The hab theory, p.13
The HAB Theory, page 13
In point of fact, to Gordon the President looked surprisingly good, considering what he had been through. There was no dressing on his forehead and the swelling, somewhat more violently discolored than Boardman’s, was smaller than Gordon had anticipated it would be. It was not much larger than a walnut, but apparently was still spreading a bit, since the upper eyelid was also a little puffy, though not discolored. He knew there were some gauze wrappings around the President’s chest, but of these there was no outward indication. Oddly enough, the most superficial injury was the one that looked worst. The back of his left hand had become abraded against the concrete of the sidewalk as Sanders had fallen on it and, while it wasn’t bandaged, it had been liberally painted with gaudy Merthiolate red-orange and had a nasty appearance.
Alexander Gordon sat up straighter in his chair as he heard the tape approaching its close. A few more words of no great consequence had passed between himself and Boardman after the demand to see Grant, and then a final remark by the old man completed the tape. Boardman’s voice sounded very calm and normally pitched coming from the cassette’s small speaker.
“Mr. Gordon?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be seeing the President before you come back here?”
“I doubt it very much, Mr. Boardman.”
There was a pause and then: “If you do… when you do… will you please express to him my sincere regret for the pain and shock and inconvenience I’ve caused him?”
There had been no response from Gordon, only the sound of the machine being turned off.
Now the security chief stood and depressed the Off button of the recorder. Robert Sanders still lay with his eyes closed, the corners of his mouth uptilting in a small smile.
“Interesting, Alex,” he said. “Most interesting. I think there is much more to this man than meets the eye.” Opening his eyes he turned his head and looked at Gordon, who nodded.
“I’m quite sure of that, Mr. President. In view of the weird aspects of the incident — the man’s age, the fact that he was uncannily successful in getting so close to you, or at least getting you to come close to him, the fact that he could easily have killed you, the fact that he deliberately chose not to, but still wanted to appear as if he meant to do so — all these things tend to suggest lunacy. Yet, I know that I’m no psychiatrist, but I’d be willing to put down odds that he’s no more insane than I am.”
The President gave him a peculiar look and then they both broke into laughter. Sanders brought up a hand and gingerly touched his forehead.
“Oh gawd, Alex,” he said, still chuckling, “don’t make me laugh like that. My head hurts too much.”
“Sorry, sir.” The agent was grinning.
Sanders’s chuckling faded. “This man Boardman,” he said thoughtfully. “He took a pretty grave risk.”
“He did, indeed, Mr. President. Any would-be presidential assassin’s chances for escaping alive diminish sharply the closer he gets to his target. He was very lucky.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure of that. From what we’ve been able to determine thus far, I’ve an idea he’s a man who doesn’t place much reliance in luck. It takes a shrewd man — and a desperate one — to do what he did. I may be wrong, but ever since hearing that tape, something’s been niggling around in the back of my mind, a funny little anecdote with a moral. It was probably kicking around when Lincoln was still splitting rails.” He paused, considering, and Gordon said nothing. After a moment more, Sanders continued. “It’s that old saw — I’m sure you’ve heard it — about the farmer getting his mule to follow commands by first whacking him across the head with a two-by-four. The moral being that first you have to get his attention. Alex, maybe that’s what this Boardman’s doing — getting someone’s attention because he wants to be sure he’s heard. Could be he wants to say something important to someone.”
“But to just an ordinary writer, Mr. President? I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t quite buy that.”
Sanders shifted into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes again. “Alex,” he said, “in the first place, John Charles Grant is not just an ordinary writer. In the second place, more than talking to a writer, I suspect our ancient friend may be wanting to talk through a writer. I suggest we see to it without delay that Mr. Boardman has his discussions with Mr. Grant.” He sighed. “I’m suddenly very weary, Alex. I think I’d like to rest now.”
7
The coffee that Marie Grant had brewed in the predawn hours had smelled good while it was perking, but the cup of it that she had poured for herself still sat untouched on the end table beside her chair and now was barely warm.
For over an hour after completing the deciphering of the last coded entry in the final diary available on the shelf, Marie had sat at John’s desk, reading and rereading the numerous passages. A montage of disjointed images and thoughts had been passing through her mind with such rapidity and diversity that she felt dazed and unable to follow any logical train of thought to a conclusion. Within her there was an all-pervading sick feeling. She had eaten nothing since breakfast the previous morning and the emotional strain of yesterday and this night, coupled with lack of food and sleep, had taken their toll. Her eyes were red-rimmed and grainy, yet she knew she could not sleep. Instead, she had risen from the desk chair and replaced everything in the den as it had been — wishing again that John had not taken this year’s diary with him — and taking with her only the papers that she had written. These she paper-clipped to the earlier ones which she had hidden in the dresser and then took the entire stack of them downstairs with her.
Always before when she had been upset she was able to find solace by talking with John. Usually he was here, but even if he were not, she could always reach him by telephone. Just the reassuring sound of his voice over the receiver always had been able to impart a steadying effect in her. She yearned to call him now, knowing she could reach him at the Sheraton in St. Louis because he had said that was where Peter Proctor was booked and he had intended staying there also. But even if she did call, what would she say? A fragmentary one-sided dialogue constructed itself in her mind: “Hello, John dear? This is your woman. No, dear, the one on Bobolink Terrace. You remember, don’t you — the mother of your children? That’s right. Listen, sweetheart, I’ve been doing some snooping through your personal things and came across those silly coded entries in your diaries and so I knew you wouldn’t mind if I invaded your privacy by just sort of deciphering them a little. No, no real trouble with them, thanks. Just called to say hi and… and… oh, damn it John Grant, why aren’t you here when I need you?”
The tears came again and she spilled the grounds as she was making the coffee. As if it were the most important thing in the world, she had stood over the percolator for the entire time it popped and plunked and gurgled merrily until a final little wheezing click and rapidly diminishing burbling signified it was finished. She had poured herself a cup and took it into the living room with her. Now it was nearly cold and she still hadn’t touched her lips to it.
Periodically as she sat there in the big armchair with her bare feet tucked under her she was wracked by almost uncontrollable shuddering, but she was no longer crying. She felt wholly wrung out and disembodied, lost among a welter of fragmentary thoughts, experiencing a loneliness unlike anything she had ever known before. Unnoticed by her, the night had given way to a muted gray dawn filtering through the heavy cloud layer hanging several thousand feet over the city.
It was at this unlikely hour that the doorbell rang, and Marie jumped as if an electric charge had passed through her. She moved swiftly to the door, for some reason thinking it was Billy coming home early from Jack’s house, then received a second start as she opened it and saw two men standing there. Both were in dark business suits and both were fairly tall men. One had receding sandy hair, a small neat moustache, and appeared to be in his early fifties. He was somewhat thin. The other was quite powerfully built, younger, and a Negro. It was he who spoke.
“Mrs. Grant? Sorry to bother you this early in the morning. My name is Alexander Gordon, United States Secret Service.” He dipped his head at his companion. “This is Agent Richard Kreps. May we speak to Mr. Grant, please?”
Marie’s eyes had widened. “Secret Service?” She seemed unable to comprehend. She accepted the slender leather folder Gordon withdrew from his inner breast pocket and handed open to her. On one side was a United States Treasury Department identification card with his picture, on the other a small, rather flat, but impressively made gold badge. She looked at them mutely.
After a moment or two, when she looked up at the men again, Gordon smiled, took the folder from her hand, and returned it to his pocket. “Please, we would like to speak with Mr. Grant.”
“He… he’s not here.”
“Can you tell us, please, where we might locate him?”
Marie was regaining control of herself now. In the driveway beyond the men she could see a shiny black sedan parked. It bore no insignia but looked official. She glanced at the men and stepped back inside, holding the door open. “Come in, won’t you?”
They entered and stood calmly waiting as she shut the door behind them and then, at her invitation, followed her into the living room. She turned suddenly to face them. “Is there some kind of trouble involving John?”
Gordon shook his head and Kreps said, “We’d like to ask his help, Mrs. Grant, in the matter involving the President.”
“The President? You mean the United States President? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You’re not aware,” Gordon put in, “of what occurred last night?” At the slow shaking of her head, he continued. “Mrs. Grant, the President was shot in Chicago last night.”
“Ohhh!”
“Let me hasten to assure you that he is not seriously hurt. However, we feel sure that Mr. Grant can be of considerable assistance to us in our investigation.”
“My God, Mr. Gordon, John couldn’t be involved in anything like that!” A note of alarm was rising in Marie’s voice.
“You misunderstand me, ma’am. I don’t mean to imply that he is involved in the shooting. It’s just that, for reasons we’d prefer not going into at this time, we’re in need of your husband’s help. You mentioned that he was not home. Is he in the city now? Can we reach him?”
She shook her head and a strand of the long blond hair fell down over her eyes and she immediately put it back in place. “No. No, he’s not in Chicago. He left early last evening to fly to St. Louis. He’s meeting there with Peter Proctor, the evangelist, interviewing him for a possible magazine article.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“Yes. At the Sheraton. That’s where Mr. Proctor is staying also. Would you like me to call him?”
“We do want to reach him as soon as possible, Mrs. Grant. If you prefer, and you wouldn’t mind my using your phone, I could place a credit card call to him.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right. I’ll be glad to get him for you.” She smiled wanly. “Please, forgive my manners. Won’t you sit down? I’ve just made fresh coffee. May I get you some before I call?”
Kreps and Gordon looked at each other and grinned as they sat together on the couch. Kreps bobbed his head. “That would be greatly appreciated, Mrs. Grant. It’s been a long night.”
She carried her own cup into the kitchen, poured its cold contents into the sink, and refilled it, along with two others. In a minute she was back with the coffee and a small silver cream pitcher and matching sugar bowl on a serving tray, which she placed on the coffee table before them. As they murmured their thanks, she indicated that they should go ahead. She crossed the room to the telephone stand, picked up the phone book, checked in the front for the Area Code for St. Louis, and dialed direct for the toll-free St. Louis information operator. In a moment she had the number of the St. Louis Sheraton Hotel and was placing a person-to-person call to John there. A clerk listened to the operator’s request, asked her to hold on, and then was back a moment later.
“I’m sorry, operator, we have no John Grant registered here,”
“Ma’am,” the operator said, “Mr. Grant is not registered there. Do you care to speak with anyone else?”
Taken aback, Marie hesitated and then asked to speak to Mr. Peter Proctor. While the room phone was ringing she glanced up and saw the two Secret Service agents regarding her curiously. They had not yet touched their coffee. On the third ring the telephone was answered.
“Hello?” The voice was sleepy.
“Mr. Proctor? I’m very sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but it’s rather important. This is Marie Grant calling. My husband was scheduled to interview you this morning and I wonder if you might happen to know where he’s staying?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, Mrs. Grant. Excuse me, I’m not quite firing on all cylinders yet. I just got up. No, as a matter of fact your husband hasn’t yet contacted me. He’s not registered in this hotel?”
“They said he wasn’t.”
“Well, maybe he just hasn’t arrived yet.”
“He left home early last night, Mr. Proctor.”
There was a pause. “Hmmm. The hotel here is pretty well filled. He might not have been able to get a room if he didn’t have advance reservations. Do you know if he did?”
“No. No, I don’t think he did.”
“Well,” Proctor was reassuring, “that’s probably the answer then, Mrs. Grant. He’s undoubtedly had to find accommodations in some other hotel. Our meeting’s scheduled for nine-thirty this morning, so I’ll probably be seeing him before too long. Shall I have him return your call?”
“You’re very kind. Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
She hung up the phone, a small frown appearing. It faded as she turned to face the men. Kreps had finished his coffee, but Gordon had not touched his. She smiled and spoke matter-of-factly. “They were crowded. I’m afraid he’s had to stay at some other hotel. However, he’s to meet with Mr. Proctor in a few hours and Mr. Proctor said he’d have him call home.”
The agents got to their feet and Gordon extracted a business card from his wallet and swiftly wrote on it with a slim gold pen. He handed it to her.
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Grant. This is the number where you can reach me or one of my associates at any time. It’s a direct number into a room at the Northwestern Memorial Complex downtown. The call won’t have to be relayed through a switchboard. Would you please give us a call as soon as you hear from your husband? And, also, would you please give that same number to him and ask him to call as soon as possible? We’ll accept charges.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be glad to.”
She escorted them to the front door and saw them out and then slowly returned to the front room. The two untouched cups of coffee still sat on the tray. She shuddered, suddenly afraid again. So many things were happening at once! She moved to the television set and clicked it on, then picked up her coffee and took it with her to her chair.
A full-screen head of Alban Woodstock, dean of American news commentators, faded in, his mouth moving as he spoke in his familiar measured way, but it was still a moment or so before the sound came up.
“…will come back to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago in a few minutes for a more updated report on President Sanders’s condition. In the meantime, we’ll switch now to Mary Breda at Washington National Airport to get a few words from Daniel Ngoromu, President of Kenya, East Africa, who met with President Sanders in the White House last night only hours before the attempted assassination. Mary?”
The studio scene cut to Washington National where Mary Breda, hair in disarray from the brisk wind, stood holding a hand microphone beside the enormous figure of Daniel Ngoromu, his arm linked with that of his tall, attractive wife.
8
Ordinarily, Daniel Ngoromu did not consent to on-the-spot interviews, but in view of the gravity of this day and the incident which had transpired so short a time after his meeting with the United States President, he had agreed, stipulating that it would have to be brief.
Anita Randall Ngoromu, beside him, was very nearly six feet tall, blond and blue-eyed and with the angular jawline, strong chin and high, pronounced cheekbones often noted on the more statuesque women of Scandinavian heritage. Though now forty-eight years old, Anita Ngoromu retained a figure that was still the envy of many a younger woman. She gave the impression of being smaller than she actually was, but this was a not uncommon illusion because she was most often seen and photographed beside her black husband, whose impressive bulk virtually dwarfed her.
The reporter, Mary Breda, was herself quite a stout woman, yet she seemed very small as she stood with the couple. What appeared to be a hearing aid in her ear actually was a tiny receiver through which she heard Woodstock’s remarks from CBS headquarters in New York. She spoke loudly and clearly in order to be heard well against the wind’s rumbling gusts against the handheld microphone.
“Thank you, Alban. President Ngoromu, you met in the White House for a rather extensive period last night with President Sanders. Would you care to comment on your discussion?”
Ngoromu licked his lips. His voice was deep and rich in tone. “Your President and I had a most pleasant conversation in which a variety of topics were discussed, the majority of which it would not be my place to mention here and now. However, I will say that our thoughts and ideas seem to be in accord in many respects for the forthcoming transition of my country from an agrarian society to an industrial economy, based on the development of petroleum resources.”
“When you spoke with him last night, sir,” Mary Breda went on, “did the President show any indication whatever of foreknowledge that an assassination attempt might have been in the process of being plotted against him?”
“He did not.” Ngoromu shook his head. “But you must realize, Ms. Breda, that all heads of state have many enemies. Simply by the act of assuming the office of President he becomes the target of many foes — radicals, anarchists, whatever. And the longer he remains in office, and the more vigorous and strong a head of state he is, the greater the number of enemies he develops. While the majority of such enemies may try to destroy him through undermining his reputation, misleading a gullible public, attributing to him detrimental policies which may not have been of his instigation, and studiously placing at his feet the blame for all that is wrong and none of the credit for anything that is right, there are equally those in a very small minority who would gladly see him physically destroyed. It is a fact of life which a head of state must accept, however little he likes it.”
