Potomac Jungle: A Novel by David Levy

By David Levy

Against the backdrop of an invisible escalating war for nuclear submarine superiority, one man holds the fate of the country in his hands.

President H. Stephen Thompson has nearly completed one term in office, aided by his son Harry and by Vice President Clifford Hawley, but the medical report from the Bethesda Naval Hospital has confirmed that the President's health is deteriorating. He suffers ominous memory losses that cause him to forget the names of important senators...and important matters of state.

Now, on the eve of the upcoming nominating convention, President Thompson is embroiled in a struggle for survival, a battle for power driven by the ambitious Vice President and a secret self-appointed committee.

As the Committee threatens to implement the 25th Amendment-the Constitution's provision for the succession of power-President Thompson is confronted with contradictory loyalties: his wife, Kathy, cannot suppress her feelings for Vice President Hawley but is determined to hold on to her position as First Lady; his son, Harry, works for the Vice President, but is keenly aware of his father's brilliance. The President's political allies and Cabinet members are dividing over the issue of the President's health, and of the necessity for proceeding with Red Dye Day, the secret technological breakthrough in the deadly game of underwater nuclear warfare with the Russians. Will the implementation of Red Dye Day be read by the Kremlin as a provocative act?

Power, passion, and ambition lurk in this suspenseful novel, where the jungle world of Washington politics is starkly revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462094257

David Levy

David Levy is an internationally recognized expert on artificial intelligence and the president of the International Computer Games Association. He is also the author of the industry primer Robots Unlimited. He lives in London.

Book preview

POTOMAC

JUNGLE

A NOVEL BY

David Levy

toExcel

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Potomac Jungle

A Novel by David Levy

All Rights Reserved © 1990, 2000 by David Levy

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

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ISBN: 0-595-09250-0

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9425-7 (ebook)

Contents

POTOMAC

JUNGLE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

Epilogue

About the Author

This book is dedicated to my friends in the

television industry, particularly to each member of

the Caucus for Producers, Writers & Directors; and

to my brothers, Charles and Abner.

With special thanks for editorial and technical

advice from Mary H. Claycomb, Donald L. Keach,

Lance Lee, Dr. Myles E. Lee, Joan B. Sanger,

Shelly Usen, and especially to Dr. Charles Lee.

The Constitution of the United States

AMENDMENT 25 (1967)

SECTION 1. In case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President.

SECTION 2. Whenever there is a vacancy in the office of the Vice President, the President shall nominate a Vice President who shall take office upon confirmation by a majority vote of both Houses of Congress.

SECTION 3. Whenever the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that he is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, and until he transmits to them a written declaration to the contrary, such powers and duties shall be discharged by the Vice President as Acting President.

SECTION 4. Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.

Thereafter, when the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that no inability exists, he shall resume the powers and duties of his office unless the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive department or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit within four days to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. Thereupon Congress shall decide the issue, assembling within forty eight hours for that purpose if not in session. If the Congress, within twenty-one days after receipt of the latter written declaration, or, if Congress is not in session, within twenty-one days after Congress is required to assemble, determines by two thirds vote of both Houses that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall continue to discharge the same as Acting President; otherwise, the President shall resume the powers and duties of his office.

POTOMAC

JUNGLE

1

Sunset. In the Oval Office of the White House, his face pale and lined with fatigue, eyes closed, H. Stephen Thompson, President of the United States, slumped back against his oxblood leather chair. His bony hands gently massaged the thin blue veins of his temples. The nagging headaches, absent the past few weeks, had returned, now with increasing intensity.

One second, Betsy . . . in a moment or two. . . , he sighed, pushing a few hairs from his clammy forehead. I’ll be all right. Then, fumbling with the buttons of his brown cardigan sweater, he added, I should relax a bit more, maybe take a couple more coffee breaks. . .

Betsy King, straitlaced and prim, her gray hair neatly held in place by tortoise-shell combs (a legacy from her mother), had been Thompson’s secretary for years, starting from the time he joined the prestigious Washington law firm Cabot, Henderson, & Vail. Some of the firm’s clients, then and now, were among the giants of international industry and finance, those multinational corporations that wielded economic power greater than that of many of the nations of the world. Betsy had served him through his days as chief executive officer of Universal Corporate Investments, a holding company with worldwide interests, and later still through his years of public service on a variety of assignments for the United Nations as well as on confidential missions for Presidents and Cabinet officers.

In rhythm with the President’s movements as he settled back in his chair, Betsy quietly placed her pad on the edge of his desk, then rose from her stiff-backed cane chair to pour water from an eagle-etched carafe into a tumbler. She shook two white pills from one of the three vials on the President’s desk, handed them to him, and waited patiently at his side for him to take them.

He reached over for the pills and water as he glanced up at Betsy. Always ready, he said softly, swallowing the pills. A moment or two later, color returned to his cheeks. "Margaret always said, ‘Never lose Betsy, never, never. When I’m not there, she’ll know what to do and when.’ He handed the glass back to Betsy. She was right."

She was a marvelous woman, so very easy to work with, so very kind. I’ll not ever forget her, Betsy said, and Thompson noticed the tension and tautness of her compressed lips. In that movement he detected a subtle disapproval of the second Mrs. Thompson.

"Betsy, you’re always at the ready, thank heaven."

Practice, she said, resuming her seat and picking up the pad. You set the rules, we follow them.

Rules. A faint smile crossed Thompson’s face as he thought of the younger man down the hall in the corner office. Clifford Hawley, Vice President of the United States. He pictured the handsome tanned face suddenly creasing with concern, even anxiety, as Hawley read the terse memorandum Thompson had directed twenty-four hours earlier to his top three aides and to him, instructing them that, henceforth, the privilege of free access to the Oval Office must be terminated, except in emergencies, so that the President might use his time more efficiently. The time had come to let his once-close association with the Vice President wane. There was the upcoming political convention, plus vital decisions he had to make. And coupled with them the whispered insinuations levelled privately by his son that had startled him and raised disturbing, even distressing, questions of character about Hawley.

Thompson returned his attention to the matter at hand. Where were we, Betsy? Would you read the last section, please?

Starting with ‘You and I know, Mr. President, that we might survive in the deep shelters provided for us, but what about outside, what about up above the shelters’? There?

Yes. What about up above? Up above, he repeated as he rose slowly and moved to the window, gazing out at trees that had been planted by the first resident of the White House, John Adams. Thomas Jefferson had followed that tree-planting tradition, as had all of Thompson’s own recent predecessors. They’d all be gone, of course, he mused, his hands clasped behind his back, the trees, the garden, the plants. All of the animals. The monument out there. This White House. Their Kremlin. Work all that in, he said as he returned to his chair. He leaned forward and pointed a finger at Betsy, saying, How, in heaven’s name, despite all of the cutbacks both sides have made, how do we ever contain it if it ever once gets loose?

Betsy straightened up, certain that the question was merely typical Thompson rhetoric. She would simply wait without responding.

The President picked up a pencil and began his familiar doodling on a White House pad. A paper edge means nothing. We know it. They know it. And yet we both play those endless, even quite dangerous, war games. Especially underwater. Their submarines. Ours. Constantly stalking each other, listening and waiting. There’s where we need verifiable security, and being sure of the psychological steadiness of every man in every submarine. Theirs and ours, he emphasized. We worry about slipping back to life in a jungle. The truth is we already live on the edge of one. He tossed the pencil aside and looked across at Betsy. I don’t have the right handle yet, he said abruptly. Better tear it all up.

All of it?

Yes, all of it. I think I’ll have Alice Curtis work up a draft on this. If she has a few free moments in Geneva—although I doubt that the Soviets give her much free time—I’d like her to wrestle with this, to see if there’s a chance to employ the one faculty that can save us. He tapped the side of his head. Reason. Pure, simple reason. And trust, he added. The hard kind—mutual trust. He settled back in his chair. We’ll pick it up another time.

All of her movements quite precise, Betsy King folded her notebook, straightened her black wool skirt, placed her chair against the wall, glanced back and bowed, and then let herself out.

What, he asked himself, could trigger a renewed beginning, one that would be positively verifiable, one that would guarantee mutual survival, not mutual assured destruction? The instability of Eastern Europe, precipitated by the initial unshackling of democratic reform, had created new problems that were still volatile after a decade of internal nationalistic and ethnic struggle. Then, too, he’d always thought of Reykjavik back in the mid-eighties as the true jumping-off point of all subsequent summits. He’d picked up on Ronald Reagan’s basic theme of greatly reduced offensive systems tied to each side’s deploying minimum defensive forces as a national goal. It was a subject that occupied him at some time every day. He was certain it also occupied the mind of his counterpart some six thousand miles to the east. He stood up, feeling a mild dizziness as he gripped the edge of his chair. Thinking could come later. Time to rest.

Thompson felt a flush of intense anger as the door to his office opened. He had given the order only twenty-four hours earlier that no one should walk in unannounced. Standing in the doorway, however, in a plaid wool jacket and navy blue skirt, was the one person to whom the ban did not apply—Kathy, whom he’d married shortly before he’d assumed office almost three years earlier. The radiance about her open smile, the brightness and alertness in her dark eyes always gave a lift to Thompson’s spirits.

It’s time, Stephen. Past your time. You promised. She crossed the room and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

I know, I know, he said, a trifle impatient, but I’m only fifteen minutes late.

And I told you I’d come and fetch you if you were.

"Fetch me, is that it? he said, chuckling. I like that word. I remember old Cardinal Brannon—he’s gone now—and his great red setter out on the Main Line, Paoli actually, and I can hear him and see him, tossing that gnarled Haitian nightstick he always carried just to stay in good with the old setter. ‘Fetch, boy! Fetch!’ That’s what he’d say. He slipped his hand into hers. Just like you, Kathy, come to fetch your old setter of a husband, that it?"

She started to protest. No, that’s not it, and you’re not old, Stephen, you’re not to say that—

He led her to the door. I know, I know, he said reassuringly.

I only came—

And I’m coming, little girl, I’m coming.

She stopped and thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Stephen! We agreed you’d never— There was a note of exasperation in her voice.

Kathy, look around, there’s no one here, he said, interrupting her. No one.

Some women might think it belittling, Kathy insisted, especially these days.

Now, Kathy, would anyone really think I’d make a demeaning reference to you? Could I really be guilty of such conduct?

Not purposely, of course not, she admitted, then added, but would you have said it about Margaret? The moment she spoke she was angry at herself.

No, I wouldn’t have, he said, a testy touch in his voice.

I’m sorry I asked that.

Because, he went on, it would have seemed preposterous, even ridiculous. With you, I only mean it as a compliment. He repeated the words softly, almost to himself. Little girl. Then he stepped toward her. Is it really so offensive? he asked.

All right, she said as though to settle the issue. Just don’t let it slip if others can hear you, that’s all. Please? She smiled as she held open the door.

Image359.PNG

Sunset was the scheduled time for the meeting of the Committee, the inner group of the new National Security Council, limited to six members including himself: Clifford Hawley had wanted to attend the meeting, but he’d recognized the awkwardness that his presence at this particular meeting might create. When two Committee members, Richard H. Daniels, Director of the CIA, and Edward Jaggers, Secretary of State, expressed caution, he had to respect their concern. He would spend the time in his office in the massive old EOB, the Executive Office Building across the road from his White House office, out of sight of the President’s staff. In a way, the vice presidential suite served as a private retreat. Hawley was glad that protocol had kept it available, gladder still that when the President insisted (at the beginning of his term) that Hawley occupy space near the Oval Office, he had discreetly arranged to retain the vice presidential quarters that a century before housed the Navy Department’s top brass. His privacy was important to him, and there was a lot to think about: the President’s memorandum, the Committee’s agenda, the convention now only months away.

Clifford Hawley, the youngest man ever to be elected Vice President, sat sipping a Bristol cream sherry, toying aimlessly with the drawer of his desk, amused, as always, at the signatures scrawled on the inside surface by previous occupants of the room—Nixon, Mondale, even Truman—and his own. Then he glanced at the open book on his lap, Freeman’s definitive biography of Washington. He knew that his friends in the Senate and the White House, even more so his ladies in Hollywood and Washington and Manhattan, would be surprised at his continued study of the lives of all the men who had occupied the offices of President and Vice President. He’d learned much from those studies; he’d been likened to Burr, also slight of build; in fact, he’d often been told he resembled the bust of the controversial Vice President peering down from the Senate gallery. To many, his magnetic black eyes flashed like those of Burr in old engravings. He was never unmindful, though, that some meant their comparison to carry an unpleasant connotation in view of Burr’s dubious place in history.

He had moved smoothly from being a congressman from Los Angeles to occupying a key role in the political battles that had led to the nomination of H. Stephen Thompson and to his surprising reward as Thompson’s running mate. Now he sat wondering what Daniels would think of his exclusion from the President’s office. Word was bound to leak out, would probably be deliberately leaked. Henry Kraus, the President’s cagey Chief of Staff, had probably already planned it. He’d felt immediate concern when he read the President’s memorandum, intensified by his own awareness of a growing coolness in the President’s manner toward him. In recent cabinet meetings, he’d noted that Thompson had occasionally treated his remarks with indifference, on one occasion actually silencing him abruptly. Hawley had not been able to conceal his surprise and vexation, and that had prompted a presidential retreat. It’s not that I don’t want to hear you, Mr. Vice President, Thompson had said almost apologetically, looking up and down the long table. It’s that Mrs. Thompson says we’re all too long-winded here, especially me. So let’s say that I’m only relaying orders from upstairs. Everyone laughed good-humoredly, but Hawley’s annoyance lingered. And in the eyes of some he recognized the cunning attitude of a pack of jackals picking up the scent of rejection, and with it he sensed troubles looming.

Yesterday he had discussed some of his misgivings with Daniels, taking care to characterize the latest incident as unimportant, as probably only the action of an aging man who had recently fought off a bout of pneumonia and who, in addition, was famous for a presidential temper that, like Eisenhower’s, could burst forth like a summer storm and just as quickly recede. An older Californian who had sat in the House years before and who had for some years now occupied the post of CIA Director, Daniels paid a visit to Hawley’s office soon after testifying before a Senate subcommittee dealing with appropriations. His soft voice and heavy-lidded gray eyes belied his coldness and toughness.

You’re correct, Mr. Vice President, not to take umbrage. The President deserves your consideration—especially, he added, as he leaned forward to drop the ashes from his ever-present cigarette into an onyx ashtray, "especially considering the possibility—I stress possibility—that his recent illness is only, shall we say, the tip of the iceberg? A mirthless smile crossed Daniels’ face. That’s why I dropped by, as a matter of fact. The illness, even the potential illness of the President—and I might add, that is one thing I know a little something about—is why it might be the better part of judgment to absent yourself from the Committee tomorrow?" Daniels’ speech often included statements ending as questions requiring no response.

Daniels coolly lit another cigarette, studying Hawley’s face through the swirl of smoke. He knew that in making sensible suggestions, in winning acquiesence even on small points, a pattern would emerge that would assure success on more important decisions ahead. Daniels, who had read Machiavelli, could now write his own set of principles, not only on the art of achieving power but also on the art of securing it, something that had eluded Machiavelli’s efforts. His few words of caution were not lost on Hawley.

Hand delivered only moments after Daniels’ departure, a brief confidential message from the Secretary of State, one of Hawley’s most trusted political allies, had, in effect, seconded Daniels’ motion and confirmed Hawley’s decision. It read: Committee subject at tomorrow’s meeting, review of Twenty-fifth Amendment, specific clause pertaining to presidential disability. Absence will allow more open discussion and your own contribution can be more effective later, if required. E. J.

At first, Hawley had recoiled from the thought of missing the meeting. Attendance at Committee meetings was more than de rigueur, it was mandatory. He had never been absent, but quick reflection persuaded him that, with Daniels and Jaggers both recommending it, his interest would be fully protected.

Now in the privacy of his office, Hawley turned his thoughts to less weighty matters. If his reading habits were little known, his amorous activities were fun and games for the press and for his political enemies. He had been photographed, two years earlier, in Beverly Hills, dancing with Vivien Lessing, the dazzling new Hollywood sex symbol—she in a daring, backless gown in the elegant L’Escoffier Room atop the Beverly Hilton. And even though he’d been with a large party, and even though he’d danced with every other woman in the group, the media’s exclusive attention had been paid to those few moments with her. Perhaps it had been the instant when he’d felt the flamboyant star’s hand touch the nape of his neck, and he’d whispered in response, You do that, it can lead to other people’s misunderstandings—

A lot of things can, she’d said, pulling back to stare at him, tossing her blond mane and venting her famous throaty laughter. Then, carefully, dropping the exploring hand, she had moved even closer into his arms, whispering, Are you some kind of old-fashioned prude, Mr. Hawley?

He disavowed prudery later that same night when a smaller group accepted the star’s invitation to her Bel-Air mansion, a pretentious building with Ionic columns and a pediment full of statues representing Greek gods at its front entrance. Set back behind high wrought-iron gates on a quiet cul-de-sac, the house gave Vivien Lessing the kind of privacy her life-style demanded. Hawley acted as though he would leave with the last couple, but on an impulse he momentarily waved them on as he stepped back into the circular foyer, presumably for a forgotten raincoat. The retrieval led to four hours of a new and steaming romance in a pink and white room that commanded a view of the endless green lawn.

She told him that she wondered if she’d gone too far. She hoped not; she was weary of the tradition that stars had to exchange sexual favors for their stardom. Moreover, she bluntly confessed how she despised the studio heads, her leading men, and every agent she’d ever accommodated on her climb to fame. But, keeping her thoughts to herself, she had to admit that a handsome young Vice President could be both a challenge and a stepping-stone to new power. The price, she decided, was worth the experiment.

Then there was the image of Gloria Whitney, the diminutive daughter of the Chief Justice—a saucy package of feminine charms and wiles, green-eyed, irreverent, apparently totally liberated despite the puritanical speeches of her learned father, and determined (so gossip said) to seduce the entire superstructure of government. That had been worry enough. Then came the rumor of her problems with pills and alcohol, which grew persistently until he heard it, or so it seemed, at every party and political function he attended.

He remembered escorting her to a Kennedy Center opening. She’d been insistent on his coming in for a nightcap in the large dark house she shared with her widowed father in the stately Kalorama area of the city. Old Marble Bust retires very early, she said cheerfully, tossing a mink stole across the railing of the curved staircase. In here, she added, swinging open one of the carved double doors, turning coquettishly as she leaned back against it and held out a hand to him. He glanced at his watch. Nothing to be afraid of, and no one to be afraid of, Mr. Vice President. Only little me. And we have all the time in the world, and with that she wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him, pressing tightly against him. When she released him, she said, You’ve been wanting to do that all night, admit it!

It was true. But it was also disconcerting for him to notice a photograph of young Harry Thompson, the President’s son, staring up at him from beside a Tiffany lamp. That’s all over, she said with a dismissive laugh, turning the picture down. But her affair with Harry wasn’t over, and that was one of the problems Gloria Whitney brought with her.

And then there was the tall, sensual figure of Felicia Courtney, her tawny hair styled in an elegant French braid, whose physical assets were remarkably counterbalanced by her imposing business and intellectual attainments—magna cum laude from Radcliffe, onetime senior editor at Random House, and now the new publisher of Insider’s Washington, a magazine launched initially by her late husband, Ted, and already the official arbiter of the capital’s younger social set. The impact of the magazine had begun to confirm Felicia as the doyenne, despite her own relative youthfulness, of what was in, where was in, and who was in.

Hawley, followed by his Secret Service guard, had bumped into her in the cocktail lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel a few weeks after the untimely death of her husband. He remembered her first words when he stopped at her table and greeted her. Nice to see you out, he’d said.

You haven’t called, she replied, extending a hand.

I apologize, he said, taking it. A friend of Ted’s, Hawley had been among the first to pay his respects to the young widow at the old brownstone Victorian home located just a stone’s throw from famed Dumbarton Oaks.

You’ve been too busy, I’m sure.

Hawley was momentarily flustered. Frankly, I guess I thought. . . He stopped and looked down at her. I’d heard you were at the magazine, but it didn’t occur to me. . . He shrugged his shoulders.

I’m meeting a shareholder, a very dull investor, she said helpfully. Can you join me until she arrives? Or am I keeping you from something? she added with a smile.

Hawley sat beside her and signalled a waiter. Whatever the lady’s drinking, please, he said. Then turning to her, he added, It’s good to see you, Felicia. His eyes swept over her fashionable dark green suede suit. And seeing you looking so very well.

Thank you, she replied.

As Felicia lifted her glass to him, Hawley sensed from that gesture, her silence, and her steady gaze that Felicia Courtney was someone he could know better. But he also suspected that she was someone no one could ever take for granted, and that her playfulness could be just that and nothing more.

Dinner next week, this weekend, tomorrow? he suddenly ventured, amused at his own impetuosity.

Dinner tomorrow, she said at once, as a heavyset woman, Felicia’s shareholder, burst in upon them, claiming her attention.

That first dinner had been followed by two others. After the last, as they sat in his car outside her home (the Secret Service contingent discreetly parked some distance away), he decided the time was at hand to make a move, but as he turned to put his arm about her she shifted deftly. We have time, Cliff. We don’t want to rush anything. He made an effort to protest, but without a word, with a soft smile, a touch of a finger to her lips and then to his, she was gone.

The final image that rose before Hawley was the lithe and enchanting figure of another woman. Their first meeting seemed so long ago: he, still an aspiring congressman; she, a bright, eager, stylish young journalist doing free-lance pieces for national magazines. Those brilliant dark eyes of hers had mesmerized him. And he liked the crispness of her voice, her confidence. As they sat in the stately, oak-panelled cocktail lounge of the Hay-Adams, a stone’s throw from the White House, Kathy Bryson’s questions were pointed and insistent. And the two of them were on a first-name basis almost from the start.

And your ultimate goal, Cliff?

He raised his glass to her. "Let’s start with your ultimate goal. Okay?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "Later. This is my interview. So shall we try again—your ultimate goal?"

I’m sorry, he said, settling back in his chair. Okay. My ultimate goal. I’d put it this way. I’d like to try my hand at governing.

But you’re doing that right now.

Not exactly. One member out of 435 House members is not my idea of governing. Participating, yes, but not the real thing.

You’ve already achieved a great deal in the House, she said. So, what about the Senate?

Not even the Senate. He watched her as she made her quick notes. I’d rather that none of this part be for publication, if you don’t mind.

You don’t want just a bland story, Mr. Hawley— And then, noticing his mock disapproval, she smiled and said, Cliff. Okay. Just a parade of facts, no opinion, no plans, all pap—you really don’t want that, do you?

I’m really still something of a freshman Congressman, and the old rules say that children are to be seen, not heard. If I said exactly what I want to be when I grow up, it might frighten my elders. It might make them set up barriers that would keep me under surveillance in a playpen they can control.

You’re full of metaphors.

Not for publication? He stirred his drink, studying her. We trade ultimate goals?

She hesitated a moment and then let her notebook rest on her lap. Okay, deal, she said smiling.

Good. Then how about the White House? he responded.

The White House? After only—what is it—two terms in the House?

I may not be an Abraham Lincoln, but he managed to do just that after only one. But look, it doesn’t have to be the White House itself. Maybe something close to it?

The Cabinet? Chairman of a big agency? She pointed her pen at him. You were a communications major at college. How about the Federal Communications Commission?

Sure. Something along those lines.

Not the Supreme Court?

I’m not an attorney.

You don’t have to be, she said.

He was impressed. I see you’re a student of the Constitution.

I studied political science at college. Once I even thought of doing graduate work at Georgetown.

Really? I’ve given special lectures there, at night, on the real world of politics, Hawley volunteered.

What does that mean to you, ‘the real world of polities’? she inquired.

Well, it’s not the day-to-day wheeling and dealing you might think I’m referring to. It’s more—if you don’t mind my puffing up like some pseudointellectual, which is what I’ve been called by some left-wing writers—geopolitical. You deal with basics: geography, populations, economics, political systems. There’s been a new world shaping up ever since the Cold War went out of fashion with the Berlin Wall. And we’re still trying to understand it. That includes its instability and its unpredictability.

But we are making progress, aren’t we? And the Russians are, aren’t they? she asked, curious, too, to have the opportunity to probe his mind.

"We don’t know for sure. Not even after all the Gorbachev years, glasnost and all the rest. That’s because the new Russians aren’t synonymous with the old Soviets. We tend to forget our history—my father teaches history at Penn and he keeps reminding me—the Russians were always repressive, which accounts for the frequent expansion of their frontiers throughout all their history, all for the purpose of protecting their own security."

Anything wrong in that? Kathy asked.

"When it’s repressive, yes. And this withdrawing we’ve witnessed these past years—is it just the ebbing of the tides or is it something permanent? We don’t know that for sure either yet, and we won’t know for some time, which means that we, of necessity, must retain a powerful military posture especially in a world where there are still thousands of nuclear weapons around. We have to be concerned with who’s in charge of that stockpile. That fact alone has to be paramount in all of our thinking."

And meanwhile? How do we proceed?

Cautiously. It will be a long time, if ever, before the Soviet state has a true pluralistic democracy or a free-enterprise system, even with the gestures they’ve made in both areas. All we can do is to hope for stability. Theirs. Remember, as Dr. Kissinger once remarked, with the exception of the still-debatable departure of Mr. Gorbachev, no Soviet leader has ever retired voluntarily.

While up to a short time ago we once had four former Presidents all leading their own pursuits: Reagan, Ford, Carter, Nixon, Kathy observed.

That says something about the two systems right there, Hawley said with a smile.

Are we back to old-fashioned balance-of-power strategies? she asked, favorably impressed with Hawley’s thinking.

Quite possibly, Hawley replied. And that’s what today’s geopolitics is all about, and that’s why I like the course I teach.

Does it also have something to do with countering the image you have of being—how shall I describe it—a playboy? Kathy said with a mischievous look.

Hawley shrugged. I’ve read that charge. I live with it.

But giving courses at night with your kind of schedule? You are trying to build a new image, aren’t you? she asked.

It’s part of my heritage. Teaching. Like I said, my father’s a teacher.

So politics comes natural to you?

Political science, he emphasized, smiling. Now how about you? You said you were once thinking of graduate work at Georgetown. That means you want to try for the foreign service?

She nodded in vigorous affirmation. I know it would be exciting and meaningful; besides, there’s all that implied power plus the traveling.

Pointing an accusing finger at her, he asked, "Do I detect, maybe, a little desire on your part to do some governing?"

This time it was she who sat back comfortably, crossing her legs. Yes, but less as a participant, more as an observer.

Well now, he said, we’re running along parallel lines here. I want very much to be a participant, you want to be the spectator—

Observer. I like observer better.

He paused. On second thought, I’m not sure I like that figure of speech, parallel lines. He reached across the table and let his fingers rest on hers. I prefer lines that intersect, don’t you?

She smiled as she withdrew her hand. Perhaps. I don’t know. But I think we’d better get back to my doing the questioning. Example: if it’s a higher office, you might travel farther with a wife. Buchanan was the only one who ever made it to the White House single.

Cleveland. You’re forgetting him.

He was married, she said.

"After he became President," Hawley replied.

"Really? I must have forgotten. You do know your history."

Like I said, I should. I was raised on it, he said, my father teaching, writing. So I’m always reading it.

And I’ve been reading about you, she replied smiling, changing the subject. You and that Felicia Courtney. Anything to that?

Friend, he said with a smile. "And she doesn’t sound like one of yours. Not the way you say that Felicia Courtney."

She’s turned down everything I’ve ever submitted. Close friend? she asked, as she sipped her drink.

I don’t know about that. Not yet I don’t.

Special?

Let’s just leave it ‘friend,’ Hawley said. You were talking about the FCC, remember?

Right. Okay. So let’s start with the FCC. Why do you see yourself there? Can we mention that?

Sure. For one thing, I spent considerable time in the world of television, at Time, Inc. and at Young and Rubicam. And one of my friends—and I say that with some reservation because he makes a point of not having any real friends—was and still is Joe Gratton, the head of Federal Broadcasting. Difficult bastard—he’d be the first to admit it—but probably the best-informed man on the future of communications in the country: broadcasting, the new networks, UHF satellites, direct broadcasting, pay TV, cable, you name it. We used to debate it for hours over our occasional lunches. Gratton knows his stuff, so I made a point of listening and learning. Matter of fact, he’d make one hell of a good chairman himself except that he likes the network money and the perks and the power he has more than he’d like the FCC.

And you?

You may discount this, but if you want to know the truth, I think I’d welcome the opportunity to do what some political appointees sometimes forget—serve the public interest. Maybe I’m a frustrated maverick! he said, suddenly striking the table, eyes flashing. For one thing, Kathy, I don’t happen to consider the invention of television as just another means for advertisers to get their damn irritating repetitive ten-second and fifteen-second commercials into America’s homes! And then, sometimes, I also think of the god-awful comic-book junk that’s stuffed into our kids’ brains night after night, the terrible waste— Abruptly, he leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh. Didn’t mean to sound off like that, but it’s a subject I think about.

Here I was, when I started this interview, thinking you were all ambition, pure and simple. I’m impressed, she said as Hawley rose to greet Edward Jaggers, then chairman of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs, who was beaming down at the two of them over his long, aquiline nose and his bulging waistline. Hawley had begun to introduce her as Jaggers sat down.

Know all about her, Hawley. Smart as a whip. Doesn’t go after us establishment fogies. She’s got a nose—a very pretty one, as you can see—for smelling out the comers. Her blessings can do as much for you as the Speaker’s—well almost. Keep on her good side. And remember, I told you. Then, turning to Hawley’s companion, he said, And you remember this, my dear. This young comer can probably do the same for you. In his two terms in the House he’s authored more legislation than any member in our entire history. Quite a record. Says something. Keep in touch with each other, that’s my advice. Oh, waiter? Scotch and soda—Cutty Sark, if you please. . . .

Now, seated in the vice presidential office, Hawley knew that in her present position Kathy Thompson might be able to furnish a clue as to why the President seemed to be excluding him. The first problem would be one of contact, of reaching her without being too direct; he would have to be patient, and careful.

Or perhaps, he thought, studying the intricate patterns of the elaborate marquetry floor of his EOB office, there might be a more immediate clue later in the evening when he was scheduled to meet the President’s son for a fencing workout in the White House gymnasium. He hoped the President would keep his word to his son and show up to watch the match.

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Sunset. Gloria Whitney, her layered hair complemented with blond highlights and contained by a blue scarf, snuggled close to Harry Thompson, the President’s only child. As they walked slowly along the Tidal Basin at the foot of the Jefferson Memorial, his dark thick hair blew about in the light wind.

I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here, he said, glowering down at her.

Because I love statues. I live with one, remember? She looked up at Harry’s grim face. And that doesn’t mean you have to put on an act with that famous scowl of yours, Harry.

It’s not an act.

It doesn’t scare me, Harry.

This place is for tourists. Look at them, gawking. Jefferson, the Tidal Basin.

Some of those gawkers are your own damned Secret Service guardians, she fretted. Then, in her abrupt way of changing the subject, she whispered, The Tidal Basin is something I’ve always wanted to swim in.

It’s not deep enough, he said.

Maybe not right here, but farther out, in the middle, it’s maybe thirty feet deep. Besides, if one of those paddleboats can float here, then it’s deep enough anywhere. She pushed closer against him. You can hold my hand. No one knows who you are.

Thanks.

Do you think he really had a slave as his mistress?

Jefferson?

Who else? she asked.

Young Thompson glanced back at the towering bronze figure. Probably. They were all available.

Do you think your father ever slept with a black woman?

Harry Thompson pulled away from her with an angry gesture. For Christ’s sake, Gloria, is that all you ever think of?

Oh, still wrapped up in your public halo and your old man’s holiness, are you? Well, take it from me: anyone who’s slept with Kathy Thompson—who always looks like a cake of ice to me—might welcome a warm, thick-lipped, big-breasted black woman who knows all the tricks. That even includes his holiness.

She looked up at him. Admit it Harry. You like Kathy, don’t you—just a little?

Harry Thompson walked along in silence.

You don’t have to answer, Harry, because I’ve seen you staring at her. She shrugged. Maybe you don’t like her. But maybe you dislike her only because you can’t have her. Anyway, she’s too old for you, although I’ll admit she’s got great eyes and not too bad a figure. What she ever saw in his holiness I’ll never know except to go down in history books as a First Lady. Can his holiness really get it up?

Thompson stopped and placed his hands firmly on Gloria’s shoulders as she leaned back against the slender metal railing that circled the Basin. Look, he said, a note of exasperation in his voice, I know you like to say any damn non sequitur that pops into your crazy head. Maybe it’s the pills. And those things you should lay off of. Maybe it’s your way of getting attention. But if we’re going to see each other, one of us is going to have to change. She began to laugh. I’m serious, Gloria. I respect my father. Yours, too.

You mean dear Old Marble Bust? she asked, feigning surprise in her voice.

"Okay. I don’t always agree with his decisions, that’s for sure, or the court’s, but for God’s sake, he is the Chief Justice. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?"

It means he’s a bore. B-o-r-e. Unanimous decision. No dissents.

Very smart. Something you’re full of, smart-ass talk.

"Clifford Hawley thinks I’m smart, no matter what you think." She looked up at Harry archly.

Hawley, he said with a touch of derision.

You’ve never objected when he’s been my escort, she added.

No, he hadn’t objected, and Hawley had been that and nothing more. But some public speculation about the bachelor Vice President and the Chief Justice’s daughter in a gossip column had begun to irritate him.

Hawley, she repeated. Handsome, available, lascivious Mr. Hawley. I like him.

Thompson walked along in silence.

He likes me, she said provocatively.

Sure he does. You like every good-looking thing in pants, and he seems to like anything in skirts, he blurted out. "Truth is you two