The Last President. Michael Kurland

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hand in my papers with the rest of the herd,” Coles said, “fully expecting to be—I think the expression is culled.’”

      “What papers?”

      “You don’t know? Where’ve you been this morning? We’ve all been requested to hand in our resignations. Part of the President’s ‘New Broom—Clean Sweep’ program. They will not, of course, be accepted. Except in a few cases—like mine.”

      “You think this is all one of Charlie Ober’s machinations?”

      “It has all his earmarks, doesn’t it? Little sneaky move that looks good till you get up close to it. You want to see my resignation?” He pulled a paper off his desk.

      Sure.

      “Here. They gave us a form to follow, but it was a puling, mealymouthed sort of resignation, not the direct ballsy resignation that the public has a right to expect from their servants.” He handed it to Kit, who read it with amused interest.

      From: Barry Coles, Ph.D.

      Adviser on Economic Affairs,

      Foreign Department of International Trade

      The Executive Office Building

      To: President, the United States

      Subject: Resignation

      I resign.

      Sincerely yours,

      Barry Coles, Ph.D.

      Accomplishments while in office:

      Papers produced: 37

      Papers acted on by executive branch: None

      Papers read by executive branch: None

      Score: 0 for 37

      “I think I’ll follow the standard form,” Kit said, handing the documents back. “One gets the feeling you haven’t been completely happy here.”

      “It’s been invaluable for me,” Barry told him. “But I can’t say I see what they’ve gotten out of it.”

      “What was its value to you?”

      “It’s impossible to really know about government until you are one,” Barry said. “Even ignored as I am in this little office, I’m closer to the center of power than I will ever be again. There’s a certain exhilaration in being on the inside. Don’t you ever feel it?”

      Kit shook his head. “Not me. I’m nothing but a highly paid messenger boy. It was much more exciting over at the Agency before I accepted the President’s shilling.”

      “You mean the Department of Agriculture, don’t you?” Coles asked, smiling.

      “Sure do,” Kit said. “You know, there’s nothing stranger looking in this government than a document with a cover sheet stamped ‘Department of Agriculture—Top Secret.’ Are you going to be happy back at Columbia? Where all you can do is teach about government instead of being one?”

      “Home, as a wise man once said, is where they have to take you in. At Columbia I’ve got tenure. Here, all I’ve got is heartache. I understand that in previous administrations the Presidents used to listen to the people they hired to give them advice. They wouldn’t often do anything about it, but at least they listened.”

      “It does seem as though many of us are here more for show than substance.”

      “Why are you here?” Barry asked.

      “I ask myself,” Kit said. “They offered me the job because I did them a favor, but why I took it…I suppose was something of the feeling of getting closer to the center of power. And a feeling that it might be good for my career. When I go back to the Agency, I may skip a few grades.”

      “Well, be careful of this president,” Barry Coles said. “You have no control over his actions, but the same brush can give you a good coat of tar. If these advisers of his take him too far down the wrong path, don’t get dragged along.”

      “You’ve been soured,” Kit told him.

      “I,” Coles said, “am naturally sour. What I’ve been is sobered. Come look me up in New York.”

      “You have my word.”

      The phone in Kit’s office buzzed, so Kit gave Coles a quick handshake and dashed over to pick it up.

      “Mr. Young?” the operator’s nasal voice asked.

      “That’s right.”

      “There’s a Mr. Schuster down here to see you. Shall I send him up?”

      “Mr. Schuster?”

      “That’s right. He’s with the Washington Post.”

      “Oh.” What the hell could the Post want with him? “Sure, send him up.” He couldn’t talk about his job—not that there was anything to talk about—but refusing to see the Post man would give the appearance of having something to hide. Not telling him anything would merely make Kit seem like a normal bureaucrat.

      After a few minutes, a slight young man with a prominent nose appeared at Kit’s door. He had on a raincoat at least two sizes too big for him and a fedora that must have been his father’s. A cigarette dangled from his lips. “Mr. Young?”

      “That’s right,” Kit said, getting up. “Mr. Schuster?”

      “Right. I’m a reporter for the Post. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

      “Have you any identification?” Kit asked. The question was reflex.

      “Right. Here.” The young man pulled cards from his wallet that showed him to be Ralph Schuster, 28, of the Washington Post city desk. He had a District of Columbia Police press pass and a congressional press pass to go along with his D.C. driver’s license. The three photographs on the documents showed that he varied between sporting a beard and going clean-shaven. At the moment he was clean of face.

      “Okay,” Kit said, handing the cards back. He waved Schuster to a chair and flopped back into his own. “You can ask whatever you like. You understand that I reserve the right not to answer.”

      “Of course,” Schuster said. “Is it true that you’re the White House Liaison for Intelligence Matters?”

      “That’s what it says on the organizational charts.”

      “Is it true that you moved into this job on the nineteenth of June?”

      “I think that’s also a matter of public record,” Kit said. “Why?”

      “Mr. Young, I want you to help me. Anything you can say will be of help, either on or off the record. Your confidentiality will be completely respected.”

      Kit leaned back. “What are we talking СКАЧАТЬ