Shall We Tell the President? (25 page)

He sat in a large throne of a chair at the
far end of the room, his feet only, just touching the ground. He was now
surrounded by arc lights and the TV acoustics men put microphones all around
him and in front of him. Suddenly, three more vast
Idreg
lights were switched on.
Thornton
was sweating already, but still smiling. The three television networks agreed
that they were ready for the Senator.
Thornton
cleared his throat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press...’

‘That’s a pompous start,’ said a
correspondent in front of Mark, writing every word down in shorthand. Mark
looked more closely, he thought he recognised the face. It was Bernstein of the
Washington
Post.
Senator Thornton now had complete silence from the room.

‘I have just left the White House after a
private session with the President of the
United States
and because of that
meeting, I wish to make a statement for press and television.’ He paused. ‘My
criticisms of the Gun Control bill and my vote against it in committee were
motivated by a desire to represent my constituents and their genuine fear of
unemployment . . .’

‘. . .
and your
own genuine fear of
unemployment,’ remarked Bernstein,
sotto voce.
‘What bribe did the
President offer you at dinner on Monday?’

The Senator cleared his throat again. ‘The
President has assured me that if this piece of legislation is passed, and
domestic production of guns is prohibited, she will sponsor legislation to give
immediate financial assistance to gun manufacturers and their employees, in the
hope that the facilities of the gun industry can be turned to other, less
dangerous uses than the production of weapons of destruction. The President’s
concern has made it possible for me to vote in favour of the Gun Control bill.
I have for some considerable time been in two minds…’

‘True enough,’ said Bernstein.

‘. . . concerning this bill, because of my
genuine fear of the freedom and ease with which criminals can obtain firearms.’

‘It didn’t worry you yesterday. Just what
contracts did the President promise,’ murmured the correspondent, ‘or did she
say she would help you win re-election next year?’

‘And the problem for me has always been in
the balance .. .’

‘... and a little bribe tipped that
balance.’

Bernstein now had his own audience, which
was enjoying his offerings far more than those of the Senator from
Texas
.

‘Now that the President has shown such
consideration, I feel able to announce with a clear conscience . . .’

‘. . . so clear we can see right through
it,’ more Bernstein.

‘. . . that I am now able to support my
party’s position over gun control. I will, therefore, not be opposing the
President on the floor of the Senate tomorrow.’

Wild applause from scattered parts of the
room, sounding - and looking - suspiciously like aides
placaed
in strategic spots.

‘I shall, ladies and gentlemen,’ Senator
Thornton continued, ‘rest an easier man tonight. . .’

‘And a re-elected one,’ added Bernstein.

‘I should like to end by thanking the
members of the press for attending .. .’

‘We had to; it was the only show in town.’

Laughter broke out around the
Post
correspondent,
but it didn’t reach
Thornton
.

‘And I would like to say that I will be
delighted to answer any questions. Thank you.’

‘Bet you don’t answer any of mine.’

Most of the other reporters left the room
immediately, in order to catch the early editions of the afternoon papers,
already going to press right across the country. Mark joined them but glanced
over the famous journalist’s shoulder. He had been scribbling in longhand.

‘Friends, Romans, country bumpkins, lend me
your jeers; I come to bury Kane, not to praise her.’ Not exactly front-page
material.

Three other men who had attended the press
conference followed Mark out of the room, as he ran to the nearest pay
telephones, halfway down the hall. Mark found them all occupied by newspapermen
anxious to get their copy in first, and there was a long line behind those
already dictating. Another line had formed by the two phones at the other end
of the hall. Mark took the elevator to the ground floor; same problem; his only
chance would be the pay phone in the
Russell
Building
across the street. He ran all the way; so did three other men. When he reached
there, a middle-aged woman stepped into the booth a pace ahead of him, and put
her quarter in.

‘Hello . . . it’s me. I got the job . . .
Yeah, pretty good . . . Mornings only. Start tomorrow . . . But I can’t
complain, money’s not bad.’

Mark paced up and down while the three men
caught their breath. At last, the woman finished talking and, with a big smile
all over her face, she walked away, oblivious of Mark or the nation’s problems.
At least someone is confident about tomorrow, thought Mark. He glanced around to
be sure that there was no one near him, though he could have sworn he
recognised a man standing by the Medicare poster; perhaps it was one of his
colleagues from the FBI. He had seen that face behind the dark glasses
somewhere. He was getting better protection than the President. He dialled the
Director’s private line and gave him his pay phone number. The phone rang back
almost immediately.

‘Thornton’s off the list, sir, because he
has—’

‘I know, I know,’ said the Director. ‘I’ve
just been briefed on what
Thornton
said. It’s exactly what I would have expected him to say if he were involved.
It certainly does not get him off my list; if anything, I’m a little more
suspicious. Keep working on all five this afternoon and contact me the moment
you come up with anything; don’t bother to come in.’

The phone clicked. Mark felt despondent. He
depressed the cradle and waited for the dial tone, put in a quarter and dialled
Woodrow Wilson. The nurse on duty went on a search for
Elizabeth
, but returned and said that no one
had seen her all day. Mark hung up, forgetting to say thank you or goodbye. He
took the elevator down to the basement cafeteria to have lunch. His decision
gained the restaurant two more customers; the third man already had a lunch
date, for which he was running late.