ten million people lived within its limits. The South Koreans could have a riot at one end of town and still leave enough peaceful city for one Air Force pilot to do some gift-shopping. Anyway, the chance was too good to miss. He only got one day off during the week.
