Two Songs This Archangel Sings

21

"How the hell did you know what was in that packet?" Garth asked me when, hours later, we were finally alone.

"What else could it have been?" I replied as I stretched out on a monster bed in a monster suite in the most monstrously expensive hotel in Washington. In the bedroom there was a spectacular view through a huge picture window out over the Ellipse. In the distance, the sun was going down behind the Washington Monument; the last, blood-red rays were split and scattered by the tip of the spire, making it appear as if the concrete spear had pierced the ball of fire in its heart. There were two Secret Service agents in the hallway outside the suite-whether to guard us or keep us from leaving, we weren't sure, but at the moment it didn't seem to make much difference.

"Whatever was in the packet almost certainly had to relate to the Archangel business," I continued. "Otherwise, Veil wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to make sure it was in a safe place, with Gary Worde in the mountains; a safe deposit box was no good, because Madison could have gained access to that. He put the record into a kind of time capsule without knowing if, or how, he would ever use it. But what kind of record? Veil certainly didn't walk out of any army stockade with secret documents in his pocket, and he would have had no access to any kind of documentation after he was out. So whatever was in the packet had to have been created by him. When I realized that, everything else fell into place. Vivid reds, browns, and greens combined with flesh tones are the colors he used when he first began to paint. Those are also the colors he'd used in the painting he left for me in the secret compartment in his loft, the colors of men, blood, and jungle."

"Kendry could have gone up there and gotten the slides himself, at the beginning," Garth said, unrelieved bitterness in his voice. "Instead, he let you and me roam around on a Goddamn scavenger hunt."

"It's arguable whether he could have gone himself, Garth. Remember that he'd been under constant surveillance from the time he'd been kicked out of the army. Madison must have known about his visits to Worde, and after the botched assassination attempt Madison's men were almost certainly watching those mountains; they could have been waiting for him to try to go to Worde long before we ever went up there. We provided the necessary distraction for Madison's forces. It's also arguable whether he could have done anything with the slides himself even if he had been able to get them out without being ambushed. Without someone else to bear witness to the truth, he would have been just a discredited man peddling a bizarre slide show while constantly having to look over his shoulder."

"So now we're the ones who constantly have to look over our shoulders."

"He couldn't have done it alone, Garth. He needed us."

It was obvious from the expression on Garth's face that he didn't agree, but he let it go. "A hell of a piece of quick thinking under pressure, brother," Garth said, putting a huge hand affectionately on my shoulder.

Garth sat down on the edge of the bed, and we remained silent for some time, staring out the window as the wounded sun continued to sink down behind the monument.

"I should have killed that fuck, Andrews," Garth continued at last in a matter-of-fact tone that startled me and sent a little chill up my spine.

I eased myself up into a sitting position, next to Garth, and looked into his face in the gathering darkness. What I saw, I didn't like. "I'm glad you didn't, brother. I don't think we could have gotten clear of that, and I like happy endings."

"We're never going to get clear of this, Mongo. Madison's been trying to kill us with bullets; these guys are trying to do the same thing, in a different way. There isn't going to be any happy ending."

"Why not? You said the same thing when we were caught up in Valhalla, and we were in one hell of a lot worse shape then. I think we're in a pretty good position right now."

"I just wish I'd killed him when I had the chance," Garth said distantly, after a long pause.

I couldn't think of anything to say, and we again lapsed into silence. After a few minutes I stood up and groped my way around the suite until I found a light switch.

We had been asked to be patient and wait. We were patient, and we waited. At six thirty there was a knock at the door. It was one of the Secret Service agents asking if it was a convenient time for us to be taken to dinner. It was a most convenient time, and if our attire-jeans, denim shirts, and hiking boots-did not seem quite appropriate for going out to dinner in Washington, nothing in the demeanor of the agent indicated that he thought so, or that there would be any problem.

There wasn't. We were taken to one of Washington's better restaurants. Arrangements had obviously been made beforehand, for the maitre d' nodded to the two agents as we entered, and we were ushered through a velvet-roped gate, past a number of startled diners, to a candle-lit table in a private booth at the rear of the main dining room.

"Shannon's laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?" Garth said to one of the agents sitting across from us.

"The captain has been asked to order for us, Lieutenant," the stern-faced man replied evenly. "I hope you approve. You won't be disappointed."

We weren't. An hour and a half later, stuffed with French cuisine and fine wine, Garth and I followed the agents out of the restaurant to the waiting limousine that had brought us.

Followed by a second car with four Secret Service agents in it, we rode slowly through the night streets of Washington. I had assumed we were going to be driven to the White House, but that wasn't the direction in which we were headed. Finally the car pulled up to the entrance of a park, and I knew where we were. Up and down the street, spaced twenty yards or so apart, were police cars, with their lights off. The officers standing on the sidewalk were alert and watchful.

"The president will meet you at the war memorial," one of the agents said as he opened the car door for us. "Just follow the sidewalk."

Garth and I ducked under the wooden barricade that had been placed across the entrance and headed down the sidewalk into the park. There were lights over the walk, but they had been dimmed to the point where they were not much brighter than the dappled moonlight. We walked in silence, for there seemed nothing left to say to each other. We had "come in from the cold" only to end in an even colder place, and now we were on our way to meet the supreme commander of what was beginning to look like just one more enemy army.

We came around a bend in the path and suddenly found ourselves confronted by the startling sight of the Viet Nam War Memorial, its long slab of polished black stone faintly glowing in the moonlight like a sacred obelisk left behind by some ancient, extinct tribe of warriors.

Suddenly a man with a walkie-talkie stepped out from behind a clump of bushes to our left. "The lieutenant has to say here," the Secret Service agent said, blocking Garth's path.

"Bullshit!" I snapped, moving closer to Garth. "My brother and I go down there together, or we don't go at all."

"Then you don't go at all," the agent said evenly, looking directly at me. "You won't get around us on this one. We didn't approve of meeting here in the first place. We lost the battle on choosing the meeting site, but we won't budge on choosing who goes down there. We're responsible for the safety of the president. The lieutenant is dangerous; he attacked a presidential aide."

"Fuck you, thank you, and good night." I said, and turned around. I started to walk away, but was stopped when Garth gripped my shoulder and turned me around again.

"Go ahead, Mongo," Garth murmured. "This man's just doing his job, and he happens to be right. You go ahead and see what Shannon has to say. I'm feeling very spooky, and I really don't care to meet with the son-of-a-bitch anyway."

"Okay, brother. You all right?"

"I'm all right. Go take care of business, and don't give him shit."

I squeezed Garth's hand, then walked ahead, across a short open expanse, to the lip of the recess in which, like a monster shard in a great, rectangular bomb crater, the Viet Nam War Memorial stood. Again, I found myself profoundly moved by the stark simplicity and awesome power of the sculpture. As had been intended, the black stone slab cut not only through space, but also through all the pretensions and desperate, muddled rationales all sides offered to try to explain the most complex and ultimately futile war the United States of America had ever fought.

I slowly descended a ramp into the magnificent hole in the ground, walked up to the granite, and touched my fingertips to the sharp lines of the stonecutter's art in the center of the wall of names. Keeping my left hand on the wall, I moved to my right until I finally came to the last of the names. The rest of the wall was naked black stone awaiting more bad news about bones unearthed from unmarked graves halfway around the world.

There were some names that should be added, I thought-the victims, including two children, who had died in the fire that had destroyed my apartment building; Loan Ka and his family, and Kathy; Gary Worde, and the six fighting men of America's armed forces sent to die in shame on a madman's murderous errand.

I was most impressed by the monument-and angry that Kevin Shannon should use the mystery of the site in an embarrassingly obvious effort to manipulate my feelings. I resented the banality and predictability of his action and found it depressing.

I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned as Kevin Shannon, casually dressed in charcoal slacks, black loafers, black turtleneck, and a heavy white cardigan sweater, came down the ramp and walked toward me at a brisk pace. He was shorter in person than he appeared on television or in photographs. His thick, gray-streaked black hair was cut sharply in the swept-back style that was his trademark. His craggy, fifty-seven-year-old face could not be described as handsome, but his features were nonetheless striking, with a square jaw, pronounced cheekbones, and bright, black eyes. He looked like a man who could control himself as well as situations, and it was this bearing-along with his political views-that had first attracted me to him. I had believed in Shannon, believed he was somehow different from the mangled politicians who usually survive the internecine warfare that is our political system to gain election to high office. Now I felt like a fool.

His grip, when he shook my hand, was firm. "Good evening, Dr. Frederickson," Kevin Shannon said in his pleasing baritone.

"Good evening, sir." Courtesy costs nothing.

Shannon motioned for me to sit down on the stone bench behind us. I did, and he sat beside me. He crossed his legs, reached into a pocket of his cardigan, and to my surprise, brought out a small silver flask emblazoned with the presidential seal. He unscrewed the silver cap, drew a shot glass out of the same pocket, set them both down on the bench between us.

"Your rather extensive dossier indicates you like Scotch, Frederickson. I thought you might like to share a drink with me. The flask is for you."

I hoped that the offer of a presidential souvenir at the beginning of our discussion was an attempt at humor, but I had the most disquieting feeling that it wasn't. Like Burton Andrews, probably like most people who crave for and exercise power, Kevin Shannon seemed to have had his soul, as well as a good deal of common sense, displaced by a preoccupation with symbols. It was at once fascinating and unnerving, and I wondered how much of this presidential stroking I was going to have to put up with before we got down to business.

"No, thank you," I said.

Shannon shrugged, set down the flask next to the shot glass and cap. "What do you want, Frederickson?" he asked, leaning toward me and resting his forearms across his knees.

"I thought Burton Andrews might have told you."

"You tell me."

"Justice."

"We might disagree over what constitutes justice."

"Let the courts decide. That's what they're there for."

Shannon leaned back, drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offered me one, which I declined. He lit one, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. "What, in your opinion, would constitute justice in this matter?"

"At the very least, Orville Madison should be sent to prison for the rest of his life."

"What about Veil Kendry?"

"He should be left alone."

"Ah. That might or might not be just, but it would certainly be a circumvention of the law. No?"

"No. Not if he received a presidential pardon in advance-something on the order of what Gerald Ford provided for Richard Nixon would seem appropriate. There were extenuating circumstances for everything he's done. He's killed, yes-but only in self-defense, or in defense of others."

"He's killed for revenge."

"That, too-which is why a presidential pardon is needed. But we know, and I'm sure Veil knows, that things aren't going to work out that way. I can't speak for Veil, but I'm certain that when he sees Orville Madison being dealt with appropriately, he'll come in peacefully and surrender himself to the authorities."

"Oh, good," Shannon said, lighting a second cigarette from the butt of his first. "That's just what I need. With a little luck, Madison's trial will be over in a year or so, and then Kendry's trial can begin. Are you serious? My entire term would be dominated by headlines about Archangel and a defrocked, murderous secretary of state. Do you think I intend to allow myself to be mortally crippled by events before my tenure in office has barely begun?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you intend, sir."

"Do you think I wanted to become president so that my administration could be blown out of the water before it had even set sail?" Shannon continued like a man whose carefully prepared speech had been interrupted. "Do you think I will jeopardize this adminstration's place in history because of one man's mistake?"

"Mistake? You're talking about a man who's killed-"

"I know what I'm talking about, Frederickson. I'm talking about an entire administration imperiled because of a long-standing personal grudge between two men. I won't have it. What you propose is patently ridiculous. Frankly, I'm surprised at your naivete."

"I wouldn't presume to try and guess why you wanted to become president," I replied curtly, trying to suppress my anger. "And if you'll pardon my continuing naivete, I don't understand what you mean when you say that you won't have it. You're responsible for Orville Madison-not for his actions, because you couldn't have known he was a lunatic, but for making certain he's sufficiently punished for those actions."

"Mr. Madison has been totally neutralized, Frederickson."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means he's lost all vestiges of power already. If you knew Orville Madison as well as I do-"

"How well do you know him?"

"Well, enough. As a matter of fact, our relationship goes back a good many years; I'm sure you'll be interested to know that it goes back to the war in Southeast Asia. I was a congressman then, without a great deal of seniority, but I was rewarded for certain good political deeds by being named to a very prestigious, select, secret Senate-House committee that monitored intelligence activities in Southeast Asia. That's how I met Madison, and he deeply impressed me. I knew he was ruthless, but certain kinds of jobs require ruthlessness; his was one of them. I respected him for his ability to get things done, and for his ability consistently to win skirmishes against other men who were every bit as ruthless as he was. I was one of the people who first heard about-and approved-the Archangel plan. I was also instrumental in cutting through about a thousand miles of red tape in order to get Colonel Po secretly into this country after the collapse of Saigon. I didn't know about the affair with the Hmong village, or about Madison's bit of business with Kendry. I never even knew why the plan had been abandoned. I'd like you to believe that."

"I do believe you, Mr. President, and I appreciate your candor." It was the truth; indeed, I considered it a remarkable admission.

"I thought you would. I'm telling you all this so that you can appreciate that I'm even more vulnerable to certain revelations than you thought I was. I might barely survive as a badly crippled president after the business about Orville Madison came out, but I would never survive being named as the man who helped bring Po into this country. I'd be forced to resign, and I don't intend to let that happen. For Mr. Madison, complete loss of power is a punishment worse than death. I suspect Veil Kendry might even agree with me."

"Somehow, I doubt it. Madison has killed too many innocent people."

"Madison is now secretary of state in name only. At the moment, he can't even get back into his office at Langley; they won't let him through the gate. Very soon, he is going to announce his immediate resignation, for reasons of health. Orville Madison is going to retire from public life, and I can assure you that he'll never be heard of-or bother anyone-again."

"Where's he retiring to?"

"That will be a secret; after all, Madison wants assurances that he'll be protected from Veil Kendry in the future. Also, we don't want the Russians nibbling at him; he knows too much, obviously. Now he'll be under constant surveillance for the rest of his life, and he understands that."

"It's not enough, sir. Why don't you just tell the whole story yourself, before anyone else has a chance to?"

"By 'anyone else,' you're referring to yourself and your brother?"

"I'm referring to anyone else. Just get it out in the open and behind you, and trust the American people to give you the chance to begin again."

Kevin Shannon crossed his arms over his chest and sighed deeply. Somewhere in the darkness behind us, walkie-talkies crackled. "Thank you very much, but I just won an election, and I don't feel like going through another campaign. There are too many other matters to which I want to devote my energies. Do you have any idea how many kinks a prolonged matter like this could put in the lives of you and your brother, Dr. Frederickson?"

It was time for yet another game of hardball, with a high slider aimed right at my head. I found I was more depressed than angry, and I said nothing.

"If you try to pursue this matter in the media or the courts," Kevin Shannon continued evenly, "you two could be tied up in knots for years. On the other hand, if we can find a way to work together to resolve our differences, I believe I can assure you that the two of you will be free of any further entanglements."

"We've heard the same offer before," I said tightly.

"Well, now you're hearing it from me," Shannon replied, unperturbed. "You can go back to your lives as they were before, resume your careers. The same general amnesty will apply to Veil Kendry."

"You have that kind of power? You can just erase everything that's happened?"

"Not everything," Shannon replied evenly. "I have the power to make your troubles, and the troubles of Veil Kendry, go away. But you have the power to make my troubles go away in this Orville Madison affair. In effect, I'm saying that I'll wave my magic wand if you'll wave yours. Forget about going anywhere with what you know about Orville Madison, Operation Archangel, and Veil Kendry's most ingenious artwork. Just go home to New York City and go back to work. Nobody will bother you. In addition, I'll arrange for the two of you to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor; that should certainly enhance your respective careers."

Suddenly I felt light-headed and slightly nauseated. "What did you say?"

"The Congressional Medal of Honor; I'm prepared to nominate you and your brother."

"For what?"

"Certainly not for your exploits of the past few weeks," the president said with a nervous laugh. "The medals will be awarded for heroic acts you and your brother performed in the service of your country a few years ago."

Suddenly everything in the night seemed very still, except for the pounding of my heart inside my chest. "What heroic acts would those be?" I asked in a voice that sounded like that of a stranger.

"What? You don't think that, as a member of the Senate, I had a review on what happened? Furthermore, when I became president-elect I was fully briefed by my Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Mr. Lippitt told me how instrumental the Fredericksons were in breaking up that global spy network."

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until my chest began to hurt. I slowly exhaled. Mr. Lippitt, I thought, had told Kevin Shannon a fairy tale, probably the same fairy tale he'd told to a great many other men in power since Valhalla. The three of us, with some unusual help, had managed to break up a global conspiracy, all right, but that conspiracy had been much more terrible than anything as tame as a spy network. Ironically, the horror that had been Valhalla was directly related to the kind of thinking Kevin Shannon was displaying. It made me feel even more nauseated and angry. For thousands of years, men like Kevin Shannon had been killing the world as fast as men of vision could breathe life back into it. The process went on.

"Sir, I most certainly mean to be disrespectful-and I know I'm speaking for Garth-when I suggest that you take your Congressional Medals of Honor and shove them up your presidential ass."

Kevin Shannon didn't much like that. He flushed angrily, quickly turned his face away. "There's no need to be rude, Frederickson," he said tightly.

"If you don't want me to be rude, then stop being insulting."

"I didn't mean to be insulting."

"But you were. You'll force Madison to resign anyway, so that much will be accomplished no matter what Garth and I do or don't do." I paused, rose to my feet. "When you see that bastard Madison, tell him he'd better stock up on telegenic blue shirts, because he's going to be seeing a lot of himself on television."

"No, Frederickson; I won't."

I'd started to walk away. I stopped, turned back to face the other man. "You won't what?"

"I won't force Madison to resign," Shannon said, his dark eyes suddenly seeming to glow with passion in the moonlight.

"I don't understand. You'd keep a madman and a murderer in the most important post in your cabinet out of spite?!"

There was a long silence. Finally, Shannon said: "Sit down and listen, Frederickson. You may yet hear something that pleases you."

"I doubt it very much," I said, remaining on my feet. "But I'm listening."

Shannon lit his third cigarette. "Has it occurred to you to ask why I nominated Orville Madison?" he asked quietly.

"You've already answered that question. You've known him a long time, and he impressed you with his ruthless efficiency. You're buddies."

"There are many men I've known for a long time, Frederickson, and many men I respect for their efficiency. I am not Mr. Madison's 'buddy'; we've known each other for years, yes, but we've never really been friends. Frankly, I've never much cared for the man personally. Yet, he is the man I chose to be my secretary of state. Would you like to know why?"

"Not nearly as much as I'd like to know how you could even consider keeping him on."

"Because Madison has also known Arkady Ilyich Benko for more than twenty years, and they are 'buddies.'"

That got a good two or three blinks out of me. Arkady Ilyich Benko was the mint-new Soviet premier, a warrior, bloodied but unbowed, who had emerged as premier after serving in the Directorate of the K.G.B. Orville Madison's blood brother.

"I managed to surprise you, didn't I, Frederickson?" Shannon continued in the same soft voice.

"It's true?" I asked, feeling short of breath.

Shannon dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. "Like Madison, Benko was very active during the war in Viet Nam. They butted heads a number of times while they were there, and they continued to do so as each ascended to the top of his profession; but the confrontations began growing more symbolic, less vicious, as the years passed. Madison speaks fluent Russian, which I think you will agree would be an admirable achievement for any diplomat, but especially for a secretary of state; admirable and highly desirable. The two men genuinely like-and, even more important, genuinely respect-each other. They also trust each other; indeed, each trusts the other probably more than he trusts a good many of his compatriots. Arkady Ilyich Benko will release a thousand political prisoners from the Gulag, or allow a thousand Soviet Jews to emigrate, tomorrow, simply as a gesture of good will, if Orville Madison asks him to. I mean that literally, and I am absolutely certain of the truth of the statement. Now talk to me about 'justice.' Which is more just? Should I use Orville Madison, and his unique personal relationship with the Soviet premier, to free thousands of political prisoners and perhaps create the best relations we've had with the Soviet Union since World War Two? Or should I destroy this tool-and with it the opportunity for real and lasting peace-because he went a little crazy and killed thirteen people? Surely, that many people die in automobile accidents every day; many times that number. Which should it be, Frederickson? Justice for thirteen people, or the very real possibility of a better world for five billion? Tell me what you would do."

"All right, Mr. President, I will." I paused, swallowed. My mouth was dry. I had no reason to doubt a word Kevin Shannon had said regarding the relationship between Madison and the Soviet premier, and he had painted an awesome and seductive picture of a world in which tensions between Russia and the United States were markedly reduced. But it was still only a picture, a dream, and the trail of death behind me was all too real. And Orville Madison was still a homicidal maniac, which made him, in the final analysis, beyond the control of anyone. "First, I'd take steps to provide justice in my own backyard before I worried about saving the world. Second, anyone who likes, respects, and trusts Orville Madison can't be all good. Madison isn't ultimately responsible for foreign policy, you are. I wouldn't trust Benko, who helped put all those Gulag prisoners there in the first place. I'd clean house, prosecute Madison, and start over. That would make Benko respect me."

"Which is why you're not president, and I am," Shannon said with another disdainful gesture of his hand. "If I'm going to have to put up with a media circus no matter what I do, then I might as well fight to keep the man I wanted in the first place, and try to head Veil Kendry and the Fredericksons off at the pass. The hell with you, Frederickson. Do your worst. I still believe Orville Madison will be the best secretary of state this nation has ever had, and that the world will be a much better place in four years than it is now."

"We'll demand a Senate hearing, Shannon."

The president's response was to laugh. "You'll demand a Senate hearing? How far do you think you'll get?"

"I guess we'll just have to find out. Believe it or not, I really don't want to go to the newspapers with this-not yet. Regardless of what I said to Andrews, I don't think the media is the proper forum for this to be brought out; I don't believe that would be in the best interests of the country."

"I know you believe that," Shannon said mildly, "because it's so obviously true. I thought you'd back off on that."

"Which makes you a good poker player-on the first hand. Now you're forcing us to it."

"No. You want a congressional hearing, you've got it. Indeed, I insist. It's in the administration's interests to have it on the record that you were invited to present your allegations in a proper, congressional forum before peddling them to the newspapers."

"You know they're not allegations."

"What I know isn't the point, is it? You can't subpoena me, and I'm not about to help you sabotage what I believe to be a singular, once-in-a-generation opportunity to rechannel the world's riches and energies from preparing for war to reaping the benefits of peace. But I still challenge you to do your worst. As a matter of fact, you and your brother will find an invitation waiting for you when you get back to your hotel room; I took the liberty of arranging a congressional hearing for you before I came here. I was hoping that the outcome of our meeting would be that you'd decline the invitation."

"We're not about to accept an invitation to any hearing which you've arranged."

"Suit yourself. The fact that you received an invitation will still be a matter of record, and it's the only invitation you'll get. You can bet your pension on that."

"Jesus Christ," I said in a hollow voice. "You're as mad as Madison. Americans have another Goddamn megalomaniac for their president."

"Listen to me, you stubborn, sanctimonious, naive troublemaker!" Shannon snapped in a voice that suddenly vibrated with rage. He abruptly rose to his feet, and his right arm shot out, index finger pointing at the black wall. "You see that monument?! On it are the names of thousands of men who died in an insane war that was the most incredibly stupid act of political blindness, cultural ignorance, arrogance, and paranoia any country in the West has ever committed! It damn near gutted us, and it may still gut us if we can't, finally, find a way to get it behind us! That is our legacy from Viet Nam-in the eyes of the world, and in our own hearts! I will not become just one more casualty of that stupid war! Do you hear me?! What I can accomplish is too important!"

President of the United States Kevin Shannon took a deep breath and slowly lowered his arm. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "I can rebuild America's cities, which is precisely what I intend to do. You may be registered as an Independent, Frederickson, but I'm well aware of your political inclinations. You'll love what you see, be proud of the accomplishments of the Shannon administration. You'll see massive amounts of aid flowing to every area of this country that needs it-aid to farmers and migrant workers, to inner-city families and Appalachian families; you will see an economic policy that is fair to every segment of this society; you will see a tremendous easing of international tensions because the United States will take the lead in initiating a rational and consistent foreign policy based upon reality, not ideology; you will see the promotion of human rights and aspirations instead of corporate profits. You will see this nation literally rebuilt, Frederickson-physically and spiritually. America will become the kind of nation you and I know it can, and should, be. Like it or not, I am counting on the relationship between Madison and Benko to give me the freedom, and release the necessary funds that would otherwise go into the defense budget, to do these things. Do in me and my administration, and you know what you're going to get? — precisely what you've had. Is that what you want, Frederickson? What action should you take that will provide the greatest good for the greatest number of people? Give me the freedom to deal with, and use, Orville Madison in my own way, and I believe I can give you a much better world. You can help me to build a truly moral nation. Take some time to think about it."

"I don't have to think about it," I said, feeling a great wave of sadness wash across my heart. "I don't believe nations are moral or immoral, responsible or irresponsible. Only human beings are those things. Populations that make up the tribal groups we call nations only follow the examples set by their tribal leaders-political, religious, and cultural. You will make a good political tribal leader only if you are moral and act in a moral manner. You're a fool, Shannon, if you believe for an instant that you can build some kind of Golden Age for America on a rotten tin can of an idea-Orville Madison as secretary of state, for whatever reason-that is not only immoral, but reeks of death. You won't be another casualty of the war if you do the right thing. Cut Madison loose, and stop obstructing justice. Be moral, Mr. President; be responsible. That will send one hell of a message to the Russians, and to the rest of the world, a message that we are a responsible nation of laws made up of basically moral people who care deeply about justice, no matter the short-term inconvenience and cost."

Kevin Shannon said nothing. He stood staring at me for some time, the expression on his face stony and unreadable, almost blank. Then he deliberately reached down, picked up the silver flask with the emblazoned presidential seal, and slipped it back into the pocket of his cardigan sweater. He walked past me without a glance, went up the ramp, and disappeared from sight. Instantly, walkie-talkies crackled, and disembodied, electronic voices could be heard all over the park.

Feeling exhausted and lost, I slowly followed after him, trudged up the ramp. I felt light-headed, and there was a sour, bitter taste at the back of my throat, as if I had been breathing poison air. I started back the way I had come, through a park that was already empty. After about twenty steps I turned off into some bushes, bent over, and was sick.