The Last President. Michael Kurland

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      St. Y. Let him know we’re following him around. Then, when he’s good and nervous about that, confront him with what we have. We should shock the name of the informer out of him. With a little luck, we might even double him. He’d be our man at the Post.

      P. Good play.

      O. How’s Young working out?

      St. Y. Fine, fine. We blooded him last night. He sat watch with us, was in on the entry operation. Cool head.

      P. That the Agency guy we brought over? Good guy. See him every morning. Puts the Daily Intelligence Summary on my desk.

      (Inaudible)

      V… but we’re not making any headway on the Hoover thing, that right?

      O. It’s all a shot in the dark anyway.

      St. Y. No, I think the President’s thinking is sound. We know Hoover had a set of blackmail files.

      P. Son of a bitch used to tell me stories out of them.

      St. Y. Well, these files are supposed to have been destroyed, but I think we’re getting close to one partial set.

      P. Good, good. Can’t think of anything more useful as a handle on some of those Democrat senators. Work on that, Ed.

      St. Y. It’s top priority. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. President.

      P. Always good talking to you, Ed.

      (St. Yves exits) (Inaudible conversation)

      V. That other thing is moving ahead, but our document man needs a bit more time. That telegram thing.

      P. That Kennedy thing? Good. Take your time. It needs a delicate touch. Those media bastards are going to love this one. Full text on page seventeen of the New York Times. They’ll have no choice. Sure they can’t spot the forgery?

      V. Expert says that maybe they could if they could get the originals, so we’ll see they get only copies.

      P. Great work. I think I’m finally getting the kind of staff around me I can trust.

      * * * *

      St. Yves, his highly polished shoes up on the desk, was on the telephone. “The son of a bitch doesn’t seem amenable to any of the more standard forms of persuasion,” he said. “But the Big Man says we have to get him. Now.” He took a small silver pocket knife out of his jacket pocket and, flipping the blade open, began cleaning under his already immaculate nails. “We must demonstrate to him the error of his ways. In an immediate and forceful manner. You have any ideas?”

      St. Yves listened for a minute. Then he chuckled, a sound that welled up from somewhere deep inside him. “Warren, you’re a genius. What the hell would I ever do without you? You have a slimy mind. It should work. You have anyone for the job…? Okay. Go ahead. But stay out of it yourself, understand? There’s no way we can let this be traced back to the Office. Call me when it’s done.”

      St. Yves hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. Then he broke out laughing again.

      Dianna Holroyd walked into the office to find St. Yves leaning back in his swivel chair and gasping for breath. “Here’s the weekly action report,” she said, carefully setting a folder on her boss’s desk. “What’s so funny?”

      St. Yves sat up and looked at her through tear-washed eyes. “Warren’s going to get Schuster,” he said.

      “Oh. How?”

      “You don’t want to hear,” St. Yves told her. Then, laughing again, he waved her out of his office.

      * * * *

      When the doorbell rang, Suzanne Chartre was washing her hair and thinking about Ralph Schuster. He was a rough diamond, her Ralph, but well worth polishing. And such a passionate man! Not that her husband wasn’t passionate, or that she didn’t love him. But Charles’ lovemaking had grown more and more perfunctory.

      The doorbell rang again, and Suzanne realized that there was nobody else home to answer it. She wrapped a terry cloth towel around her waist-length hair and put on the red satin robe that Charles had bought her before his passion had waned, adjusting it carefully to be properly modest for Washington, D.C.

      “Yes, what is it?” she asked the short, well-dressed man on the porch. Obviously not a tradesman. But not quite Embassy Row. American government official of some sort, probably. Come to see her husband. But why out here? And why Sunday?

      “Mrs. Chartre?”

      “Yes?” Not for her husband. It was a beautiful warm day outside, she noticed. She’d have to get dressed and get out. Perhaps do some shopping. What did this man want?

      “Mr. Schuster sent me.”

      “Excuse me?” Ralph? Sent him? What for? Perhaps he was hurt!

      “You’re alone?”

      “Why, yes.” What a strange question.

      “I thought you would be. Ralph said so.” The man pushed his way by her, and was in the hallway.

      She turned and followed him in. “Now, wait a minute!”

      The door slammed behind her as a second man, tall, rough-looking, wearing an Army fatigue jacket and a green knitted cap, entered the house.

      “What is this?” Suzanne said, trying to stay calm, but feeling the fear rising in her throat.

      “We’ve come to see you, Mrs. Chartre,” the tall one said, his voice like gravel falling on a bass drum. “Ralphie says as how you’re good. Very good, he says. Are you good, Mrs. Chartre?”

      “Get out!” Suzanne gasped the words. She knew she was trembling, but couldn’t control it. Where had these men come from?

      “Aw, that’s no way to talk, Mrs. Chartre,” the short one said, grabbing her by the upper forearm and pulling her toward the stairs. “Ralphie says you like it. He says you like it a lot. So we’re going to give it to you.”

      She tried to scream, but the small man clamped his hand over her mouth. Then something was being stuffed in her mouth, and she realized it was the satin belt to her robe. The small man took her shoulders and the tall man took her legs and they hustled her upstairs and into the bedroom.

      Five hours later when Charles Chartre, cultural attaché to the Canadian Embassy, came home, he found his wife naked, lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were puffy and black, and blood from her mouth and her genitals was drying on the pink pastel sheet. There were bruises over much of her body. She did not hear him when he called out. Her eyes did not focus on him when he leaned over her. He called his doctor and then the police. Then he returned to the side of the bed. “Darling,” he said.

      This time her eyes almost focused. “Ralph,” she whispered. “Why?”

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