Fall of Knight (7 page)

R
ON CORDOBA HAD
no idea at all how the press caught wind of Arthur and Gwen’s return. Technically, that wasn’t actually true. He had some idea, all right. Someone with a mouth the size of the Grand Canyon had blabbed about it…probably someone at Pearl Harbor who had leaked the news to someone else who had in turn fed it to someone else further along the food chain. All he knew was that he had a full-blown security breach and media event on his hands, when all he’d really wanted to do was try and get some solid footing in the situation.

He reasoned that it was too late to start crying about it now. The word was out, and the press secretary was fielding so many questions, so fast and furiously, that Ron felt the need to walk into the pressroom—much to the shock of all concerned, since it was something he rarely if ever did—and announce that this line of inquiry was not only at an end but so were the regular press conferences. He then pulled the press secretary out and ordered all the lights in the pressroom shut off, just to show that he meant it.

This naturally earned him an earful from the press secretary, who pointed out, not unreasonably, that the best way to handle the story was for the White House to control it. But Ron shook his head, and retorted, “Wake up and smell the leak. We’re no longer controlling. It’s out there, like a burning factory fire. In my opinion, all we can do right now is try not to spill more fuel on it. And I can assure you, that’s all the press conferences are going to be.”

“But Ron—”

“No buts! The lid is on until further notice. If I see a single off-the-record quote showing up in the
Washington Post
that could be remotely traced to you, you’ll be gone so fast no one will remember you were ever here.”

He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but the secretary simply nodded, and echoed, “The lid is on.”

Every once in a while, Ron loved having power.

Still, power was only relative. Right now he was seated in the room that was the epitome of power in the country: the Oval Office. Stockwell was behind his desk, shuffling through papers and reading reports, shaking his head in a way that indicated he wasn’t exactly thrilled with what he was reading. Ron was seated alertly in one of the more comfortable chairs, and asked tentatively, “What’s that you’re going over, sir?”

“Reports detailing the success rates of small businesses over the last five years,” said Stockwell, without looking up.

“How’s that going?”

“Eighty-five percent crash and burn every single year.”

“Well, one has to admire the consistency.”

Stockwell afforded him a brief glance. “Indeed.”

One of the president’s aides opened the door partway, and announced, “Sir. He’s here.”

There was no need to explain who the “he” was. Stockwell was immediately on his feet, as was Ron. The aide, with no further preamble, opened the doors wide. Arthur Penn, with Gwendolyne at his side, entered. Coming in directly behind them was Percival. He was dressed in black and was wearing the exact kind of long, flopping brown duster that Secret Service agents tended to despise since they could conceal anything from a pistol to a rocket launcher. Indeed, the agents stationed just outside the Oval Office were eyeing Percival with open suspicion. If Percival noticed that he was being singled out for that kind of scrutiny, he didn’t let it show.

“Mr. President,” said Arthur, and Stockwell responded in kind. They shook hands firmly. Gwen extended her hand as well, and Stockwell shook it, smiling warmly. Percival contented himself to incline his head slightly from a short distance away, which suited Stockwell fine. Stockwell had never known quite what to make of Percival, never fully understanding what his involvement with Arthur was. He’d always suspected, deep down, that Percival was some sort of muscle who did Arthur’s dirty work for him.

Then Arthur and Gwen turned toward Ron, and their greeting for him was a bit less formal. Arthur wrapped both of his hands around Ron’s outstretched one and shook it warmly, while Gwen simply disdained handshakes of any kind and instead embraced him. In this case, Percival did approach him and shook Ron’s hand warmly. The two men had shared a life-and-death adventure together, and that sort of escapade always served to forge a bond that was not easily broken.

“It’s great to see you again,” Ron said.

“Indeed. In the case of Mrs. Penn, one would almost say it was miraculous,” said Stockwell, gesturing for Arthur and Gwen to sit. They did so, and Stockwell sat as well. He interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his desk. “So, Arthur…it seems we have ourselves a bit of a situation.”

“It does indeed.”

“One for which—and I don’t say this accusingly, but merely as a statement of fact—a number of people in my administration are getting their heads handed to them, both by the press and the general public.”

“It’s such hypocrisy,” said Gwen.

Stockwell glanced at her, his face puckered with curiosity. “Hypocrisy?”

“Arthur showed me the cards, the letters, the communications from all over the world while I was in a coma. And nine out of ten of them—maybe more than that—said the exact same thing: ‘We’re praying for a miracle.’ With that many people praying together, is it so impossible for us to say, ‘Guess what? It was a miracle. Let’s be thankful,’ and move on?”

“On a logical basis, Mrs. Penn, no, it’s not impossible at all. As a matter of practicality,” the president said grimly, “it is completely impossible. Miracles are what you pray for. Results are what you get. And although I’ve no doubt there are a number of people out there who are perfectly willing to accept your recovery as divine providence, end of story…there are far more who see it only as the beginning of the story. Your medical condition was too widely disseminated in the media. The damage done to you by the assassin’s bullets was examined by medical experts in excruciating detail, all on the world stage. Doctor-patient confidentiality? Forget it. That ship sailed the moment pieces of your head exploded.”

“I’d forgotten how you have a way of putting things, Terrance,” said Gwen.

“I’m the leader of the free world, Gwen. I don’t have time to mince words. This has to be attended to, and I’m looking to know what it is that you’re going to do about it. And I need to know…if it’s true.”

“It?”

Nothing was said for a moment, then Ron loudly cleared his throat. “Arthur…I, uhm…I felt he deserved to know about your true background. Where you really came from. Who, uh…”

“Who I am?” Arthur said gently.

“In so many words: Yes.”

“It’s all right, Ron. The development is not unanticipated. How did he take it?”

“About as well as could be expected.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Stockwell pointed out.

“Very well, Terrance,” Arthur said reasonably, turning to Stockwell. “How are you dealing with the revelation, as it were?”

“It’s…a lot to process, Arthur, I have to admit. The entire notion behind myth and legend is that that’s…that’s all they are. Fantasies. Epic tales that get passed along from one generation to the next. They’re bigger than life. And now I’m being told that, here you are, King Arthur, seated right in front of me.”

“Do you believe in God, sir?” Percival suddenly spoke up.

“Of course I do,” Stockwell said unhesitatingly.

“So why should believing in Arthur Rex be that much of a problem?”

“Because he’s not God. He’s a man, flesh and blood.”

“As was the Christian savior, as I recall. If he walked in here now and proclaimed that he had returned, would you believe him? Or would you figure him to be a madman.”

“Truthfully, probably the latter.”

“I don’t know about you,” Gwen said, “but I find that kind of sad. That we’ve reached a point in our society that…I don’t know.”

“Men cling to faith as their reason to believe in God,” said Arthur, smiling sadly. “Sometimes it seems to me that their faith also prevents them from believing as well. People have no trouble handling the divine…as long as it’s a safe distance away. How are we to aspire to be closer to God when, if He comes closer to us, we head in the other direction.”

“Are you now saying you’re God?” asked Stockwell.

“Hardly. On the other hand, if He presented himself to me, I would certainly be more inclined to give Him the benefit of the doubt than to dismiss Him out of hand.”

“Fair enough. But the fine line we walk, Arthur, is that those who claim to be nearer our God tend to get on the wrong side of the American people, since everyone wants to believe that they themselves have their own personal connection with the almighty. Ron is telling me stories about the Holy Grail, and I’m not certain how to—”

“You could try showing them this,” suggested Percival. He reached deep into his coat, and when he withdrew his hand, there was a gleaming goblet in it.

Stockwell gaped at it for a moment. Then he started to reach for it before reflexively pulling his hand back. He stared at it with uncertainty. “Are you saying…that’s it?” Percival nodded. “May I…?”

Percival glanced at Arthur, who nodded slightly. The Grail Knight strode forward and, rather than handing it to Stockwell, placed it in the dead center of his desk. He took several steps back as Stockwell just stared at it.

“Breathe, Terrance,” Arthur said gently.

Stockwell exhaled heavily, not realizing until that moment that he’d been holding his breath. Slowly, his hands trembling in spite of himself, Stockwell reached out and took the Grail carefully, balancing it with both hands. Then he experimentally shifted the cup from one hand to the other. “It’s…colder than I expected,” he said finally.

“Did you think it would be scalding to the touch?” asked Arthur.

“I’m…not sure. I’m not sure what I…” He shook his head and placed the Grail gingerly back down on the desk. “I thought it would be…revelatory in some way. That I would hold it and—”

“Be instantly nearer to Jesus?” asked Percival.

“I suppose that sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t sound any one way or the other. Your expectations are what they are. No one’s going to gainsay you.”

Stockwell nodded, although it was hard to know whether he’d actually heard what Percival had just said. Instead he said, “I was skeptical of everything Ron told me. Then we brought in Nellie, and she told me practically the exact same story. Just enough variances to make the differing point of view believable, but in all the major aspects, the stories matched up.”

“So you believe, then.”

“I would say, Arthur, that I’m perhaps eighty percent of the way there. My concern is this: If it’s this much effort for me to believe, how in the world are we going to convince the American people? Or the world? How are we going to say that Arthur Penn was truly King Arthur, and that he found the Holy Grail and used it to cure his wife?”

“First of all, Percival found the Grail,” Arthur corrected him.

“Well, that solves the problem then,” he said sarcastically. “That small clarification is just going to do wonders for the way this will play in Paducah.”

“I’m not concerned about how this will ‘play,’ Terrance. I’m concerned about the truth.”

“And I’m concerned about all of it, Arthur. Are you actually suggesting that we go public with the entire story?”

“Absent anyone innocent getting hurt by it, the truth is generally the preferable way in which to approach all matters,” Arthur said.

Even Gwen looked uncertain at that notion. She reached over and took his hand. “Arthur, are you sure?” she said worriedly. “I mean, I know we discussed it, but—”

“It seems to me the only option. I am, naturally, open to whatever other possibilities the president may have.”

Stockwell drummed his fingers on the table. “Ron, you were a hell of a PR man before you became chief of staff. What’s your take on it?”

“Some people will believe; some won’t,” Ron said. “Some will think it’s a desperate attempt to cover up something else; but there are enough others of a fanciful—dare I say it, faith-oriented—state of mind that they might accept the notion. Either way, at least it allows us to spin the story.”

“Does it?” asked Stockwell, not sounding convinced. “Or does it just make us look like idiots? Look, we’re shooting in the dark here,” he continued, before Ron could respond. “If we’re seriously talking about going public with this, we have to run this by Mahoney.” When he saw Arthur’s quizzical look, he said by way of explanation, “Tyler Mahoney. My press secretary. He knows everyone in the White House press corps…how they think, how much they’ll swallow. If anyone can give us a reading of what we can expect, it’s him.” He tapped his intercom. “Terry. Get Tyler up here, would you?”

The door promptly opened and Terry, the president’s aide walked in, looking extremely concerned. “That may not be possible at the moment, Mr. President. There’s a situation that’s just developed that Tyler’s dealing with.”

“What sort of situation? Something involving us?”

“No, sir. It’s David Jackson of the
Daily News.
He was in Tyler’s office, having a real shouting match with Tyler because the press conferences have been closed down, and he just collapsed.”

“He who? Tyler or Jackson?”

“Jackson. And there’s blood coming out his ears. They don’t know what it is. The medics are on their way.”

“They won’t be needed,” Arthur said abruptly, standing. “Percival. Come with me. We’ll settle this right now.”

Instantly, both Stockwell and Ron were on their feet, Ron instantly realizing what Arthur was intending, and Stockwell a few seconds behind him. “Arthur, we have to discuss this—!”

“No, Ron. We do not. Gwen, remain here, please. I don’t need you being assaulted by reporters until we have a more controlled situation.” He threw open the door, and there were two Secret Service men just outside. “Stand aside,” he ordered, and they instantly did so. Percival had retrieved the Grail from the desk, and seconds later they were heading down the corridor, Ron bringing up the rear.

Stockwell sagged back into his chair, rubbing his forehead and trying to control the dull roar that he was hearing. He could have ordered the Secret Service men to try and stop Arthur in his tracks, but the thought of a former president being manhandled was not one he wanted to entertain. To say nothing of the fact that he wasn’t certain Arthur and Percival together couldn’t fight their way past the agents, which was even less desirable.