Empire

Job offer

They might as well have stayed home, for all the difference it made in the children’s activities. Mark was the kind of boy who remembered the friends he made in Aunt Margaret’s neighborhood the last time they came to New Jersey, so he was already out doing something with them. Nick was holed up in some corner of the back yard, reading; he read outdoors so Cecily wouldn’t keep telling him to go out and play. Lettie and Annie were whooping around with some old clothes Aunt Margaret let them play with; Cecily only worried when she couldn’t hear them. And John Paul was her shadow; he had apparently decided that she was better than TV, because he didn’t have to figure out the channels to get entertainment from her.

Not a single reporter had got wind of the fact that they were there, so it had been worth the drive. She had discussed it with Mark and he knew not to tell anybody that it was his dad who tried to save the President—and also came up with the plan that the terrorists used. The other kids didn’t see anybody outside the house. With luck, they could keep something like a normal life for a few days more.

Until Reuben started testifying. Because the hue and cry was already beginning in Congress. They loved to strut in front of the cameras, didn’t they, and spout off about things they knew nothing about. “Why was a United States soldier ordered to think of ways to kill the President?” demanded a Senator who should have known better, because he was in on all the contingency plans as part of his duties on the Armed Services Committee. Didn’t he know that the essence of defense was to anticipate the enemy’s attacks and prepare to meet them? Of course he knew it. But the people back home wouldn’t know it.

Besides, the nominating conventions were coming up soon. In the Republican Party the nomination was still up in the air—no clear candidate had emerged. LaMonte Nielson wasn’t even in the running, but there would soon be a groundswell to nominate him so they could have the advantage of incumbency.

Whereas the Democratic candidate had it nearly locked up, barring a massive swing of the few uncommitted delegates away from her.

The Senator who was grandstanding was one of those who had a handful of delegates. Maybe he thought everything would break his way at the convention if he made enough noise at Reuben’s expense. What did he care that he was trashing the reputation of one of the best soldiers in the Army? If it got him a single vote, it was worth it to him.

“Oh, we’re angry today,” said Aunt Margaret, who was sitting at her computer desk in the kitchen, scanning pictures out of food magazines.

“They killed the President, Aunt Margaret.”

“And they’re hinting that it’s all your husband’s fault.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Good. Then you can listen. Do you think I haven’t been watching the news? How they make such a big deal about the fact that Reuben is the son of immigrants from Serbia? Then they always show a map of Serbia with Kosovo and Bosnia in big letters, as if his family had something to do with the war crimes of Milosevic and his stooges. As if Reuben were some troublemaking Bosnian Muslim. And how they’ve all picked up on the fact that he speaks Farsi. They just can’t let that go. He takes notes in Farsi. He thinks in Farsi. One time, just once, they explain that it was part of his military assignment to learn Farsi. Then they keep reminding people about his fluency in speaking the language of Iran. Never mind that it’s also the language of half of Afghanistan. But you’re only angry because they killed the President.”

“Aunt Margaret, when I was little I thought you were the coolest, smartest grownup in the whole world,” said Cecily.

“That would be right,” said Margaret.

“But I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to dig your head out of the sand.”

“I’m just staying sane. That may not seem such a high priority to you because you’ve never bothered trying.”

Margaret burst out laughing. “Oh, you are so ticked off today!”

“How do the wives of politicians stand it? All the terrible things people say.”

“They’re in the game. Besides, their husbands’ people are usually doing the same thing to the other guy.”

“Well, what can Reuben do? Nothing.”

Margaret let that one pass in silence. For a long minute.

“Nothing?” she said. “Is that what that article in The Post was? Nothing?”

“A lot of good it will do.”

“It spun pretty well. His story is out there. All the innuendoes from the news media, but his story is available and people don’t have to believe what they get pounded with on CNN.”

“So maybe it will do some good.”

“So he’s doing something,” said Margaret. “And you’re… hiding.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“Your uncle Peter is dead, dear. And he never cared about politics.”

“He cared about it all the time.”

“Yugoslavian politics, yes. American politics, no. The body count was so much lower in America, it was hard for him to stay interested.”

“Come on. Under Tito there was no politics.”

“No national politics. Local got very intense. Anyway, we’re not talking about my late husband the Serbian atheist, God bless him. Remember, you weren’t the first in the family to marry a Serb.”

“We were talking about how you think I’m supposed to do something instead of sitting here nursing an ulcer.”

“That’s not a nice thing to call your little boy John Paul.”

“I don’t work in government anymore, Auntie M.”

“And all the people that you used to know, they died? They emigrated to Ireland or Morocco?”

“Nobody that I knew could possibly have had anything to do with this.”

“But they could have something to do with helping you find out things that will help your husband. For instance, there was a Congressman you once worked for who just got a sudden job promotion.”

“And if I call him right now—assuming I could even get through—he’d assume I’m asking for a job.”

“So you tell him that you’re not, you just want some help, you know your husband did nothing wrong.”

“He knows my husband did nothing wrong.”

“Does he? I didn’t remember you were even married when you worked for him.”

Aunt Margaret was right. In fact, the idea of trying to get Congressman Nielson—no, President Nielson—to help protect Reuben had already occurred to her, in a vague sort of way, but she always pushed the thought out of her mind because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who suddenly calls somebody the minute he becomes President. Office seekers. Hire me, make me important, put me in the White House.

Besides, there was that White House switchboard to deal with. She’d be routed… somewhere.

Not that LaMonte was in the White House yet. He had officially said that the First Lady could take all the time she needed to vacate the White House. In fact, the rumored quote was, “I like the house I live in, and I can commute.” But everyone knew that was a ludicrous idea—it put too much of a burden on the Secret Service, which was already humiliated by having failed to protect the last President.

So where was he? What happened to his staff? No way would he go anywhere without Sandy, the battleaxe who ran his office—and his staff, especially the young wet-behind-the-ears aides like she had been—as if they were prisoners who had just been brought back from an escape attempt. And Sandy might even remember her.

What was Sandy’s last name? She’d always just been… Sandy.

“Where’s the phone?” asked Cecily.

“Long distance? On my telephone? What, is your cellphone out of batteries?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to get involved.”

“Right, you involved, me not paying for anything except the vast quantities of food your children eat.”

“They don’t eat vast quantities, you just cook vast quantities.”

“I want them not to die of starvation like fashion models.”

Cecily got her cellphone out of her purse and then dialed LaMonte’s office number from memory. After all these years.

Except in the meantime he had become Speaker. So the number got her somebody else. That was fine. “I’m such an idiot,” she said. “Can you give me the phone number of the Speaker’s office?”

“Oh, I can give it to you, honey, but it ain’t gonna do you much good,” said the southern woman on the phone. “The Speaker isn’t the Speaker anymore, sweety.”

“But I’m not looking to talk to President Nielson,” she said. “It’s Sandy Woodruff that I want to talk to.”

“Well, she’s with him, of course.”

“But somebody in their old office can get a message to her.”

“By smoke signal maybe, but here’s the number, I was looking it up the whole time I was talking to you, in case you thought I wasn’t.”

“Since when do you have to look up the number of the Speaker of the House?”

“My Congressman is in the other party, sweety. We don’t call the Speaker much.”

“You should have,” said Cecily, imitating her southern drawl. “He’s always been such a dear.”

The woman laughed heartily. “Well, you’re a caution. Good luck on getting your call returned.”

Cecily got through to the Speaker’s office. It was answered by a flustered aide—or perhaps an intern. Somebody who was not deemed important enough to take along to the White House.

“Sandy isn’t available,” said the kid. “But I’d be glad to take a message.”

“Cecily Malich,” said Cecily. “Only when Sandy knew me I was Cessy Grmek. I will definitely have to spell that for you.”

“Oh, no need,” said the kid. Definitely an intern.

“That means you aren’t writing it down, because I assure you, you cannot spell it.”

A faint sigh. A scruffing among papers. Finally: “All right, I have a pencil.”

“Cessy. C-e-s-s-y. Grmek. G-r-m-e-k. Can you say it back to me?”

“Did you leave something out? What I have here looks like a bad Scrabble turn.”

“Say ‘Grrrr’ like a bear. And then ‘mek’ rhymes with ‘check.’ ”

The girl said it twice.

It had the desired effect. She could hear Sandy’s voice in the background. “Cessy Grmek? I thought she was dead or got married.” In a moment, Sandy was on the line. “What are you bothering us for, you office-seeking hanger-on?”

“I saw LaMonte on TV,” said Cessy. “I think he’s handling himself splendidly.”

“Of course he is. I tell him every word to say.”

“Listen, Sandy, my call is selfish, but I don’t want a job.”

“Too bad. Just the other day he said, ‘Whatever happened to that girl with no vowels? How can this office run without her?’ ”

“He did not.”

“But he would have, if I’d remembered to tell him to say it. Get on with your request, my dear. Remember that the President of the United States is not the Wizard of Oz. Chances are very good that you will not get your wish.”

“I did get married, Sandy. And my husband is Major Reuben Malich.”

It took a beat for Sandy to realize why she knew that name. “You’re saying you’re married to the Hero of the Tidal Basin?”

“The hero who is getting set up to take the fall for the assassination plot.”

“You know what, Cessy? I think LaMonte will want to talk to you himself.”

“No, I don’t want to bother him.”

“Your husband is the real thing, Cessy. Not that you aren’t, of course. But he’s a hero. Not just yesterday, but before. He’s the kind of soldier they make movies about.”

“I just don’t want the movie to be The Dreyfus Affair.”

“I don’t get to see any of the new movies.”

“It’s an old one. Jose Ferrer.”

“You’re thinking of I Accuse! From Zola’s famous article ‘J’Accuse.’ Jose Ferrer directed it, too. 1958.”

“Sandy, your memory astonishes me.”

“It’s not the memory, it’s the superb retrieval system. And I don’t think President Nielson wants your husband to spend years of his life fighting a false charge of treason, either. What number are you at?”

Cecily gave it to her.

Then the conversation was over. She flipped her phone closed.

“Just as I thought,” said Aunt Margaret. “The President himself is going to call back.”

“She thinks he might,” said Cecily. “But I think he won’t.”

“Then turn your phone off.”

“Okay, I think he might.”

“Are you going to tell him you switched parties?”

“I didn’t switch parties,” said Cecily. “I was a Democrat the whole time I worked for him.”

“But not much of a Democrat.”

“Moynihan worked for the Nixon White House and he was a Democrat.”

“A Democrat with a dark, dark stain on his tie.”

“I did a lot of good things with LaMonte. We got things done. Because he’s a practical politician. And I knew how to talk to liberals without sounding like a doctrinaire Republican so I could make friends with key aides on the other side of the aisle.”

“And then you gave it all up to have these beautiful babies,” said Margaret. “Including the one who currently has nothing on from the waist down.”

“I hope it’s J. P. you’re talking about.”

“Short? Smeary face and butt and hands?”

“That would be the one.” Cecily was out of her chair and in hot pursuit.

Aunt Margaret called after her. “Don’t let him sit down anywhere!”

“Too late!” Cecily called back.

By the time J. P. was bathed and dressed and the carpet more or less cleaned up from the fudgesicle that he had set down and sat upon, it had been forty-five minutes. Her cellphone chimed.

“Don’t you have a special ringtone for calls from the President?” asked Aunt Margaret.

“Hold please for the President,” said a voice on the line.

And then: “Cessy, I didn’t know that was your husband. I’ve watched that footage a half-dozen times and I think he and the other boy were splendid. Bartholomew Coleman, right? A captain. And your husband’s a major. Brilliant record in the war. They’re starting to tear at him already, aren’t they?”

So Sandy had briefed him.

“I really called just to tell you—oh, this is silly, I’m just wasting your time—Mr. President, he’s the—”

“LaMonte. Please. I’m not on Rushmore yet. There are forty guys ahead of me in line.”

“LaMonte, Reuben Malich is the real thing. A true patriot. Unlike me, he really is a Republican. He loved the President. This is tearing him apart.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m not just a loyal wife talking here. I just wanted to make ure you knew that whatever they say about him, whatever evidence got planted to incriminate him, he did not do anything nrong. He fulfilled a legitimate assignment. He did not pass those plans on.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure of that,” said LaMonte.

“What I’m asking is—stand by him, sir. Please.”

“Let me tell you my dilemma,” said LaMonte. “I’m walking into a White House filled with people chosen by the late President. They’re used to regarding me as an obstacle to getting things done ecause they never understood that the Speaker isn’t boss of the house the way the President is boss of the White House. But these people have been part of the administration. And one of them—at least one of them—pinpointed the President so that somebody could kill him.”

“You’ve got trust issues. But my husband—”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Cessy. I don’t have trust issues, I have a major world-class investigation going on around me here while I’m trying to transition into being President. Plus everybody’s crying, which is understandable but doesn’t help much. I need you here. I need somebody I can trust.”

“I’m a Democrat, remember?”

“I know, and I need someone who knows that language, it’s foreign to me.”

“LaMonte, I’m flattered, I’m honored, but I have a family.”

“I’ll pay you a huge salary. We raised all the White House salaries last session and I promise you, you can afford to live in Georgetown if you want to.”

“LaMonte. My parents already own a house in Georgetown, if I needed one. You can’t lure me with money. You can’t lure me at all. But as I said, I’m honored.”

“Money can’t seduce you? What about pleading? I can whimper and beg if you want. I learned how to do that in conference committees.”

“You can’t use me in the White House. My husband will be testifying before the congressional committee investigating the assassinations. And it won’t be pretty. The last thing you need is, ‘Major Malich, whose wife is an aide to President Nielson.’ There is such a thing as bad publicity.”

“Well, just for you, I’ll wave my wand and make that all go away.”

“If only,” said Cecily.

“You’ll see. We’re going to have a very harmonious administration.”

“Don’t count on much of a honeymoon.”

“Work for me, Cessy. Your husband won’t hurt us, he’ll help. He’s a hero. You’re the wife of a hero. Plus Sandy assures me you’re the only aide she ever liked.”

“She did not like me,” said Cecily. “Not till I left.”

She felt herself getting sucked into the vortex. She really did miss it. And to think of a White House in transition, under internal investigation, in desperate need of people who could concentrate, who could get things done—she knew she could do it. She had a knack for getting along with people. For isolating differences and making them seem small. She was good at the minutiae of making things happen in Washington. She wanted to say yes.

But she wanted even more to say no. The last thing Reuben needed right now was a wife with a sixteen-hour-a-day job. It had been her decision to stay home with the kids and she had made the right choice—for her and Reuben, anyway. With Reuben often gone for weeks and months at a time, the kids needed somebody who was an island of stability in their lives.

“We’ve got five kids, Mr. President. You know better than to try to take me away from them.”

“Patriotic pep talk won’t do it?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. The offer’s open for a month. Change your mind before August, and you’re in. Meanwhile, don’t fret about your husband. Major Malich is going to have the full support of the White House and the Army. I guarantee that nothing bad will happen to him.”

That was all she could ask for. And he had a lot to do. No time for mall talk. She thanked him, said good-bye, and hung up.

“He tried to hire you,” said Aunt Margaret.

“You heard my answer.”

“I heard you considering it,” said Aunt Margaret. “Hard thing to turn down, isn’t it? In the White House, when the President knows you and trusts you, you get real power, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Cecily. “Good thing I get all the power I want from bullying my children.”

“He promised to help your husband, but you still look worried.”

“I am worried,” she said. “Why am I worried?”

“You’re a Croat,” said Margaret. “Nothing’s ever so good but what it can all come crashing down, and Croats never forget that.”

“Yes, what was your toast at our wedding? ‘Every day that ends vith you two still speaking to each other is a triumph over human nature.’ ”

“Or words to that effect,” said Margaret. “And I was right.”

“There’s something. Wrong. It’s… I don’t like the way he promised he could make everything go smoothly for Reuben. If there’s anyone on God’s green earth who knows that Congress cannot be controlled from the White House, it’s LaMonte Nielson.”

“Maybe he thinks he’ll still have clout in Congress.”

“No, he often said that the only President who ever controlled Congress was Johnson, and he did it by being a world-class… erk.”

“A tush flambe,” said Margaret.

“And he can’t control the press, either. They’re going to try to kill Reuben’s reputation and dance on the grave.”

“He just got made President. He’s feeling grandiose.”

“He was never grandiose. But no, he was joking. Cajoling me.”

“And yet you’re still worried.”

“I’m worried because Reuben is off the radar. Is he coming here? Is he going somewhere else to hide? Is he leaving the country? Is he on some kind of assignment? Is he arrested? Is he… ”

The front door slammed open.

“Oh, be gentle with my ancient house!” cried Aunt Margaret.

“Dad’s got a new car!” shouted Mark.

“He’s here,” breathed Cecily.

“Go help your father with his luggage,” called Margaret.

“He doesn’t have any!”

When Cecily got to the front door, carrying J. P., the garage door was already closing with Reuben and whatever car he was driving on the inside. So Cecily went back through the house and intercepted him at the inside garage door. They kissed and Reuben took J. P. into his arms and greeted the girls, who had already run downstairs. “Where’s Nick?” he asked.

“Reading about strong-thewed women and bewitching men,” said Mark.

“In the back yard,” said Cecily.

Reuben gave everybody another hug and then went out into the back yard in search of his second son.

They gathered in the kitchen and Reuben gave them all a blow-by-blow account of his fight with the terrorists. Lettie and Annie were fascinated, but their reaction was most at the level of “Oh, gross,” and “Did you see them after they were dead?” Mark wanted more details, but in reply Reuben reminded him that this story was not to be told outside the family. “If you tell anybody that your dad is Major Reuben Malich, any of your friends, pretty soon there’ll be reporters outside the house and we won’t have any peace.”

Mark was disgusted. “I know that, Dad,” he said.

Nick said nothing. He just watched his father. And listened. And took it all in. He was the one that worried Cecily. Nick built his life around imaginary heroes, even if the fantasy novels were supposed to be funny. And then look at the father he had—the real thing, the strong-thewed warrior, the hero. How could Nick ever measure up to that fantasy?

Nick was the one who would go into the Army, she thought. He’ll think he has to in order to be a real man. Only the Army is not where he belongs. He needs to have time to himself. He needs a regular life. He needs to be surrounded by a gentle reality. Because he’s fragile. Real combat would hurt him. He would get scars that would never heal.

Scars like the ones that gnawed at his father. You don’t kill men without taking damage to your soul. Even when you’re defending yourself and other people. Even when the bad guys are truly evil. And if you ever get to the point where it doesn’t damage you to kill, then you’ve lost your decency. Thank God Reuben had never reached that point, and never would. But Nick—could he bear it, to have those wounds on his soul?

“So I’m on vacation for a few days,” said Reuben. “Maybe longer.”

“Two words,” said Mark. “Atlantic City!”

“You are way too young to scope out babes, Mark,” said Reuben.

“I said that once, Dad. As a joke.”

“I don’t care what you said. I know how I’ve seen you look.”

“Yeah, well, have you seen how they dress?”

“You’re ten. That’s way too young for you even to care.”

And on they went. The war talk was over. But the kids lingered. Dad-time was precious. And it wasn’t often he actually told them about what he did as a soldier. They didn’t need that knowledge. It would only frighten them when he was away. This time, though, Cecily knew that he had to tell them, because they were going to hear the negative stuff, and they had to know the story the way it really happened.

After a while, the girls dragged their father upstairs to look at whatever insane project they were working on together—Lettie always had a project, and Annie always ended up being chief assistant who never, ever got her way on anything, and they ended up yelling and crying and then going right back to the same project because Annie would rather be miserable and oppressed with Lettie than free but alone.

Mark went with them because he was Mark and had to be with people who were doing something. J. R went with them because Reuben was holding him. Which left Cecily alone at the kitchen table with Nick.

“What are you thinking?” she said. “If it involves ice cream, I think the answer is there are still two fudgesicles that J. P. didn’t smear all over his body.”

Nick ignored the offered ice cream—not a surprise. He was mostly indifferent to food. “The king is dead,” he said. “Long live the king.”

“What?”

“You asked what I was thinking,” said Nick. “Somebody killed the President, and all anybody can think about is, How does this benefit me?”

“I’m not thinking that way,” said Cecily.

“No, ’cause you and Dad are thinking about how it’s going to hurt you. They’re saying things that make Dad look like he was maybe part of the assassination instead of the guy who tried to stop it.”

“It’s how they sell papers.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Nick. “See? The President is dead—how can we sell papers? The President is dead—how can I take advantage of it?”

“And you’re nine years old, right?” asked Cecily.

“I know you think I read too much fantasy,” said Nick, “but this is what it’s all about. Power. Somebody dies, somebody leaves, everybody comes in and tries to take over. And you just have to hope that the good guys are strong enough and smart enough and brave enough to win.”

“Are they?”

“In the fantasy novels,” said Nick. “But in the real world, the bad guys win all the time. Genghis Khan tore up the world. Hitler lost in the end, but he killed millions of people first. Really bad stuff happens. Evil people get away with it. You think I don’t know that?”

Our children are way too smart for their own good, thought Cecily. “Nick, you’re absolutely right. So do you know what we do? We make an island. We make a castle. We dig a moat around it and we put up walls that are strong, made of stone.”

“I guess you’re not talking about Aunt Margaret’s house,” said Nick.

“You know what I’m talking about,” said Cecily. “I’m talking about family, and faith. Here in this house, we’re not trying to take advantage. Our family doesn’t try to profit from the death of the king. Our family always has enough to share, even if we don’t have enough to eat. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” said Nick. “That’s church talk. Because Dad has a weapon and goes out and kills the bad guys. He doesn’t just hide in a castle inside a moat and help the poor and the sick.”

“Your dad,” said Cecily, “does not go out and kill the bad guys. He goes out and does what he’s ordered to do, and the goal is to persuade the bad guys that they won’t get their way by killing people, so they’d better stop.”

“Mom,” said Nick, “all you’re saying is that our Army persuades them to stop killing people by being better at killing people than they are.”

She slumped back in her chair. “Hard to reconcile that with Christianity, isn’t it?”

“No it’s not,” said Nick. “’Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ ”

“You listen?”

“I read.”

“I just turned down an offer from the President. LaMonte Niel-son. I used to work for him. I must have done a good job, because he wants me to come work in the White House.”

“Are you going to?”

“No, I’m not. And do you know why?”

“Because of us?” said Nick.

“Because the best thing I can do to make this world a better place is to do a really brilliant job of raising you kids. And I can’t if I’m not home to do it.”

“If you worked in the White House,” said Nick, “you might have been one of the ones they blew up.”

“But I wasn’t. And I won’t be.”

“They’ve got to be mad at Dad,” said Nick.

“Who?”

“The boss terrorists. He shot their guys. He stopped one of their rockets. He almost stopped them from killing the President.”

“I suppose they’re a little bit mad at him. But they didn’t expect us not to shoot back.”

“They’re not going to come here to kill us, are they?”

“No,” said Cecily.

“In the movies, they always go after the hero’s family.”

“They do that because it’s a Hollywood formula. To make the movie scarier so you’ll keep watching for the whole two hours. In the real world, these terrorists don’t care about regular people like us. They strike at big targets—like the World Trade Center and the President.”

“And the Pentagon,” said Nick.

“And soldiers in the field. We’ve always known that was Dad’s job. But our house? Like I said—it’s a castle.”

Nick nodded. Then he got up and went to the fridge and opened the freezer compartment and took out a fudgesicle. “Want one?” he said.

“I don’t like chocolate,” Cecily answered.

“A creamsicle?” said Nick.

“Bring me one, you monster of temptation,” she said.

He tossed her a creamsicle and kept the fudgesicle for himself. “Do you ever wonder,” he said as he unwrapped it, “what it would feel like to smear this all over your body?”

Cecily made the connection. “You didn’t happen to say that to J. P., did you?”

“His fudgesicle was dripping all over his hand and he was getting all frantic about it.”

“He was in the back yard?”

“He turns doorknobs just fine, Mom. Didn’t you know that?”

“So you said, ‘Wonder what it would feel like to smear this all over?’ ”

“I told him he was already halfway covered in fudgesicle, he might as well take his clothes off and finish the job.”

“And you didn’t think to watch him to make sure he didn’t?”

Nick looked at her like she was crazy. “Why would I do that? It was funny watching him wipe his butt with a fudgesicle.”

“Oh, yes,” said Cecily nastily. “You read comic fantasies.”

“What’s the point of having a little brother if you can’t talk him into doing stupid things?”

“Nick, please don’t do that again. J. P. is not your toy.”

“He’s your toy. But aren’t you supposed to share?”

“You know I’m very angry with you.”

“Not very” he said, reverting to their old game.

“Very very” she said.

“Not very very very.”

“Very very very very very very very verivervy. Very,” she said.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I cannot say ‘very’ that many times in a row without stumbling.”

“Come on, Mom, you speak a language that has no vowels.”

“Croatian has vowels. We just don’t need them in every syllable.”

Then everybody trooped down from upstairs and the private conversation was over.

Cecily didn’t get a chance to be alone with Reuben until dusk, when they went out and sat on the glider on the patio. Cecily told him about talking to the President and declining his job offer. Reuben told her about talking to Leighton Fuller at The Post. “And Cole telephoned me,” said Reuben. “General Alton is planning a coup. Keep Nielson as a figurehead. Maybe it’ll happen. Alton’s always been a big talker. But there are people who see the world his way. Maybe he has support. Maybe people will go along with him.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Cecily.

“Keep my head down,” said Reuben. “There are things that a major in the United States Army doesn’t have the power to do. If they really do it, though, I’m resigning my commission. I signed on to serve the United States of America, not some committee of generals who think they have the right to decide how the country should go.”

“It won’t happen,” she said. “It can’t happen. That’s… it’s so Latin American. So Turkish. It doesn’t happen here.”

“Until it does,” said Reuben. “Something else Cole said.”

“What?”

“He quoted something General Alton said to him. Quoted to him. What he remembers Alton saying is, ‘Soldiers want to get paid and not die. Civilians want to be left alone. We’ll pay the soldiers and we won’t ask them to die. We’ll leave the civilians alone.’ ”

“That’s pretty cynical. Does he really think people will give up freedom that easily?”

“Here’s the funny thing,” said Reuben. “That’s not an old saying. Where I first heard it was at Princeton. Averell Torrent said it.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot he was your professor there.”

“He’s a brilliant man, and a constant devil’s advocate. I thought he had it in for me, and then he… ”

“Recruits you.”

“I’m not sure he got me the contacts that I’ve been working with. They never mentioned his name.”

“But you assumed.”

“Anyway, he said it twice in class—and it was in one of his books. You know me, that guaranteed I’d memorize it. ‘All the common people want is to be left alone. All the ordinary soldier wants is to collect his pay and not get killed. That’s why the great forces of history can be manipulated by astonishingly small groups of determined people.’ ”

“That’s not exactly what Alton said to Cole. If Cole remembered it right.”

“Cole’s a memorizer,” said Reuben.

“Like you.”

“Word for word,” said Reuben. “I think Alton has met Torrent. Or at least read his books.”

“Of course he’s met him,” said Cecily. “Torrent is NSA.”

“As of this morning,” said Reuben.

“But he’s been in the NSA’s office for a couple of years.”

“This may shock you, my dear, but the NSA staff and the top brass at the Pentagon don’t get together every night and schmooze.”

“But you think Torrent and Alton did?”

“I think Alton heard Torrent speak. About how America can’t become an empire during its democratic phase. About how we’ve outgrown our democratic institutions. They need to be revised, drastically, but everybody has so much invested in the old system that nobody can build the consensus to change it. A Gordian knot. Time to slice through it if America is ever going to achieve its greatness.”

“Not manifest destiny, manifest dictatorship?”

“I always took it as Torrent warning us about the movement of history. What lies ahead if we’re not careful. But it’s possible to hear him the wrong way—to hear what he’s saying and think, Oh, good idea, let’s do that.”

“So you think Alton’s been planning to move America away from democratic institutions for a while now, and this is just a pretext?”

“You don’t build a coup overnight,” said Reuben. “Here’s the thing. Cole asked him outright if his group stole my plans and gave them to the assassins. Of course he said no. But Cole believes him. He thinks Alton isn’t a good enough actor to sound so genuinely appalled at the thought.”

“Do you know this General Alton?”

“I know of him,” said Reuben. “I never actually served under him. Well, I guess technically I did, but never under his direct command. Layers, you know?”

“So you just have to take Cole’s word for it?”

“Cole’s a smart guy,” said Reuben.

“But you still can’t do anything about it.”

“No,” said Reuben. “But what I’m thinking is, Torrent is smart, he’s charismatic. What if, by writing about the great forces of history, he’s accidentally changed them? Like he said, they can be manipulated by astonishingly small groups of determined people.”

“Like Alton’s coup.”

“Like whoever gave my plans to the terrorists. I don’t think it was Alton. But that still leaves us trying to figure out who it is.”

“What we need is the computer guy,” said Cecily.

“Who’s that?”

“In every mystery novel these days, it seems like the detective has some friend who can work miracles on the computer and find information nobody else can find. We need that guy. You call him up, tell him what you need to know, and in a little while he comes back with exactly the facts you need.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds like a wizard from one of Nick’s novels.”

“I was thinking it sounded more like God,” she said. “You pray, you get answers.”

“Yeah,” said Reuben. “You’re right. We need that guy.”

“Don’t have him, though, do we?”

“All you got is me, and all I got is you.”

“And Cole,” said Cecily. “And DeeNee. And Load and Mingo and Babe and Arty and… ”

“And not one of them can grant a miracle.”

“But I know the President, and he promised we’ll have one.”

“That’s why I was so smart to marry you.”

Nothing was actually any better. But Cecily felt like it was better, sitting there on the glider with Reuben. When they were apart, she was perfectly competent and confident, but… there was something always at risk. Things could go wrong. When Reuben was there, she simply felt safer. He wouldn’t let things get hopelessly out of hand. He’d put it all in perspective for her. The problems would all be somehow outside the walls of the castle, and inside, as long as Reuben was there, she was safe. The children were safe.

“Retire right now,” said Cecily. “Come home and be with us always.”

“Think Aunt Margaret will let us stay here?”

“I can’t think why not. We’re excellent company, and thanks to J. P. she’s going to get a free carpet shampooing.”

“I don’t want to hear the story of that one,” said Reuben.

“I don’t want to tell it,” said Cecily. “But Nick is involved.”

“Has he taken to the dark side?”

“J. P. does whatever Nick suggests.”

“I wonder,” said Reuben. “Is that how J. P. got toilet trained so young?”

That had never occurred to Cecily before, but it was possible, wasn’t it? Nick says something and J. P. uses the toilet forever afterward. “So he can use his powers for good as well as evil.”

“We all can,” said Reuben. “It’s telling the difference that gets so hard.”