And probably not even then. It had been tried. You ran the risk of plagues of frogs and locusts and pools of blood, and the loss of your firstborn child.
Almost always, the moral high road was the right road, even if it was seldom the popular way.
Saul glanced at the portraits that lined the office wall.
He divided them into two groups: wrong but romantic, or right but repulsive. Sarah Mander would have told him in an instant the name of the book from which he had stolen the two categories. Nick Lopez might know, but he would deny the knowledge.
They both had a special interest in politics. How was a President usually remembered by the general public?
By trivia, some of them false.
You chopped down a cherry tree. You charged on horseback up a useless piece of real estate called San Juan Hill. You used a wheelchair. You were so fat you got stuck in the White House bathtub. You were as stingy with words as a miser with his gold. You recorded your own crimes — and kept the recordings. You rented bedrooms for one-nighters at the White House. You were shot in a motorcade, and set off the biggest conspiracy theory in history.
And Saul Steinmetz?
The first Jewish President, but the hell with that as a claim for immortality. Kennedy was the first Catholic President, Reagan the first divorced President. Who remembered them that way? No one.
Jewishness was merely an obstacle, a fence that he had already cleared on the way to the White House. What he needed was something as memorable as ending slavery, as important as bringing the nation out of the Depression. Suppose he put the country back on its feet now, and made it stronger and better than it had ever been? That might do it. His recent meeting would not make that job any easier.
He glanced toward the empty corner of the office where the Persona had once maintained its hologram, then he slid open a drawer of his desk and looked inside. A handsome face with long hair pushed Byronically back from the brow stared straight at him from the old painting. The Presidents on the wall were your predecessors, Saul; but I am your spiritual Papa.
Benjamin Disraeli had fought every one of Saul’s battles, and won, to become the Prime Minister of the biggest empire the world had ever known. And he had done it in a century where jew was a verb.
If Disraeli were here, what would he be doing now?
He would be asking his universal question. What if ?
What if Saul had given Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez a flat and immediate no?
They must have come prepared for such an answer. They would have alternate strategies able to neutralize or bypass Saul. For that to be possible, they needed a high-level insider within the White House itself. Preferably someone with detailed information on military strength and disposition.
The same question was in his head again: What did Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez know about the condition of the country’s military machine that Saul didn’t?
By definition, he could not answer that. Yet.
If Presidents had one common weakness, it was the disguised fondness for introspection. Saul roused himself and hit the intercom. When Auden Travis appeared — with his usual speed, and carrying a yellow folder -
Saul asked, “Are we able to use hidden personnel tracers yet?”
“No, sir. Security says it may take months. We first need to build a factory to make the microchips.”
“I was afraid of that. Is General Mackay here today?”
“I think so, sir. Would you like to see her?”
“No, I want you to make sure that she receives a piece of information, through as indirect a route as possible. I want her to be told that she is under surveillance.”
“Yes, sir.” Travis hesitated. “Do you want me to try to arrange for surveillance?”
“No. I’m not planning that at the moment.”
“Very well, sir.” Auden Travis, quite reasonably in Saul’s opinion, looked baffled. When it was clear that Saul was going to say no more, Travis proffered the folder. “This is the list of calls, sir, reorganized in a suggested order of priority for action. Cases where the staff could not make a decision are marked with a star.”
“Fine.” Saul took the yellow folder, but still Auden Travis hesitated. “Is there something else I need to know?”
“I think so, sir. Thirty-four of the calls were from the same person.”
“I suppose that’s good. That many less to answer.”
“Yes, sir. All those calls are from Mrs. Patricia Goldsmith. She said you know her as Tricia.”
His face asked the question. Auden was a relative newcomer to his White House job, and it proved he knew less about Saul than he imagined. He must have looked for Patricia Goldsmith in Saul’s contact file, and found her identified as a wealthy local resident and prominent socialite.
Saul opened the folder. “Did you speak with her yourself?”
“Yes, sir. On her thirty-fourth call. I thought I ought to find out what she wanted. But she refused to tell me any more than she told anyone else.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you have been terribly busy with numerous crises. That you are flooded with calls.”
“What did she say?”
Auden Travis’s face flushed a bright pink. “Something I prefer not to repeat.”
“It’s all right. I know how Tricia can be. Remember, quoting someone isn’t the same thing as saying it yourself.”
“I told her that I would pass on her message, but you were in an important meeting and could not be interrupted. She asked my name, and I gave it to her. She asked me how old I was. I said I didn’t think that was relevant. Then she said that she had heard of me, but if I wanted to go anywhere in this job I must not block access to the President by his old friends. Sir, I don’t do that.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Auden. Think of it as the habits of the very rich. They are not used to being frustrated.”
“Yes, sir. I try to treat this sort of thing as part of my job.”
“It is, but it ought not to be. Don’t worry, I’ll take it from here.”
As Travis left, Saul examined the ranked list of callers. Eight foreign heads of state, thirty-three congressional representatives, nine state governors, fourteen heads of government departments, eighteen heads of industry and major party contributors. They all needed to speak with him “urgently and immediately.” And that was just the first page.
He flipped through the list, sheet after sheet. Everyone was looking to Washington. Judging from the message summaries, every caller had outstretched hands. Nick Lopez and Sarah Mander were right. A country with food and weapons and a working infrastructure had never been so powerful.
He came to the final page. There they were, Tricia’s calls, right at the end, with her number and his staff’s priority assignment. She had been assigned the lowest level. No one knew why she was calling. Nor, for that matter, did he.
Automatic call routing had died with Supernova Alpha’s gamma-ray pulse. Saul went to his private line, one that could not be monitored by Auden Travis or anyone else, and entered the sequence by hand. He was half hoping there would be no reply, but it was answered immediately.
“Hello?” Tricia’s voice was clear and high-pitched, a little faint over the noisy line but easily recognized.
“Hi.” He felt breathless. “This is Saul.”
“Saul! Mr. President! It’s been ages.”
Strictly speaking, that was not true. She and Saul had been at the same reception, just before Christmas. They had eyed each other from across the room. Very slim and taller than Saul even without heels, she stood out above the crowd. Her black hair was as sleek and stylish as ever, setting off a pale, flawless complexion and fine cheekbones. She was not with her new husband, Joseph Goldsmith, but even so she and Saul had kept their distance.