There was a knock on his door.
“Come in,” said Rubens, pushing the blanket over the top of his desk.
“I was to report to you this morning,” said Ambassador Jackson, shuffling tentatively into the office.
“Yes. Take a seat, Mr. Ambassador.”
Jackson pulled over a chair. He had an inquisitive expression on his face.
“You’re rested from your trip to Peru?” asked Rubens.
“Quite.”
“And it went well.”
“My small part went as required, I think. Beyond that, I’m not in a position to say.”
A measured, thoughtful answer. It did not make things easier.
“Ambassador, I find that I have to talk to you about a matter of grave concern,” Rubens said. “I find that you were not completely candid with our interviewers during your intake sessions.”
“Intake?”
“During some of our routine screening,” said Rubens. “Specifically, you omitted the controversy regarding your son. The district attorney’s office kindly filled us in yesterday afternoon.”
“Kindly?” Jackson’s voice was almost inaudible.
“They claim that they haven’t decided whether to press charges or not. Though they gave me to understand that, given the time that has now passed, it’s unlikely.”
Jackson stared at the carpet in front of Rubens’ feet. He was under no obligation to explain what happened; nor did he think that Rubens — that anyone, really — would understand if he did. And yet the impulse to speak was very strong.
“It’s a wonderful thing to see a young man grow from an infant to an adult,” he said. “He was a very fine young man. Due to my wife, I’d say. More than me. After college, we became much closer. A few years ago, he introduced me to instant messaging on computers and cell phones. We would talk several times a day while he was in law school. I like to think I may have helped him with his studies. He was a wonderful young man.” He raised his eyes to meet Rubens’. “If you have specific questions, I’ll answer them.”
“Did you use any influence at all with the district attorney?” Rubens asked.
“Not at all.”
“He knew you had been an ambassador?”
“I don’t think it was a secret,” said Jackson. “I never asked for any special consideration. And I told the truth.”
“You spoke to the DA without an attorney present?” asked Rubens.
“I didn’t see the need for one.”
Jackson waited to be asked if he had killed his son. He hadn’t, not in a moral sense; his boy had gone on long before that long night Jackson cried over him as the heart monitor began to sound. But if he was asked, he would describe exactly what he did, step-by-step. It was a simple matter of changing a setting on the machine. He knew the night well; it replayed regularly in his head.
But Rubens didn’t say anything.
“Should I get to work?” Jackson asked finally. “I have to leave at eleven for my Meals on Wheels route. But I will be back.”
“We’ll speak again,” said Rubens, dismissing him.
What struck Rubens was the fact that Jackson had not tried to justify himself or excuse his actions.
Rubens had spoken personally to the district attorney. Jackson’s son had been on life support for more than two years before he died of an apparent overdose of his painkilling medication. The circumstances strongly suggested that Jackson had administered it, though as the district attorney admitted, the evidence might not rise to the level of “beyond reasonable doubt” in the eyes of a jury which could gauge in person the suffering of a distinguished and anguished father.
Montblanc’s investigators said there was no evidence of Jackson’s having used any sort of political influence with the DA. For one thing, the district attorney was a Democrat and Jackson a registered Republican. Nor did Jackson have any roots in the community where his son had been taken for treatment.
Montblanc told Rubens that if the young man had been at a different hospital in another state or even county, very likely he would have been removed from the respirator long before. And the astronomical cost of the care did not seem to have been a factor — the hospital hadn’t even considered that Jackson might pay the bills until after the young man died. Jackson himself insisted on it.
And yet the agency had always avoided even the potential for scandal.
Had Rubens not intervened, Jackson would not have been brought on until the investigation was completed. In that case, he wouldn’t have helped Desk Three reach the conclusions it had — no one might have undertaken the mission in Peru that discredited General Tucume.
Would he have taken Jackson on, knowing this?
If there were no charges, then it wasn’t a crime. But…
And what would Rubens say if Collins or someone else brought it up with the president to embarrass him?
Or worse—
What would he do then? What would it change?
Nothing — and yet everything, as far as politics were concerned. The battle lines would be drawn instantly. The controversy would have nothing to do with national policy and yet
Rubens hated this. He hated parsing decisions into political pluses and minuses. If this was the price of being national security adviser… then he didn’t want it.
Rubens rose from his desk. Jackson had proved his worth. If the matter came up, Rubens would do the thing that should be done — he would admit that he had installed Jackson before the vetting procedure had been complete and had made the judgment that he should be kept on. It was the right decision given the larger circumstances, and he would stand by it.
Rubens also made another decision. He didn’t want to be national security adviser. He didn’t want to deal with the politics. They would corrupt him. He would do things not because they were right or wrong, but because of how they would look and whom they would influence.
“I’m not going to take the job,” he told himself out loud. “I’ll send a message to the president that I’m not interested.”
People said that when you made the right decision, you felt like a great weight had been removed from your back. But Rubens didn’t feel any freer now. If anything, he felt a little depressed.
106
Babin put his hand on the back of the plastic chair in the waiting area at the Manta airport, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. They had driven much of the night and nearly all the day to get to Manta, in the northeastern comer of Ecuador, but Babin thought it far safer than Quito or any of the smaller airports in the south. The police here seemed to take little notice of them. He was not so sure it would have been the same near the capital.
Tucume sat in the next row, stony eyed and tired. But at least he had not deteriorated any further.
The girl was to thank for that. She had proven useful, not only in buying food and then tickets, but also at the bank a few hours before, where with the help of a new dress she had posed as Babin’s secretary as he arranged the
