“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the hushed voice of the announcer, “even throughout such hearings as these, the government does not overlook basic precautions.… What?… Oh, yes, Congressman Owen Canbrick has completed his statement.”
However, on Tuesday of the fourth week a most abnormal thing happened. It was the morning of that week’s first televised hearing, and interest ran higher than usual because the primary witness was the representative of the Pentagon’s Office of Procurement. The man was a youngish, balding full colonel who had aggressively made a name for himself in logistics, a totally committed soldier of unshakable convictions. He was bright, fast, and blessed with an acerbic wit; he was Arlington’s big gun where the sniveling, penny-pinching civilians were concerned. There were many who could not wait for the clash between Colonel Robert Barrish and the equally bright, equally fast and, certainly, equally acerbic chairman of the Partridge Committee.
What was abnormal that morning, however, was the absence of Congressman Arvin Partridge of Alabama. The chairman did not show up and no amount of phone calls or a platoon of aides rushing all over the capital could unearth him. He had simply disappeared.
But congressional committees do not revolve solely around chairmen, especially not where television is concerned, so the proceedings went forward under the lack of leadership provided by a congressman from North Dakota who was nursing the worst hangover of his life, a most unusual malady, as the man was not known to drink. He was considered a mild, abstemious minister of the Gospel who took to heart the biblical admonition of turning swords into plowshares. He was also raw meat for the lion that was Colonel Robert Barrish.
“… and to finish my statement before this civilian inquisition, I state categorically that I speak for a strong, free society in lethal combat with the forces of evil that would rip us to shreds at the first sign of weakness on our part. Are our hands to be shackled over minor academic fiduciary procedures that have only the barest relationship to the status quo ante of our enemies?”
“If I understand you,” said the bleary-eyed temporary chairman, “let me assure you that no one here is questioning your commitment to our nation’s defense.”
“I would hope not, sir.”
“I don’t think—”
“Hold it, soldier,” said Evan Kendrick, at the far end of the panel.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said wait a minute, will you please?”
“My rank is colonel in the United States Army, and I expect to be addressed as such,” said the officer testily.
Evan looked hard at the witness, momentarily forgetting the microphone. “I’ll address you any way I like, you arrogant bastard.” Cameras jolted, bleeps filled audios everywhere, but too late for the exclusion. “… unless you’ve personally amended the Constitution, which I doubt you’ve ever read,” continued Kendrick, studying the papers in front of him, chuckling quietly. “Inquisition, my ass.”
“I resent your attitude—”
“A lot of taxpayers resent yours, too,” interrupted Evan, looking at Barrish’s service record and remembering Frank Swann’s precise words over a year ago. “Let me ask you, Colonel, have you ever fired a gun?”
“I’m a soldier!”
“We’ve both established that, haven’t we? I know you’re a soldier; we inquisitorial civilians are paying your salary—unless you rented the uniform.” The congressional chamber rippled with quiet laughter. “What I asked you was whether you had ever fired a gun.”
“Countless times. Have you?”
“Several, not countless, and never in uniform.”
“Then I think the question is closed.”
“Not entirely. Did you ever use a weapon for the purpose of killing another human being whose intention was to kill you?”
The subsequent silence was lost on no one. The soft reply was registered on all. “I was never in combat, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you just said you were in lethal combat, et cetera, et cetera, which conveys to everyone in here and the audience out there that you’re some kind of modern-day Davy Crockett holding the fort at the Alamo, or a Sergeant York, or maybe an Indiana Jones blasting away at the bad guys. But that’s all wrong, isn’t it, Colonel? You’re an accountant who’s trying to justify the theft of millions—maybe billions—of the taxpayers’ money under the red, white and blue flag of superpatriotism.”
“You son of a …! How dare you—” The jolting cameras and the bleeps again came too late as Colonel Barrish rose from his chair and pounded the table.
“The committee is adjourned!” yelled the exhausted chairman. “Adjourned, goddamnit!”
In the darkened control room of one of Washington’s network stations, a gray-haired newscaster stood in a corner studying the congressional monitor. As most of America had seen him do countless times, he pursed his lips in thought, then turned to the assistant beside him.
“I want that congressman—whoever the hell he is—on my show next Sunday.”
The upset woman in Chevy Chase cried into the phone, “I tell you, Mother, I never saw him like that before in my life! I mean it, he was positively drunk. Thank God for that nice foreigner who brought him home! He said he found him outside a restaurant in Washington barely able to walk—can you imagine? Barely able to walk! He recognized him, and, being a good Christian, thought he’d better get him off the streets. What’s so insane, Mother, is that I didn’t think he ever touched a drop of alcohol. Well, obviously I was wrong. I wonder how many other secrets my devoted minister has! This morning he claimed he couldn’t remember anything—not a thing, he said.… Oh, my sweet Jesus! Mother, he just walked in the front door—Momma, he’s throwing up all over the rug!”
“Where the hell am I?” whispered Arvin Partridge, Sr., shaking his head and trying to focus his eyes on the shabby curtained windows of the motel room. “In some rat’s nest?”
“That’s not far off the mark,” said the blond man, approaching the bed. “Except that the rodents who frequent this place usually do so for only an hour or two.”
“You!” screamed the representative from Alabama, staring at the Czech. “What have you done to me?”
“Not to you, sir, but for you,” answered Varak. “Fortunately, I was able to extricate you from a potentially embarrassing situation.”
“What?” Partridge sat up and swung his legs over the bed; although not yet oriented, he realized he was fully clothed. “Where? How?”
“One of my clients was dining at the Carriage House in Georgetown where you met the congressman from North Dakota. When the unpleasantness started, he called me. Again, fortunately, I live in the area and was able to get there in time. Incidentally, you’re obviously not registered here.”
“Wait a minute!” yelled Partridge. “Muleshit! That meeting between the holy roller and me was a setup! His office gets a call that I want to meet him on urgent committee business and my office gets the same. We got that Pentagon prick, Barrish, coming in the morning, so we both figure we’d better see each other. I ask him what’s going on and he asks me the same!”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Hogshit!… What unpleasantness?”
“You overindulged.”
“Rabbitshit! I had one fuckin’ martini and the sky padre had lemonade!”
“If that’s the truth, you both have odd tolerances. You fell over the table and the minister tried to drink the salt.”
The chairman of the Partridge Committee glared at the Czech. “Finns,” he said quietly. “You dosed us both with Mickey Finns!”
“Before last night I never set foot inside that restaurant.”
“You’re also a liar, a hell of an experienced one.… Good Christ, what time is it?” Partridge whipped his wrist up to look at his watch; Varak interrupted.
“The hearing is over.”
“Shit!”
“The minister was not terribly effective, but your new appointee made a
n indelible impression, sir. I’m sure you’ll see portions of his performance on the evening news, certain words deleted, of course.”
“Oh, my God,” whispered the congressman to himself. He looked up at the Czech from Inver Brass. “What did they say about me? About why I wasn’t there.”
“Your office issued a statement that was perfectly acceptable. You were on a fishing boat in Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The engine failed and you had to drop anchor a mile away from the marina. It’s been substantiated; there are no problems.”
“My office issued a statement like that? On whose authorization?”
“Your son’s. He’s a remarkably forgiving young man. He’s waiting outside in your car.”
The red-haired salesman in the Saab showroom fairly glowed in astonishment as he signed the papers and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. “We’ll have the car prepped and ready for you by three o’clock this afternoon.”
“That’s nice,” said the buyer, who had listed his profession on the finance-loan agreement as a bartender, currently employed at the Carriage House in Georgetown.
18
“Zero hour, Mr. Kendrick,” said Colonel Robert Barrish, smiling pleasantly into the camera, his voice the soul of reason. “We must be prepared for it, and with preemptive escalation we push it further and further away.”
“Or, conversely, overstock the arsenals to the point where one miscalculation blows up the planet.”
“Oh, please,” admonished the army officer condescendingly. “That line of rationalization has long since been rendered modus non operandi. We’re the professionals.”
“You mean our side?”
“Of course I mean our side.”
“What about the enemy? Aren’t they professionals, too?”
“If you’re attempting to lateralize our enemies’ technological commitments with ours, I think you’ll find you’re as misinformed about that as you are about the cost-control effectiveness of our system.”
“I take that to mean they’re not as good as we are.”
“A sagacious assessment, Congressman. Beyond the superiority of our moral commitment—a commitment to God—the high-tech training of our armed forces is the finest on earth. If you’ll forgive me here, I must say as part of a great team that I’m immensely proud of our splendid fellows and girls.”
“Golly gee, so am I,” said Evan, a minor smile on his lips. “But then I must say here, Colonel, that I’ve lost your line of reasoning, or was it preemptive escalation? I thought your comment about professionalism was in response to my remark about the possibility of miscalculation with all those arsenals so full.”
“It was. You see, Mr. Kendrick, what I’m patiently trying to explain to you is that our weapons personnel are locked into manuals of procedures that eliminate miscalculation. We are virtually fail-safe.”
“We may be,” agreed Evan. “But what about the other guy? You said—I think you said—that he wasn’t so smart, that there was no lateralization, whatever that means. Suppose he miscalculates? Then, what?”
“He would never have the opportunity to miscalculate again. With minimum loss to ourselves, we would take out—”
“Hold it, soldier!” interrupted Kendrick, his tone suddenly harsh, issuing no less than an order. “Back up. ‘With minimum loss to ourselves …’ What does that mean?”
“I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters.”
“I think you damn well better. Does ‘minimum loss’ mean just Los Angeles, or New York, or maybe Albuquerque or St. Louis? Since we’re all paying for this minimum-loss umbrella, why not tell us what the weather’s going to be like?”
“If you think I’m going to endanger national security on network television … well, Congressman, I’m genuinely sorry to say it, but I don’t think you have any right representing the American people.”
“The whole bunch of them? Never thought I did. I was told this program was between you and me—that I insulted you on television and that you had the right to reply in the same arena. It’s why I’m here. So reply, Colonel. Don’t keep throwing Pentagonese slogans at me; I have too much respect for our armed services to allow you to get away with that.”
“If by ‘slogans’ you’re criticizing the selfless leaders of our defense establishment—men of loyalty and honor who, above all, want to keep our nation strong—then I pity you.”
“Oh, come off it. I haven’t been here that long, but among the few friends I’ve made are some brass over in Arlington who probably wince when you drag out your modus non operandis. What I’m patiently trying to explain to you, Colonel, is that you don’t have a blank check any more than I do or my neighbor down the street does. We live with realities—”
“Then let me explain the realities!” broke in Barrish.
“Let me finish,” said Evan, now smiling.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the familiar newscaster.
“I’m not casting any doubts on your commitments, Colonel,” Kendrick interrupted. “You’re doing your job and protecting your turf, I understand that.” Evan picked up a piece of paper. “But when you said in the hearing—I wrote this down—‘minor academic fiduciary procedures,’ I wondered what you meant. Are you really above accountability? If you believe that, tell it to Joe Smith down the street who’s trying to balance the family checkbook.”
“That same Joe Smith will get on his knees to us when it dawns on him that we’re ensuring his survival!”
“I think I just heard a lot of groans over in Arlington, Colonel. Joe Smith doesn’t have to get on his knees to anyone. Not here.”
“You’re taking my remarks out of context! You know perfectly well what I meant, Congressman Partridge!”
“No, Colonel, he’s the other guy. I’m the sub who was sent in at left guard.”
“Left is certainly right!”
“That’s an interesting statement. May I quote you?”
“I know about you,” said Barrish ominously, threateningly. “Don’t talk to me about the guy down the street, pretending you’re like everyone else.” Barrish paused, then as if he could no longer control himself, shouted, “You’re not even married!”
“That’s the most accurate statement you’ve made here. No, I’m not, but if you’re asking me for a date, I’d better check with my girl.”
No contest. The Pentagon’s big gun backfired, the powder burns all over his face on national television.
“Who the hell is he?” asked Mr. Joseph Smith of 70 Cedar Street in Clinton, New Jersey.
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Smith, in front of the television next to her husband. “He’s kind of cute, though, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know about cute, but he just told off one of those snotty officer types who used to give me a lot of shit in ’Nam. He’s my buddy.”
“He’s good,” said Inver Brass’s Eric Sundstrom, rising and turning off the set in his flat overlooking New York’s Gramercy Park. He drained his glass of Montrachet and looked over at Margaret Lowell and Gideon Logan, both sitting in chairs across the room. “He has a quick mind and stays ice-cold. I know that cobra Barrish; he likes nothing better than drawing blood in the spotlight. Kendrick buried him with his own bullshit.”
“Our man’s kind of cute, too,” added Mrs. Lowell.
“What?”
“Well, he’s attractive, Eric. That’s hardly a liability.”
“He’s funny,” said Logan. “And that’s a decided asset. He has the ability and the presence to shift rapidly from the serious to the amusing and that’s no small talent. He did the same thing during the hearing; it’s not accidental. Kennedy had the same gift; he saw humorous ironies everywhere. The people like that.… Still, I think I see a gray cloud in the distance.”
“What’s that?” asked Sundstrom.
“A man with such quick perceptions will not be easy to control.”
“If he’s the right man,” said Margaret Lowell, “and we
have every reason to believe he is, that won’t matter, Gideon.”
“Suppose he’s not? Suppose there’s something we don’t know? We will have launched him, not the political process.”
Far uptown in Manhattan, between Fifth and Madison avenues, in a brownstone town house that rose six stories high, the white-haired Samuel Winters sat across from his friend Jacob Mandel. They were in Winters’s large top-floor study. Several exquisite Gobelin tapestries were hung on various wall spaces between the bookshelves, and the furniture was equally breathtaking. Yet the room was comfortable. It was used; it was warm; the masterpieces of the past were there to serve, not merely to be observed. Using the remote control, the aristocratic historian snapped off the television set.
“Well?” asked Winters.
“I want to think for a moment, Samuel.” Mandel’s eyes strayed around the study. “You’ve had all this since you were born,” said the stockbroker, making a statement. “Yet you’ve always worked so hard.”