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Authors: Don Pendleton
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lunatic. Something is happening in blackville, and it could be happening at this very moment, the big happening. You set it up for the White House, Tom. Set it up right now."
Fairchild glared at him through a half-minute of silence. Then he gave a heavy sigh and rubbed the contusion on his chin. "All right. But you'll have to turn over the gun. You're not going to dinner at the White House with a gun in your hand."
"Of course not."
"You're a throwback, Winston."
"I'm a what?"
"You were born several hundred years too late. You belong in King Arthur's court."
"Right now I'll settle for King Arlington's," Winston told him. "The phone, Tom. Pick up the damn phone."
CHAPTER 9
Mike Winston was not often awed by the mere presence of another man. Right now he was trying to decide whether the awe was inspired by the man or the office. Perhaps it was a combination of both, he decided. After all, J. Humphrey Arlington had become an American institution, a "servant of the republic" for more than forty years and nearly eight of those years as President. And this was Winston's first intimate contact with the man.
The old boy was still a handsome and commanding figure, even at this septegenaiian stage of life. The mind seemed as sharp and the eyes as penetrating as any young man Winston knew. Right now the presidential gaze was fastened securely onto one Mike Winston, and the object of that gaze was finding the entire thing entirely uncomfortable. He was even now beginning to wonder what sort of fool it is who demands, at gunpoint, an audience with the President of the United States. It was no coincidence that Arlington had just expressed that same question.
"There seemed to be no other way, sir," Winston explained. "I simply felt that this intelligence should be placed at your disposal at the earliest possible moment."
The fierce old eyes probed the depths of his brandy snifter, then he swirled the liquid in a gentle motion and commented, "So you think the Negruhs are planning an uprising."
He looked back into the presidential gaze and replied, "Yes, Mr. President, that is precisely what I think."
"And you say this in your official capacity aa National Commissioner of Urban Affairs?"
Winston's eyes flickered. What was the old Hon getting to? "Yes, sir, I do."
"You realize, then, that you are expressing an official view of the United States Government?"
"I am expressing a subordinate view to my Chief Executive," he replied curtly. "I would be remiss not to do so, sir."
"Have you ever considered expressing such views through the regular chain of command?"
The interview was taking on a dreamlike quality for Winston. Or nightmarish. He explained, "I felt this situation lay beyond official courtesies and protocol, sir. My bureau chief is—at the moment . . . personally indisposed."
"Your bureau chief, sir, is drunk," the President said quietly.
Winston blinked. What the hell was going on? Surely, for God's sake, the President couldn't be with the blacks. The idea was almost laughable. He said, "I neglected to tell you, sir. The incident that turned me onto this investigation was . . . well, I'm certain that I saw General Bogan this morning, in company with Abraham Lincoln Williams. He was in civilian clothes. I came across them in the Oakland Town Hall, and you'd have thought I was the truant officer and they were a couple of kids cutting classes. I—"
"General Bogan has a right to a personal life. Has he not?"
"It's totally out of character, sir. The town niggers supposedly hate the government niggers as much as they hate whitey. I just can't see the two of them—"
"It has been common knowledge for some time, both in the Pentagon and at the White House, that Jackson Bogan is interested in a rapprochement with his less favored brothers. Is there something immoral in that, Commissioner?"
The old bastard. Why was he doing this? He knew
better. Winston told the President of the United States, "Talking to you, sir, is as
Fairchild glared at him through a half-minute of silence. Then he gave a heavy sigh and rubbed the contusion on his chin. "All right. But you'll have to turn over the gun. You're not going to dinner at the White House with a gun in your hand."
"Of course not."
"You're a throwback, Winston."
"I'm a what?"
"You were born several hundred years too late. You belong in King Arthur's court."
"Right now I'll settle for King Arlington's," Winston told him. "The phone, Tom. Pick up the damn phone."
CHAPTER 9
Mike Winston was not often awed by the mere presence of another man. Right now he was trying to decide whether the awe was inspired by the man or the office. Perhaps it was a combination of both, he decided. After all, J. Humphrey Arlington had become an American institution, a "servant of the republic" for more than forty years and nearly eight of those years as President. And this was Winston's first intimate contact with the man.
The old boy was still a handsome and commanding figure, even at this septegenaiian stage of life. The mind seemed as sharp and the eyes as penetrating as any young man Winston knew. Right now the presidential gaze was fastened securely onto one Mike Winston, and the object of that gaze was finding the entire thing entirely uncomfortable. He was even now beginning to wonder what sort of fool it is who demands, at gunpoint, an audience with the President of the United States. It was no coincidence that Arlington had just expressed that same question.
"There seemed to be no other way, sir," Winston explained. "I simply felt that this intelligence should be placed at your disposal at the earliest possible moment."
The fierce old eyes probed the depths of his brandy snifter, then he swirled the liquid in a gentle motion and commented, "So you think the Negruhs are planning an uprising."
He looked back into the presidential gaze and replied, "Yes, Mr. President, that is precisely what I think."
"And you say this in your official capacity aa National Commissioner of Urban Affairs?"
Winston's eyes flickered. What was the old Hon getting to? "Yes, sir, I do."
"You realize, then, that you are expressing an official view of the United States Government?"
"I am expressing a subordinate view to my Chief Executive," he replied curtly. "I would be remiss not to do so, sir."
"Have you ever considered expressing such views through the regular chain of command?"
The interview was taking on a dreamlike quality for Winston. Or nightmarish. He explained, "I felt this situation lay beyond official courtesies and protocol, sir. My bureau chief is—at the moment . . . personally indisposed."
"Your bureau chief, sir, is drunk," the President said quietly.
Winston blinked. What the hell was going on? Surely, for God's sake, the President couldn't be with the blacks. The idea was almost laughable. He said, "I neglected to tell you, sir. The incident that turned me onto this investigation was . . . well, I'm certain that I saw General Bogan this morning, in company with Abraham Lincoln Williams. He was in civilian clothes. I came across them in the Oakland Town Hall, and you'd have thought I was the truant officer and they were a couple of kids cutting classes. I—"
"General Bogan has a right to a personal life. Has he not?"
"It's totally out of character, sir. The town niggers supposedly hate the government niggers as much as they hate whitey. I just can't see the two of them—"
"It has been common knowledge for some time, both in the Pentagon and at the White House, that Jackson Bogan is interested in a rapprochement with his less favored brothers. Is there something immoral in that, Commissioner?"
The old bastard. Why was he doing this? He knew
better. Winston told the President of the United States, "Talking to you, sir, is as
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