I was delighted to get Willie a ticket for this,” Michaelson whispered to Marjorie eleven weeks later. “But I can’t imagine why he wanted to come.”
“Soaking up atmosphere,” Marjorie said. “He’s working on a movie script.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes indeed. A thriller revolving around a politically sensitive document hidden in a crate of German sausage.”
“Remarkable,” Michaelson said. “A wurst-case scenario.”
“That’s his title.”
They shut up then and rose because a stentorian voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
The president was in good form, as usual. The setting helped. The East Room of the White House, the seal on the podium, the reporters and camcorders crowding the seats, the flags, the sunshine from the Rose Garden window, the marine guards in dress blues. It all conspired to produce just the right pitch of understated solemnity.
The lists of accomplishments for each of the seven people behind him had certainly been written by someone else, certainly not been glimpsed by the presidential eye until minutes before he stepped to the rostrum. Yet he read it as if he’d penned every syllable himself. Now he’d reached the climax of the ceremony.
“And so it is my high honor and distinct privilege to recognize the remarkable contributions of each of these distinguished Americans with our nation’s highest civilian decoration, the Presidential Medal of Freedom,” he said. “First, James Terence Halliburton.”
A discreet attendant pushed Halliburton’s wheelchair forward. Halliburton wore a lustrous navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a blue silk tie with broad red diagonal stripes. Blue-faced cuff links stamped in silver with the seal of the United States Department of State showed just below his coat sleeves. His black wingtips had been buffed to a mirrorlike shine. Every strand of his thinning hair was in place. If you hadn’t heard him chatting a few minutes before the ceremony about how Nixon couldn’t be counted out, you might confidently have sent him into a negotiation over anything from fishing rights to hostages.
Smiling warmly, the president leaned over the wheelchair and pinned the medal to Halliburton’s left lapel. Shutters snapped. Electronic flashes flashed. The president spoke a few confidential words, getting heaven knew what response from Halliburton. Then he shook the older man’s hand amidst more snaps and flashes and stepped back to the podium.
That was it. Michaelson studied Halliburton’s eyes intently during the exchange, hoping desperately to spot some flicker of lucidity, however brief, some precious interval of understanding. And he saw one. He was sure of it. He wasn’t given to kidding himself and he felt confident of his judgment.
He sat back in his folding chair, satisfied. It was a small thing, done well.