The Last President. Michael Kurland

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      Adams was pushing himself out of the pool as they approached. A short, compact man, he looked in very good shape for his fifty-plus years. “Welcome,” he said, shielding his eyes against the sun to stare up at them. “What’s up? Have you got suits, or do you need loaners?”

      Miriam held up the straw tote bag. “Still in here from the last time,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I forgot to take them out.”

      “Probably mildewed,” Kit said, “and we’ll come down with some exotic form of crotch rot. But we’ll make do.”

      Adams nodded thoughtfully. “Togetherness, even in vulgarity. This here modern generation shows promise, as Plato once said. Pick a cabaña and change. Gerald is inside somewhere decanting for the other guests”—he indicated an assortment of the usual academic and government types scattered about the pool area with a wave of his hand—“and if you’ll indicate a preference, I’ll have him deal you in.”

      Gerald was a middle-aged war orphan whom Adams had picked up in one of his trips to occupied Europe during “the Big One,” World War II. It was believed that Gerald could not speak; it was certain that he did not. He could, however, understand in almost every language. He served Adams as a sort of majordomo and secretary.

      “Coffee,” Kit said.

      “If you could have him mix me a Bloody Mary,” Miriam said, “I’d appreciate it.”

      “Whatever you appreciate,” Adams said, “I arrange.” He did his best to affect a lecherous leer.

      “If you weren’t the head of my department, I’d tell you what you look like when you do that. And to hell with your togetherness!” And she turned around and strode toward a cabaña.

      “An abrupt mood change,” Adams commented, pushing himself to his feet and heading toward the poolside intercom.

      “Women,” Kit said, shaking his head sadly in an exaggerated gesture of compassion. “Unstable.”

      “I understand they make the best mothers,” Adams said. “I myself have attempted to make an occasional mother, with varying degrees of success.”

      “How’d you like to have a talk with me for a few minutes?” Kit asked. “After I change into my suit, so it doesn’t attract attention poolside.”

      “We can wander off and look at my petunias,” Adams said. “By the way, when you encounter Miriam in the cabaña, see if you can find out what she thinks I look like when I do that,” he added, once more composing his face into a leer.

      “Fair enough,” Kit said, and headed off to change and talk to Miriam.

      “Groucho Marx,” he said when he returned in his navy-blue swim trunks.

      “Exactly the effect I was trying for,” Adams said. “The two heroes of my youth were Groucho Marx and Bugs Bunny. I’ve given up trying to look like Bugs Bunny. Are you and Miriam having a fight?”

      “Not about anything important,” Kit said. “Only about my job and politics.”

      “That’s good,” Adams said. “I was afraid it was over food or sex or something important. I like you both, and I’d hate having to see you on alternate weeks. You’d never have stood a chance with Miriam in the first place if I hadn’t thought it destructive of departmental morale to make passes at assistant professors.”

      “I know,” Kit said, “and I appreciate that.”

      They walked over to what Adams referred to as the “more or less formal garden” on the east side of the house, and stood staring at the carefully sculptured rows of varicolored blooms.

      “It’s about the job,” Kit said.

      “I assumed,” Adams told him. “Who else can you talk to about the Company but an old lag like me?”

      “A strange thing happened to me yesterday,” Kit said. “And it doesn’t exactly involve the Company.”

      “Tell me about it,” Adams said, looking interested.

      Kit described the trip to the police station in the early morning, the events leading up to the phone call, and the call itself.

      “So you got them off,” Adams said.

      “Yes. I don’t know whether I was right or wrong, but I couldn’t see that I had any choice.” He picked up a twig and broke it between his fingers. “What do you think?”

      “There are several interesting possibilities that present themselves,” Adams said. He ticked them off on his fingers. “One: it may not have been the President, or even the White House, you spoke to.”

      “What?” Kit looked startled. “I hadn’t thought of that! How—?”

      ”Easy,” Adams said. “According to prearranged plan, in case they get caught they tell the police to call you, and then they tell you to call the White House. Meanwhile, under the street by the police station, a henchman is splicing the phone wire and practicing his imitation of that famous presidential voice.”

      “Son of a bitch!” Kit said.

      “Two,” Adams said, “it was Ober and the President, and everything they told you was completely true.”

      “I vote for two,” Kit said.

      “Three,” Adams said, “it was Ober and the President, but the whole story was a complete fabrication. Which would imply that a group of common criminals have something so serious on the White House that they can make the President and his chief domestic adviser lie for them.

      “Four: The President of the United States, for purely political motives, had his agents burglarizing and bugging the offices of the Democratic National Committee.

      “Five: Ober was doing it without the President’s knowledge or consent, but was able to get him to agree to cover it up.”

      “I don’t like any of those but two,” Kit said. “I’ve been mulling over variants of three, four, and five all day while I typed out my report.”

      “Your response was completely correct in any of those scenarios except one,” Adams said. “And if the President tells you to do something that’s proper to do, then it’s your job to do it. I agree that option one isn’t very likely.”

      “You think it’s proper of me to help get off his men if what they were doing was actually a burglary for political motives?”

      “If you knew that for sure,” Adams said, “then no.”

      “What you’re saying is that the President’s motives are none of my concern, is that right?”

      “Not at all. What I’m saying is that it is not your privilege to guess at the President’s motives. It is, however, your job to make a full report of this to your superiors and let them evaluate the President’s motives and what to do about them.”

      “I’m doing that. But I’d really like to figure this out, for СКАЧАТЬ