13

AMY PUT THE STUDS in her husband's shirt and laid it neatly across the bed. He sat in his shorts on one of the rose chairs, legs crossed, going over his prepared toast.

"Clichéd pap," he muttered. Even though he would not read the toast word for word, it would reflect the usual flattery and innocuousness that characterized the tradition.

"The King's supposed to be a really nice guy," Amy said, hoping to get her husband in a festive mood. Lately it had been impossible to jolt him out of a deep funk. The hostage thing was getting to him. He wasn't sleeping. Last night she had awakened suddenly and found him gone. She was alarmed at first. Then the Secret Service man on all-night duty in the upstairs corridor informed her that the President was resting on the Truman balcony on the floor above.

When she found him, he was seated on a straight-backed chair, with his feet on the railing, looking out toward the Potomac. It was a surprisingly clear summer night. At Camp David it wasn't unusual for them to sit quietly on the porch of the main cabin, holding hands and staring into the dark shapes of the forest and listening to the crickets.

They were both descendants of Midwestern porch people and knew the value of the soothing nature of quiet watchfulness. But it troubled her that he had not awakened her. She moved another chair, placed it beside him, and sat down, angling her legs on the railing so that her toes rested on his shins.

"Generally speaking, it's a beautiful planet," he had whispered, touching her arm, but without taking his eyes off the night view. "Except for the people."

"Not all."

"Taking hostages is such an ugly business." It was clear now where his mind was. More and more the awful reality absorbed his thoughts.

He shook his head. "I really feel for those people and their families." In the long silence, she turned and watched his profile silhouetted against a white portico. "They're gonna die, Amy, and there's no way in the world I can stop it from happening."

"Except to give in," she said. She had deliberately posed the idea as an oblique comment, gentle and noninsistent. It had nothing to do with strategy or affairs of state. It was simply a wifely response. He was being devastated by the situation. It affected everything, permeated all other issues, political and personal. It exacted a fearful toll.

"All day long I've been on the phone kissing the asses of those tinhorns who run those lousy countries. The Syrian is a polite little bastard. I get reassurances, sympathy. But no action. The Saudis? Masters of evasiveness. Talking to those people is like talking into a soft cloud. The Israelis love all this angst. I'll give them this. They're tough. They'll take it all the way. A counterpunch is an acceptable state action, no matter who or how many get hurt. Not us. Couldn't do it and get away with it. Not up front. And I'm afraid to do it covertly. If it backfires, we're finished. Had my way, I'd send everyone connected with those terrorist bastards a letter bomb airmail special delivery. Maybe even one of those small A jobs."

"Very funny," she said. Considering that her husband was always shadowed by someone carrying that horrid little briefcase, she failed to respond to what he had intended as black humor. Only way you can preserve your sanity, he had argued, was to joke about "it." He had never convinced her.

"And this is only the third or fourth generation. Just wait until we get into the fifth or sixth."

"The fifth or sixth what?"

"Generation of terrorism." He turned to look at her, his eyes intense and liquid as they gathered the reflected light. He shivered. She waited, then seemed to catch his chill in the otherwise warm night. "That's going to be nuclear blackmail. Guy will come in with a nuke on his back. Blow us all away unless we give in to whatever bullshit he has in his head. It's coming. In fact, could be done right now. It's a goddamned miracle it hasn't happened yet. I pity the President who has to deal with that mess."

"So if you look at the bright side, your little problem isn't so bad."

"I said I'd pity the guy," the President said. "But now nobody pities me. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Problem is it's a spectator sport. Everyone can be an armchair general."

"Except the general on the firing line."

"Nobody understands. Especially if it's one of yours taken hostage."

"Well, I'm glad it's not one of mine," she said, thinking of her own children, Tad and Barbara.

He patted her arm and was silent for a long time.

"I can hack everything," he said. "All the political crap, the endless rituals and ceremonies, the staff ego wars, all the tugging and pulling, dealing with those stubborn bastards in the Soviet Union and the pigheaded self-destructive fools of the third world. Even with the idea of the awesome power of that box in the briefcase. No sweat." He paused, sighed, sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "It's the crazies with these wacko burning causes, the ones who think they have 'the answer.'" He was silent for a long time.

She shrugged and rubbed her toe against his shin.

"On my desk," he said, "I have these option papers. We got these highly trained shoot-em-up hit teams. They go in, tear the place apart, bring home the people dead or alive. One option is to send them in. We know approximately where most of the hostages are being kept. Might get between twenty and thirty percent out alive. The Defense and Intelligence boys are big on risk analysis, kill ratios, stuff like that. Then there's the political boys. They say thirty percent is too low. Got to be at least double that, ideally ninety percent. They want both a victory parade and a funeral. Joy and sorrow. Stir the emotions."

"That's disgusting," Amy said, removing her feet from the railing.

"Then there's Harkins' way. Sneak in and kick ass."

"Whose?"

"Anybody around. Take hostages. Ten to one if necessary. Then kill them. Afterwards, deny it all with a wink."

"When mad enough, kick the dog," Amy said.

"Maybe so. But you know what I've been doing out here?" He turned and watched her, expecting no response. "I'm actually considering it, the Harkins way."

She turned, looked at him archly, then reached out with her hand, stopping just short of his head.

"Don't know if I could live with a man who orders things like that." She wondered, in the final analysis, if her objections would really matter.

"Things keep up this way, I may have to. Preempt, like the Israelis."

He looked out over the railing. From where they sat they could see the exquisitely lit Mall, the Washington Monument, the Capitol dome, the tinsel ripple of the Potomac. Following his gaze, she noted that a number of cars slowly meandered in the street behind the rear gate and she could make out dark human figures on foot, some stationary, some moving.

"I like this house," he said softly. "And I'd like to renew the lease." He swung his legs back to the deck and stood up, pressing his body against the railing.

"Mr. President..."

It was the voice of the Secret Service man who had been standing just inside the door. The edge of the Truman balcony had become a security hole. Standing up so close to the railing presented his body to a would-be assassin. He moved back into the shadows.

"Well, that's one compensation," the President said.

"What is that?" Amy asked.

"We're safe in here."