Leon Uris (42 page)

WASHINGTON

Marine Corps Helicopter Number One swayed from its Camp David pod and swished urgently for Washington. The President tried his earphones and switched on his mike.

“It’s a miracle, Darnell,” Thornton said. “I’ve never believed in divine intervention because it doesn’t have a website or a printout. Can we get the election turned around?”

“A lot is going to take place in the next seventy-two hours. You’ll have to play it statesman and big daddy.”

“Darnell! The man has left us an opening!”

“You’ve walked into his openings before. Don’t even think ‘nasty.’”

The President picked up his White House phone. “Martha, this is the President. I want Jacob Turnquist and Hugh Mendenhall in the Oval Office, pronto. Better run down Lucas de Forest,” he said of the FBI director. “I want to meet with them in my study alongside the Oval Office.”

“Don’t you think we’d better have Pucky attend this meeting?”

“Do you know where she is?” Tomtree asked.

“Unless she’s away on a campaign speech, she pretty much locks herself in her suite at the White House,” Darnell said.

“As a matter of fact,” Thornton said, “keep her at the White House. I think it would be wise if she and I made several campaign appearances together.”

He looked away from Darnell, lifting the White House phone again.

Darnell became awed for the thousandth time at how the Capitol rose from the dark and dazzled with white, blaring focus on the dome and the monuments. There, the White House ahead. A crowd was gathering in Lafayette Park over the street. What would they chant this night?

Marine Corps One touched down silkily. With neither dog nor wife to greet him, Tomtree stretched his long legs over the lawn toward the portico. “Here they come!”

“Mr. President…”

“Mr. President…will you tell us…”

He turned at the door and held up both hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, as soon as I’m fully briefed, I’ll have a statement for you.”

“Has Governor O’Connell tried to reach you?”

“How is this going to affect the outcome…”

“Mr. President, were you aware…”

Thornton disappeared inside. Darnell glanced down the driveway, where TV trucks and the cars of correspondents were hurtling themselves onto the grounds.

Jacob Turnquist was in place as Mendenhall, shirt tail askew, entered the Oval Office with a stack of late data.

“Martha! Where the hell is Lucas de Forest?”

“Just got a cell call. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Thornton nodded for her to leave and shut out the world. He pointed at Mendenhall.

“The buzz words,” Hugh Mendenhall said, “are general confusion and disbelief. Too early for any kind of reliable polls, but the cable stations are filled
with constitutional experts, you know, the musical-chair crowd. The only piece of hard information is that O’Connell is not playing in Birmingham. The KKK is burning a cross before a Jewish-owned department store. One synagogue trashed in Atlanta and inner-city rumblings all over: Watts, Oakland, Harlem, Detroit, East Saint Louis.”

“All black?”

“Yes, sir, seems like the Muslim preachers are really trying to get them stirred up. While the new data is pouring in, I’m trying to canvas tomorrow’s newsprint editorials.”

“Are any in yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Mendenhall answered, and reluctantly passed a special edition of the
New York Times
.

IS GOVERNOR O
’
CONNELL TO BE BELIEVED
?

“There is nothing in O’Connell’s ancient past or recent candidacy to even hint he has ever lied or deliberately deceived the public. The
New York Times
finds no reason to withdraw our endorsement of him for president.”

“Jesus Christ!” Thornton said, hitting the desk.

“Mr. President,” Jacob Turnquist said, “don’t read in too much. The
New York Times
is a Jewish newspaper catering to an enormous Jewish population. We can expect a number of his endorsers to defect to us.”

“Mr. President, Director de Forest is here,” Martha said over the intercom.

Lucas de Forest, the nation’s first black FBI director, was Tomtree’s showpiece nominee. He had returned the New Orleans Police Department to a position of respect and then done the same in Philadelphia. Only thing about him, he was too damned assertive and at times played a bit loose with citizens’ rights. He and Thornton had bucked heads on Internet issues. The FBI wanted to be able to break into lines such as the Bulldog Network. One
of the reasons Thornton was in the White House was to keep that from happening, and do nothing to fog up business transactions.

Nonetheless, de Forest was a great cop.

“What’s your read, Lucas?” Tomtree asked after they were bolted in.

Lucas looked like a cop, and even more like a boxer, whose face had caught its fair share. Yet he was a rock. He turned to Hugh Mendenhall.

“We’re only a couple hours into this thing,” Lucas said. “Hugh, what’s going on with the Internet?”

“Every little neo-Nazi and White Aryan Christian Arrival website is beating the keys. Real puss stuff.”

“What about the TV media?”

“Utter confusion amplified by their panels. No one has called O’Connell a flat-out liar…yet.”

“For the moment, I think we are in good shape,” Lucas went on. “If the outburst is confined to the hate groups, we’ll have no problem dealing with them…and I don’t feel any of them has a great reach into the mainstream, or the stamina to make a continuing fight.”

“What worries me,” Jacob Turnquist said, “is the inner cities. The conditions are in perfect alignment to have a black pogrom against the Jews, cossack-style. ‘Now is the time, brothers, to vent all your frustrations against Jewish slum lords,’ et cetera, et cetera.”

“You’re right,” Lucas answered directly. “We can’t allow brush fires to flare up in the inner cities.”

“Do you believe the situation will deteriorate that much?” Tomtree asked.

“Mr. President, a riot takes on a life of its own,” Darnell answered.

Mendenhall whispered over the phone in the attached pantry. Knee-jerk reaction was coming in from the Christian Right, careful criticism with a
tinge of rancor. Yet no one outside the hate groups had branded O’Connell as a flat-out liar. More hot spots were developing from the Aryans and the Klan.

“I think we’d better make a statement,” Darnell said.

“Press or TV?”

“Right now a press release will have to do,” Tomtree said.

“Those news dogs are hunting out there,” Mendenhall said.

“A statement will hold things for a while,” Darnell reckoned.

“Jacob?”

“You are on to the events of tonight,” Jacob said as he stopped to ponder. “Something to the effect that nothing has changed,
if
O’Connell is telling the truth. Then go on to say you hope all the facts are in
before
the election.”

“That’s accusatory,” Darnell said.

“I don’t think so,” Turnquist answered. “He doesn’t say Jew, he doesn’t say liar—”

“He says,” Darnell interrupted, “if the dog hadn’t stopped to take a shit, he’d have caught the rabbit.”

Thornton closed his eyes and mumbled lightly as he ran through the words.

“
Wall Street Journal
editorial, Mr. President.” Mendenhall read, “The waters have been muddied. The safe course is to stick with the President.”

A thump of delight, of tension falling.

“Jacob, jot out my announcement.
If
O’Connell is telling the truth, and we hope we can learn that
before
the election, we can save the nation from a perilous direction.”

“Dammit! Cut the last part,” Darnell said, “we don’t have to issue a warning citation. Everyone knows what we’re talking about. Mr. President, you
have a chance here to make a statesmanlike, brilliant, meaningful pronouncement…”

“Such as?”

“Well, try this on,” Darnell answered. “I’ve read the Constitution, and nothing in it says it is illegal for an orphan to find his parents. The question has no part in this election.”

Turnquist winced. Mendenhall winced. Lucas de Forest was politically noncommittal, but Thornton seemed unable to stop himself from taking a free kick at his opponent.

“We’ll go with
if
O’Connell,
before
the election. We’ll cut the part about saving the nation, for now,” the President said.

“Mr. Director, what kind of contingency plan do we have for this?” he asked Lucas de Forest.

The director took a large three-ring binder from his worn old briefcase, put it on the coffee table, and bent down to it.

TOP SECRET
—
OPERATION JOY STREETS
, the title page read. “In the event of civil disobedience by anti-government groups—this is not a plan that includes students.”

“Don’t the damned campuses always erupt?” Tomtree asked.

“Mr. President, there is no occasion where a campus has rioted against the Jewish population,” de Forest said, “but we can’t rule them out. This is a unique situation.”

“Run this Joy Streets past me,” Thornton asked.

“Phase One, alert FBI; Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco; U.S. Marshal Service; establish local communications to Washington headquarters.”

Lucas buzzed down the page with his finger, omitting the details.

“Okay, here we go,” he read. “This is also part of Phase One: Contact our moles, informers, spies in
suspected groups. This is key to Phase One…namely, ascertain from our infiltrators if their cell, group, Klavern, et cetera, have preselected bombing targets or persons to be assassinated. Name and address of cell leaders.”

“How many moles have we planted?” the President asked.

“A couple a hundred,” Lucas answered.” Of these, two or three dozen have totally infiltrated and are reliable. The rest from luke cold to luke warm.”

Thornton waved for Lucas de Forest to continue.

“Mr. President, let’s take a look at this Phase One. If we can have our people at the controls and if we can stop three or four bombings, it is going to disrupt their attack.”

“I disagree,” Thornton said. “If we initiate this first call-up only on the suspicion of what might happen, then the people will think we are trigger happy, overplaying our hand and the like.”

“But the call-up is secret,” de Forest argued.

“Hell,” Hugh Mendenhall popped in. “Five minutes after you initiated Phase One the press would know it.”

“You see, we’ve branded O’Connell, with some success, as being the reckless gunfighter,” Thornton said.

“But, sir,” de Forest persisted, “if we hesitate in putting Phase One into motion, it could entirely lose its effectiveness. The idea behind Joy Streets is to beat them to the punch.”

“Keep reading please, Mr. Director,” Tomtree ordered.

“Phase Two, deputize all urban police forces and county sheriffs to round up and detain suspects. Phase Three, call up the National Guard in threatened locales. National Guards to maintain a peacekeeping posture.”

“It’s starting to sound like the Keystone Kops,” the President said.

“How, sir? Once we have a list of priority people and buildings to defend and have the National Guard on the street and we have rounded up their leadership, we’ll snuff it by the middle of the day, tomorrow.”

“Let’s hear the rest of this plan,” Thornton said, knowing he’d made up his mind.

“The rest of the phases deal with a full-court press on the streets—curfews, ultimatums, finally call up the Army and Marines for martial law.”

“Bad news,” Mendenhall interrupted. “Jewish community center in Los Angeles was just bombed.”

“We can’t count this as a trend,” Jacob Turnquist grunted academically. “Just sporadic incidents.”

“If we do not put Phase One into motion, we’ll be playing in a game we can’t win. If we allow fires to erupt, the fires will consume everything until they burn themselves out,” de Forest warned.

“And I say that jumping the gun sends a bad signal to the American people. It might be all over with by dawn,” said Tomtree.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” de Forest said. “This is a matter of public safety, sir…”

“Mendenhall.”

“Sir.”

“Run off a copy of this Joy Streets for my personal use. You’ve got to know when to hold and know when to fold. What else have you got there, Mr. Director?”

“Release form, Mr. President. An executive order to be signed by you to put Joy Streets into motion.”

“Just leave it here. Thank you, gentlemen,” Thornton said, nodding to each. “Mr. Jefferson, remain, please.”

The three left, consumed with apprehension.
Hugh Mendenhall ran Joy Streets through a copier. A note was handed to Director Lucas de Forest.

“Shit. Synagogue torched in Baltimore.” He glared at Mendenhall, who threw up his arms.

“I don’t know why,” Hugh said defensively. “The chief plays a mean poker hand.”

Thornton unlaced his shoes and rubbed his feet. He’d never seen Darnell Jefferson suddenly become so haggard. “I think we’re on the right track, Darnell, but you looked like you were ready to explode.”

“Because,” Darnell said hoarsely, “I know something that I didn’t know before.”

“What would that be?”

“I really don’t think you can comprehend what I’ve got to say, Thornton.”

“It’s too late to speak in riddles, and we’ve got a bitch of a day tomorrow. I’m wondering now, how do we approach the last days of the campaign?”

“Well, just travel right into the riot spots.”

“That could be messy. I think…I think we buy two thirty-minute time slots a day, one at noon, one at eight in the evening, and we’ll do a combination infomercial/up-to-the-minute report.”

Darnell Jefferson turned on his heel. “Darnell! Do not leave!” Darnell’s hand dropped from the door knob. “Now, what is it you know you didn’t know before?”

“All about my life,” Darnell said. “It isn’t very interesting.”

“Sit down, have a drink,” Thornton said. “This thing could be volatile, because—”

“Because you want it to become volatile,” Darnell said, looking down, then into the President’s eyes. “You want some more bombs to go off, cemeteries desecrated, synagogues burned to the ground,
Kristallnacht
, you want a
Kristallnacht
. Then their big daddy president will move in and save the day. You
want to deliberately start Joy Streets late so you can take on the role of savior.”