The following morning, the phone rang in Keith's room, and he answered it.
Charlie Adair said, "I'm downstairs. Whenever you're ready."
Keith resisted several sarcastic replies. At some point in the middle of the night, he'd come to agree that none of this was Charlie's fault. He said, "Five minutes."
Keith straightened his tie in the mirror and brushed the jacket of his dark blue Italian silk suit. If he didn't count putting on a sport jacket and tie for Sunday service at St. James, this was the first suit he'd had on since his retirement party almost two months before, and he didn't like the way he looked in it. "You look like a city slicker, Landry." He left the room and took the elevator down.
Charlie greeted him with some wariness, trying to judge his mood, but Keith said to him, "You're right, it's not your fault."
"Good insight. Let's go."
"The ticket."
"Oh, right..." Charlie found the airline ticket in his jacket and gave it to Keith. "I booked you to Columbus on USAir, nonstop. There's a rental car reservation slip, too."
Keith examined the ticket and saw he was leaving National Airport at 7:35 and arriving at 9:05. He asked, "Couldn't you get something earlier?"
"That was the next available nonstop in first class."
"I don't care about nonstop or first class. Anything earlier to Toledo or Dayton?"
"Dayton? Where's that? Look, the White House travel office booked it. I don't think there are a lot of flights going out there, buddy. Just be happy it's Columbus, Ohio, and not Columbus, Georgia. See the travel office later if you want."
"This is okay. Let's roll."
They walked out the front door to where a Lincoln sat waiting. It was raining, and the driver walked them to the car, holding an umbrella over their heads.
In the backseat, Charlie said, "I spoke to the secretary's aide, Ted Stansfield, last night, and he was delighted you could come."
"What were my choices?"
"That's the way they talk. Mock humbleness. The secretary of defense will say to you, 'Keith, I'm delighted you could come. I hope we haven't inconvenienced you."
"Is that when I tell him to fuck off?"
"I don't think so. He's prepared to welcome you back on the team, so if he says, 'Good to have you back,' you say, 'Good to be back in Washington,' like you didn't quite catch his meaning. Then you go shake hands with the president. If they've briefed him that you're wavering, he'll say, 'Colonel, I hope you give this offer your full consideration and that you'll accept it.' Then you say, 'I will, sir,' meaning you'll give it your full consideration and not meaning you'll accept it. Get it?"
"Charlie, I was a master of the equivocal phrase, an expert at the meaningless sentence, a scholar of the ambiguous word. That's why I don't want to come back. I'm relearning plain English."
"That's very disturbing."
Keith added, "I assume you didn't tell Ted Stansfield that I didn't want the job."
"I didn't, because I wanted you to have some time to think about it. Have you thought about it?"
"I have."
"And?"
"Well, I took a taxi around town last night and did some deep thinking. I went to the Lincoln Memorial and stood in front of the statue of the great man, and I asked him, 'Abe, what should I do?' And Mr. Lincoln spoke to me, Charlie. He said, 'Keith, Washington sucks.' "
"What did you expect him to say? He got shot here. You should have asked someone else."
"Like who? The fifty thousand guys whose names are on the black wall? You don't want to hear what they have to say about Washington."
"No, I don't."
The government car went around Lafayette Square and approached the West Wing entrance from Seventeenth Street.
Charlie said, "Look, Keith, it's your decision. I did what I was asked to do. I got you here."
"They never asked you to sell the job to me?"
"No, they didn't. They thought you'd jump at it. But I knew differently."
"You were right."
"That's why this meeting could be a little awkward for me."
"I'll cover your ass."
"Thanks."
Keith glanced out the window. Directly across from the West Wing on Seventeenth Street was his former workplace, the Old Executive Office Building, a hundred-year-old pile of granite and cast iron, built in a style called French Second Empire. People either loved it or hated it. Keith was ambivalent. The recently restored interior was palatial enough to be embarrassing, especially if you had an upper-floor window that looked south toward the black ghettos.
The building was about four times the size of the White House itself and once housed the War Department, the State Department, and the Department of the Navy with room to spare. Now it couldn't even hold all the people who made up the White House staff and was limited to senior-level White House offices such as the National Security Council. The NSC was more or less an advisory group to the president, a clearinghouse for intelligence product that was produced by the CIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, for whom Keith once worked, the National Security Agency, which dealt mostly with cryptography, State Department Intelligence, and the other spook outfits that abounded in and around the District of Columbia.
People who served on the actual Council included the director of the CIA, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and such other highly placed people as the president might appoint. It was indeed an elite group, and in the days of the Cold War, the NSC was far more important than the Cabinet, though no one was supposed to know that.
Some years ago, Keith had been invited to leave his job with the Defense Intelligence Agency in the Pentagon and accept a staff position with the NSC, located in the Old Executive Office Building. There was less physical danger associated with the job compared to what he'd been doing around the world for the DIA, and the NSC office was closer to his Georgetown apartment, and he'd thought he might enjoy working with civilians. As it turned out, he missed the danger, and though it was a good career move to be working so close to the White House, it turned out to be not such a good move in other ways.
Among the people he'd met at the NSC was a Colonel Oliver North. Keith hadn't known the man well, but after Colonel North became famous, Colonel Landry became troubled. North, by all accounts, had been a good soldier, but working for the civilians had apparently been like working in a contagion ward for the young colonel, and he'd caught something bad. Keith could see that happening to himself, so he always wore a mask and washed his hands on the job.
And now they wanted him back, not in the old building, but apparently in the White House itself.
They drove up to the guard post on Seventeenth Street, and after a security check, they were waved through. The driver pulled up to the entrance, and they got out.
There were more security men at the entrance, but no check, just someone who opened the door for them. Inside the small lobby, there was a man at a sign-in desk who verified their names against an appointment list. Keith signed in, and under the heading "Organization and Title," he wrote, "Civilian, retired." The time was 11:05.
Keith had been in the West Wing of the White House a number or times, usually arriving via the little-known underground passage that ran beneath Seventeenth Street into the White House basement where the Situation Room was located, along with a few offices of the National Security Council. He'd been on the ground floor a few times whenever he'd had occasion to see the national security advisor in a previous administration.
After Charlie signed in, the appointments man at the desk said to them, "Gentlemen, if you'll take the elevator down, you can wait in the lounge. Someone will call you."
They took the small elevator to the basement, and another man met them and walked them to the lounge.
The lounge, a euphemism for the basement waiting room, was newly appointed with clubby-type furnishings and was pleasant enough. There was a television tuned to CNN, and a long buffet table against the wall where you could help yourself to anything from coffee to donuts, or fruit and yogurt for the health-conscious, or most any snack you wished, except alcohol and cyanide.
There were a dozen or so other people in the room, men and women, none of whom Keith recognized, but all of them throwing furtive glances toward the newcomers, trying to place their faces in the pantheon of Washington's gods and goddesses of the moment.
Charlie and Keith found two chairs at a coffee table and sat. Charlie asked, "You want coffee or anything?"
"No, thanks, boss."
Charlie smiled in acknowledgment of the changed situation. He said, "Hey, if you take this job, your immediate superior will be the president's national security advisor, not me."
"I thought I was going to be the national security advisor."
"No, you'll work directly for him."
"When can I be president?"
"Keith, I'm a little anxious about this meeting. Can you cut the shit?"
"Sure. Do some push-ups. Works for me."
"I'd like a cigarette, but I can't smoke here. What's this place coming to?"
Keith glanced around the room. Despite its nice decor, it was still a windowless basement room, and the atmosphere was the atmosphere of waiting rooms all over the world. There was that electric hum originating somewhere in the bowels of this building that forced in cool air or hot air, depending on the season, and after being away from that big-city, big-building hum for two months, he noticed it and didn't like it.
More to the point, there was a heightened sense of the surreal in this room, a feeling of almost impending doom, as if each man and woman in the place were awaiting his or her fate in one of those less pleasant subterranean rooms in countries where they shot you if your name was on that day's list.
Keith had had the opportunity to visit the prison basement of the Lubyanka, the former KGB headquarters in Moscow, which had become sort of a tourist attraction for selected former enemies of the defunct Soviet state, such as himself. The cells were gone, replaced by clerical space, but Keith had imagined being in the old cells, hearing the screams of tortured men and women, the names being called out, the echoing gunshot at the end of the corridor, where his guide explained how prisoners were shot in the back of the head as they walked.
The waiting room of the West Wing of the White House was quite different, of course — yogurt and world news on TV — but the sense of waiting for the government to call your name was the same. It didn't matter what they were calling your name for, it only mattered that you had to wait for it to be called.
Keith decided then and there that he didn't ever again want to wait for the government to call his name. They'd called his name twenty-five years before, and he'd answered the call. They called his name yesterday, and he answered the call. They'd call his name today, but today was different: Today was the last time he'd answer.
The door opened, and an appointments man said, "Colonel Landry, Mr. Adair, will you come with me, please?"
They stood and followed the young man to the elevator. They rode up to the lobby and followed the man to the Cabinet Room at the east end of the wing. The man knocked on the door, then opened it, and they were shown in by the appointments man. Inside, another man, whom Keith recognized as Ted Stansfield, came forward to greet them. Charlie said, "Ted, you remember Keith."
"Indeed I do." They shook hands, and Stansfield said, "Delighted you could come."
"Delighted to be invited."
"Come, have a seat." He indicated two chairs at the long dark wooden table where the Cabinet met.
The Cabinet Room, Keith knew, was used for all types of meetings, large or small, when the Cabinet was not meeting. In fact, it was a tightly scheduled conference room, used by various people to impress and/or to intimidate. Colonel Keith Landry might have once been impressed, but never intimidated. Now he was slightly bored and restless.
He looked at Stansfield, a man of about forty, polished and smooth, a man who was truly delighted, mostly with himself.
Stansfield informed them, "The secretary is running a bit late." He said to Keith, "Your old boss, General Watkins, will also join us, as will Colonel Chandler, who is the current aide to the national security advisor."
"And will Mr. Yadzinski also join us?" Keith inquired, using the name of the national security advisor, though in official Washington, the very highest people were referred to by their title, such as "the president," "the secretary of defense," and so forth, as if these people had been transformed from mortals into deities, as in, "The God of War will join us shortly." Then again, the very lowest-ranking people were also referred to by their title, such as "the janitor."
Ted Stansfield replied, "The security advisor will try to join us if he can."
"They're all running a bit late?"
"Well, yes, I suppose they are. Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you."
The three men waited, making small talk as was customary so as not to touch upon anything that would require someone saying something like, "Before you arrived, sir, Mr. Landry and I discussed that, and he informed me," and so forth.
Stansfield inquired, "So, did you enjoy your brief retirement?" Rather than correct the man's use of the past tense and queer the whole charade for Charlie, Keith replied, "I did."
"How were you spending your time?"
"I went back to my hometown and looked up my old girlfriend."
Stansfield smiled. "Did you? And did you rekindle the old flame?"
"Yes, we did."
"Well, that's very interesting, Keith. Do you have any plans?"
"We do. In fact, I'm bringing her to Washington tomorrow."
"How delightful. Why didn't you bring her with you today?"
"Her husband won't be out of town until tomorrow."
Keith felt Charlie kick his foot at the same time Stansfield's idiotic smile dropped. Keith informed Ted Stansfield, "Charlie said it wouldn't be a problem."
"Well... I suppose it..."
Charlie interjected, "The lady in question is in the process of a divorce."
"Ah."
Keith let it go.
The door opened, and in walked General Watkins in mufti, and another man in mufti whom Keith recognized as Colonel Chandler, though they'd rarely had occasion to speak.
Charlie stood, as did Ted Stansfield, though as civilians, they didn't have to. Keith wasn't certain he had to either, but he did, and they shook hands. General Watkins said, "You look good, Keith. The rest did you good. Ready to get back in the saddle?"
"It was a nasty fall, General."
"All the more reason to climb on that horse again."
Keith knew that Watkins was going to say that, but it was his own fault for giving Watkins the opening for his inane reply. Keith didn't know how many more evasive and inane replies he could come up with before they got it.
Ted Stansfield said to Keith, "You probably remember Dick Chandler, whose job you're going to fill. Colonel Chandler is going on to bigger and better things at the Pentagon."
Colonels Landry and Chandler shook hands. The man looked relieved to see his replacement, Keith thought, or perhaps Keith was just imagining it.
Most soldiers didn't like a White House assignment, Keith knew, but it was difficult in peacetime to get yourself out of this place without causing career problems. In wartime, it was somewhat easier: you volunteered to go to the front and get shot at.
General Watkins, Colonel Chandler, Colonel Landry, Mr. Adair, and Mr. Stansfield remained standing, awaiting the imminent arrival of the secretary of defense. Conversation was difficult, Keith noticed, talk in the West Wing was inappropriate if it went on too long, and big talk such as the deteriorating situation in the former Soviet Union was fraught with pitfalls, since anything you said could be construed as official and held against you later. Ted Stansfield saved the day by talking about a new executive directive he'd just read which clarified an earlier directive and had something to do with the worrisome problem of who reports to whom.
Keith switched channels, but the background static brought to mind the organizational chart of the intelligence community. The National Security Council, on which he had served, was headed by the president's assistant for National Security Affairs, known as the national security advisor, whose birth name was Edward Yadzinski. The job they were offering Colonel Landry was that of Mr. Yadzinski's assistant, or perhaps military aide or liaison, with some connection to the secretary of defense, upon whom they all now waited.
This organizational chart, Keith recalled, had these neat labeled boxes and rectangles, all somehow connected by tortuous lines that never crossed and resembled an electronic schematic for a nuclear submarine. Unlike an electronic schematic, however, which had to obey the laws of science to work, the intelligence community chart obeyed no known laws of science, God, or nature, only the laws of man, which were subject to executive whimsy and congressional debate.
That aside, Keith saw no real reason for his old boss, General Watkins, to be present, since Watkins was on the far right side of the chart, over on Seventeenth Street, while Keith was now in the center, a few guys away from the top dog himself. Keith suspected, though, that General Watkins was there to serve a sort of penance for letting Colonel Landry go, which of course was what he'd been ordered to do, but Watkins should have anticipated that, two months later, the president would ask for Colonel Landry by name. Poor General Watkins.
Watkins, of course, did not have to apologize for giving Colonel Landry the heave-ho, but he had to be present at Colonel Landry's rehiring, and he had to smile, or make what passed for a smile. Watkins was thoroughly pissed off, of course, as he had every right to be, but Watkins wouldn't utter a peep.
The center of power, Keith reflected, in any time or place, was by definition a haven for lunatics and lunatic behavior — the Kremlin, Byzantine palace, the Forbidden City, a Roman emperor's villa, the Fuhrerbunker — it didn't matter what it was called and what it looked like from the outside; inside was airless and dark, a breeding ground for progressive madness and increasingly dangerous flights from reality. Keith had a sudden impulse to charge for the door, shouting something about the inmates running the asylum.
General Watkins said, "Keith, you have that smile on your face that used to annoy me."
"I didn't know I was smiling, sir, and never knew it annoyed you."
"That smile was always a prelude to some smart remark. Can we expect one now?"
"General, I'd like to take this opportunity to..."
Charlie Adair interrupted. "Keith, perhaps you'd like to hold that thought for another time."
Keith thought the time was perfect to tell Watkins what he thought of him, but at that moment the door opened, and the secretary of defense ambled in. He was a slight, balding man with spectacles, not the type you'd guess would be head of the most powerful military machine on the face of the earth. And his meek appearance didn't mask a strong personality — there was no Mars, God of War, lurking in that frail body. He looked like a milksop, and he was a milksop.
Ted Stansfield presented the secretary of defense, who smiled, shook hands all around, and said to Keith, "Delighted you could come."
"Delighted to be here."
Stansfield pulled out a chair at the end of the long table, and the secretary sat. General Watkins and Colonel Chandler were directed by Stansfield to the secretary's right, and Keith and Charlie were directed across from them. Ted Stansfield, still standing, said, "Mr. Secretary, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment." He left.
The secretary looked at Keith and said, "Well, Colonel Landry, you're probably wondering why you've been asked to come out of retirement, so I'll tell you. You made a favorable and lasting impression on the president during some of the intelligence briefing sessions, and a few days ago, he asked for you by name." The secretary chuckled and added, "When someone told him you'd retired, he said you looked too young to retire. So here you are." He smiled at Keith.
Keith considered several replies, including a recitation of Charlie's Scottish ballad. Instead, he took the occasion to set the record straight and said, "I was asked to retire, sir. It wasn't my idea." He didn't glance at General Watkins, because that would have been petty. Keith added, "But I've got twenty-five years of service, and I'm quite comfortable with my present situation."
The secretary didn't seem to follow all of that and replied, "Well, your name has been placed on the list for promotion to general officer. The president will review that list shortly."
Keith, still trying to get something on record, said, "I'm no longer on active duty, sir, having retired from the Army at the same time I retired from government service. So I assume this promotion will be as a reserve officer on the inactive rolls."
The secretary had his own agenda and continued, "The position you are to fill is that of military aide and advisor to the president's national security advisor. Colonel Chandler will brief you on your duties later." The secretary added, "Your office will be here in the West Wing."
He said "West Wing," Keith thought, as if he were saying "at the right hand of God." And here they were, in the seat of power, where proximity to power was itself power, a short walk to the Oval Office — where you could literally bump into the president in the corridor — the very epicenter of national and international moving and shaking. It was not the sort of workplace, Keith thought, where your friends or family could drop in and have a cup of coffee or ask you to lunch. Keith asked, "Would my office be on the second floor or in the basement?"
Colonel Chandler answered, "In the basement."
"Can you see the sky? I mean, is there a little window?"
Chandler seemed a bit bemused. He replied, "It's interior. You get a secretary."
"Do you have plants?"
Charlie Adair forced a smile and explained to everyone, "Colonel Landry has spent the last two months on his family's farm and has become nature-sensitive."
"How delightful," said the secretary of defense. He asked Keith, "Do you have any questions for me, Colonel?"
The man was half out of his chair and staring at his wristwatch, so Keith replied, "No, sir."
The secretary stood, and so did everyone else. "Good. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have another appointment." He looked at Keith and said, "General Watkins's loss is the White House's gain. Good luck." He left.
General Watkins seized on the defense secretary's departure as his opportunity to say to Keith, "I'm surprised you decided to return to Washington. I had the feeling you'd had enough."
"I had."
The general looked at him quizzically and added, "Maybe a new job will invigorate you."
Keith replied, "Perhaps when I'm wearing the same star that you have, sir, we can engage in some sort of athletic contest to see who has the most vigor."
General Watkins did not seem happy with that remark, but sensing a subtle shift in the power structure, he let it pass. He said, "Well, gentlemen, you don't need me any longer, and I, too, have an appointment. Good day." He looked at Keith and said, "Politics is not your strong suit, Colonel."
"Thank you."
Watkins departed, leaving Keith, Charlie Adair, and Colonel Chandler standing in the Cabinet Room. Since they were all peers, more or less, they sat without anyone inviting them to, and Keith took a seat several places away.
Chandler was speaking about the job, and Keith tuned out again. This entire so-called meeting was a staged performance, with a cameo appearance by the secretary of defense. It was also part protocol — the secretary was Colonel Landry's big boss, if Keith still considered himself a soldier — and the other players had their bit parts as well. Charlie Adair was Judas, General Watkins was the scapegoat, Colonel Chandler was Pilate washing his hands of the whole mess, and Ted Stansfield was the emcee. Keith knew his part but was not delivering his lines very well.
Keith's thoughts turned again to Annie, and he wondered what she'd make of all this if she were here. As he'd said to Charlie, she was a simple country girl, but she wasn't stupid, and in fact she'd done far better academically in high school and college than he had. She had also come from the same midwestern populist tradition that he had, and if she were here in this room, he had little doubt that she'd find all of this pomp, protocol, and pecking order slightly distasteful, and undoubtedly she'd see through this nonsense in a lot less time than it had taken him.
In the early days of his service, the world was more dangerous, but the government seemed to him a lot simpler and more benign. There had been men around in those days who'd helped defeat the Axis powers, men who were dedicated public servants and not pigs at the government trough, men with a sense of purpose and mission. Now even the Vietnam generation of men, such as himself, were retiring or were being asked to leave, and he didn't particularly care for the new crop.
During the next five minutes, Colonel Chandler described the duties and responsibilities of the job, putting it in the most favorable light, forgetting to mention twelve-hour days, homework, or crises in countries whose time zones, holidays, and Sabbaths didn't mesh well with those of Washington, D.C.
Keith interrupted Chandler and asked, "Did you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy?" He thought a moment, then said, "It's very stressful here in the White House, but very rewarding."
"How can anything stressful be rewarding?"
"Well... it can be. Maybe I should say I felt I was doing something for my country, not for myself."
"But were you doing the right thing for your country?"
"I thought I was. I was. It's not over, you know. There are still a lot of bad guys out there."
"Right. Maybe the new good guys can handle the new bad guys."
"We have the experience."
"We're experienced with the old bad guys. We may possibly understand the new realities, but we think in the old way." He looked at Colonel Chandler and asked him, "Do you suggest I take this job?"
Chandler cleared his throat and glanced at Adair, who made a motion with his hand as if to say, "Answer the man."
Colonel Chandler thought a moment, then replied, "I'm glad I have it in my resume, but I wouldn't wish these last two years on my worst enemy."
"Thank you."
The door opened, and in strode Edward Yadzinski, the president's national security advisor. Everyone stood, and Yadzinski shook hands all around. He said to Keith, "I'm delighted you could come on such short notice."
"Thank you, sir. So am I."
"I have another appointment, but I wanted to chat a moment. I've read your file, and I'm quite impressed with the range of your experiences from rifle platoon leader to your last assignment. I'm looking for someone like you who will be forthright and honest with me. Colonel Chandler will vouch for that. I like military men because they have the attributes I want."
"Yes, sir." And Keith thought, because they usually had no political ambitions, they followed orders, and they could be transferred easily instead of having to be fired. Like priests or ministers, military officers had a calling that theoretically transcended their careers or personal lives. People in the executive branch found it useful to have a certain number of military people on staff: indentured servants in mufti.
Yadzinski continued, "Your former colleagues speak well of you, Colonel. Right, Charlie?"
Charlie Adair agreed. "Colonel Landry was an asset to my department and respected throughout the intelligence community."
Keith said to his potential boss, "I never got along with General Watkins, and I caused Mr. Adair a lot of anxiety."
Charlie winced, but Yadzinski smiled. "You're not much of a diplomat, are you? In fact, I was present that time in the Situation Room when you asked the secretary of state if we had a foreign policy." He chuckled. "I like that. And I'll back you up, Colonel. I work directly for the president, and you work directly for me."
Keith thought he might actually like Yadzinski and would have liked working for him five or six years ago. But it was too late. Keith said, "Despite my differences with Mr. Adair, I found him to be extremely knowledgeable, competent, and dedicated." Keith was glad he'd gotten that in, but clearly Yadzinski wasn't paying attention.
Yadzinski said, "Colonel Chandler can answer any of your questions better than I can." He put out his hand, and Keith took it. Yadzinski said, "Welcome aboard, Colonel." As he shook hands with Keith, he looked at his watch. "I have another appointment." Still clasping Keith's hand, he asked, "When can you start?"
"Well, I'd like to take the weekend to consider..."
"Of course. Monday would be fine. Colonel Chandler will show you your office."
Charlie said, "Colonel Landry lives in Ohio, sir."
"Great state. Good day, gentlemen." He turned and left.
Keith looked at his watch and said, "I have another appointment. Good day, gentlemen."
Charlie forced a smile and said, "You have an appointment with the president."
Colonel Chandler added, "You're to wait in the waiting room until you're called." He grinned and said to Keith, "I don't have another appointment. I'm out of here." He went to the door, then turned and said, "If you wander around downstairs, you'll find my office. I've left my number if you have any questions. It's all yours." He left, and though Keith did not hear the word "sucker," it hung in the air.
Keith said to Charlie, "Charlie, I don't think we're in Spencerville anymore."
"What gave you that impression?"
As they walked to the door, Keith said, "They may be surprised to discover that Colonel Chandler's office is empty on Monday."
"Take the weekend to think about it. Yadzinski's one of the good guys in this administration. Give it a try. What do you have to lose?"
"My soul."
They went out into the hallway and took the small elevator down to the basement again. Charlie asked, "Do you want to find your office?"
"No."
They went to the waiting room and waited. Charlie said, as if to himself, "I think I'm off the hook. Thanks for the plug."
Keith didn't reply. He read a newspaper.
Charlie suddenly laughed and said, "So, can you get back to Ohio, pack everything, return to Washington, find an apartment, furnish it, and be at work Monday morning?"
Keith looked over the top of his newspaper but said nothing.
Charlie said, "I guess he didn't know you'd left D.C. Well, but I did tell him... maybe he wasn't listening."
Keith turned the page of the newspaper.
"I could clear that up. You can take a few weeks."
Keith glanced at his watch.
Charlie continued, "But I see your point. This place is a pressure cooker."
Keith refolded the newspaper and read a story in the metro section about rush hour traffic jams. The minutes ticked by.
Charlie said, "But to say you work in the White House... wouldn't your lady friend be proud and impressed?"
Without looking over his paper, Keith replied, "No."
"Don't tell me it's not tempting."
Keith put the paper down. "Charlie, administrations come and go, White House jobs are about as secure and long-lasting as a bronco ride. Look, I don't want to be critical or judgmental, but I'm being put in that position, and I don't like it. It should be enough for me to say that I decline the offer for personal reasons. Okay?"
"Okay."
An appointments secretary came in and said, "Colonel Landry, the president will see you now."
"Good luck," said Charlie.
Keith stood, and everyone in the waiting room looked at him as he followed the appointments secretary out.
They went up the elevator again and walked down the corridor to the Oval Office. A Secret Service man at the door said, "A few minutes."
The appointments secretary reminded him of the protocols and told him not to step on the Great Seal that was woven into the carpet. Keith inquired, "Should I jump over it?"
"No, sir, walk around it to the left. The president's aide will go around to the right, then you continue on toward the desk. The president is running late and will not ask you to sit but will come around and greet you a few feet from the desk. Please be brief."
"Should I tell him I voted for him?"
The appointments man regarded him a moment, then glanced at the appointment schedule in his hand as if to reassure himself that this guy was on the list.
The door opened, and a young female aide showed him in. They walked the length of the oval-shaped office together, over the royal-blue carpet, and detoured around the Great Seal, then back toward the president's desk, which sat in front of the big south-facing windows. Keith noticed it was still raining.
The president came around the desk to greet him, smiling, and extended his hand, which Keith took. The president said, "I'm delighted to see you again, Colonel."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
"We've missed you around here."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you all settled in?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Mr. Yadzinski will see that you are. He's a tough boss, but a fair one."
"Yes, sir."
"These are difficult times, Colonel, and we value a man of your experience and honesty."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
"Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"
This was the traditional question, asked by presidents, generals, and others in positions of high authority. A long time ago, probably before Keith was born, this was a real question. These days, with everyone running a bit late, the question was rhetorical, and the answer was always, "No, sir." But Keith asked, "Why me?"
The president seemed momentarily thrown off balance, and the aide cleared her throat. The president said, "Excuse me?"
"Why did you ask specifically for me, sir?"
"Oh, I see. Well, I remember you as a man who impressed me with your knowledge and good insight. I'm delighted to have you here." He put out his hand and said, "Welcome to the White House, Colonel."
Keith shook hands with the president and said, "Thank you for inviting me, sir."
The aide tapped Keith on the shoulder, they both turned and walked the length of the oval, avoiding the Great Seal on the floor, and a man opened the door as they reached it.
Keith found himself in the hallway, minus the aide. The appointments man said, "Thank you for coming, Colonel. Please meet Mr. Adair in the lobby."
Keith went to the lobby where Adair was standing, looking, Keith thought, a bit anxious. Adair asked, "How did it go?"
"Sixty-seven seconds, counting the detours around the Great Seal."
They were shown out of the West Wing, and their driver hurried over to them with an umbrella. On the way to the car, Adair asked, "What did he say?"
"Nothing."
"Does he think you accepted the job?"
"He does."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll think it over."
"Good. I've made a reservation for lunch."
They got into the car, and Adair said to the driver, "Ritz-Carlton."
They left the grounds of the White House, and the car made its way through the rain-splashed streets heavy with lunch hour traffic. Adair said, "You showed just the right amount of reserve and reticence. They don't like people who seem too eager or too self-promoting."
"Charlie, this was not a job interview. It was a draft notice."
"Whatever."
"Would you take that job?"
"In a heartbeat."
"You should take some time off to evaluate your life, my friend."
"I have no life. I'm a federal employee."
"You worry me."
"You worry me. You in love?"
"That's irrelevant. I don't want to return to Washington."
"Even if there were no Annie Baxter?"
"This subject is closed."
They rode in silence, and Keith watched the city go by outside his window. He'd had some good times here, he admitted, but the extremely rigid structure and pecking order of official Washington went against his democratic instincts, which was one of the paradoxes of the place.
Each administration that he'd served had started out with its own unique style, its own vision, energy, optimism, and idealism. But within a year, the entrenched bureaucracy reexerted its suffocating influence, and about a year after that, the new administration began getting pessimistic, isolated, and divided with internal conflicts and squabbles. The man in the Oval Office aged quickly, and the Ship of State chugged on, unsinkable and unsteerable, with no known destination.
Keith Landry had jumped ship, or more precisely been thrown overboard and washed ashore in Spencerville. A lady on the beach had been very good to him, but now his shipmates beckoned him to return. The lady could go with him if he wished, but he was reluctant to show her the real nature of this gleaming white ship, or introduce her to his crewmates for fear she'd wonder what type of man he really was. The ship would not wait much longer, and the native chief of the island, the lady's husband, just ordered him off the island. He said to Charlie, "Sometimes you get into one of those situations where, even if you wanted to take the easy way out, there isn't one."
"Right. But you, Keith, have always had a unique knack for finding just that situation."
Keith smiled and replied, "You mean I do these things on purpose?"
"The evidence seems to point that way. And you usually do it all by yourself. Even when other people put you in tough situations, you find ways to make it tougher. And when people offer to help you out of a bad situation, you turn them down."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"Maybe it's my background of self-reliant farming."
"Maybe. Maybe you're just a contrary, stubborn, and ornery prick."
"There's that possibility. Can I call you on the phone now and then when I need more analysis?"
"You never call anyone. I'll call you."
"Was I difficult to work with?"
"Don't get me started." He added, "But I'd take you back in a second."
"Why?"
"You never let anyone down. Not ever. I guess that's the situation you find yourself in now. But your loyalties have changed."
"Yeah... somewhere on the road between Washington and Spencerville, I had a conversion."
"Try to take shorter drives. Speaking of which, here we are."