The former auto executive emitted a grudging "Correct."
"Neither did I when the ax fell on me. But think back. After you were tossed out on your ear, you probably told yourself, 'How could I have been so stupid?' In the days prior to that fateful board meeting, I'll bet your phone calls weren't returned. When you walked into staff meetings, people would clam up. Nobody wanted to go to lunch with you. You were kept out of the loop on important memoranda. You'd call up a colleague to arrange a golf game, but he would beg off and say he was busy. You were persona non grata in your own company and you didn't even know it. When the board finally axed you, you were the last one to know. Am I right?"
A nod. "Yeah," he admitted. "But I still don't see where you're going with this line of thinking. What's the bottom line?"
The Secretary pulled on his sharp chin as he walked to the end of the table, then turned around. What the hell, he thought. Go for it. "Mr. President, I believe the 'pre-termination fool's paradise syndrome,' if you want to call it that, is not a distinctly American phenomenon. In fact, I believe it to be a universal phenomenon, to which the Soviet Union is not immune. The bottom line is that if Sam's people are wrong about the Intrepid and there is, in fact, no real communication between our spacecraft and the Russians, then we've just made a stupid error and have some egg on our face. But if Sam's people are indeed correct, and Yakolev is telling the truth about die Soviet ministers knowing nothing about the Intrepid. '. "
The Secretary's voice trailed off, but the President prodded him gendy: "Go on."
The Secretary sighed. "Then a leadership change may be under way in the Kremlin."
The President walked back into the Oval Office to find his Gallic counterpart reviewing a staff briefing paper. The Frenchman's long, lanky frame dwarfed the easy chair.
"I apologize for the interruption, Mr. President," said the American. "I hope we can continue our discussions undisturbed for a while."
The Frenchman removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his huge round face and bit gently on an earpiece while contemplating his American host. The two men had gotten on famously, and their personal rapport had uplifted Franco-American relations to its highest plateau in many years — perhaps decades. But the man from the Elysee Palace had discerned a peculiar change in his host's behavior from the previous day.
"If you will forgive me, Monsieur le President," he said, "I could not help but notice that since yesterday afternoon you have been popping in and out of our meetings like a — how you say— cuckoo in a clock. Late yesterday afternoon. The dinner last night. This morning. Your behavior puzzles me, my friend. This protocol is, well, a tort et a travers for a state visit. Is there something you wish to… tell me? I must confess, you do not look well this morning. You appear the victim of une nuit blanche."
The American sagged back in his chair. Although Whittenberg suffered from' 'peer scarcity,'' it was nothing like the loneliness experienced by the President of the United States. There was truly no person he could talk to on a peer level. Not even the Vice President. And after a while this dearth of peers took a toll. He bit his lip and eyeballed his guest. He liked the Frenchman, and felt the man could be trusted. What the hell, thought the American. If I can't let my hair down with this guy, then who? He's putting his nuts on the line to bring France back into NATO, and this Intrepid business is too big for one man to handle alone. I need some solace.
"Mr. President," said the American, "sit back and strap yourself in, because I'm going to tell you the goddamnedest story you ever heard."
The amount of paper accumulated in a military man's personnel file during the course of his career can be physically heavy. There are educational background forms, proficiency test forms, commendation forms, disciplinary forms, medical forms, dental forms, efficiency report forms, and security clearance forms.
Of all the forms produced by the Department of Defense, however, security clearance forms are, by far, the most unwieldy, as Lydia Strand well remembered. It had taken her a man-day just to fill out the Top Secret clearance form and its section on historical residences.
Iceberg's residence history, however, was brief. From birth to age seven he had lived at 1819 MacKenzie Street in southwest Chicago. His family — which consisted of his mother, Victoria, his father, Carl, and himself — then moved to 419 Hampton Avenue in Wheaton, a Chicago suburb, where Iceberg had lived until he entered the Air Force Academy and where his mother had remained until her death.
Strand was en route to the Hampton Avenue address in Whea-ton after flying into O'Hare on a T-39 Sabreliner earlier that morning. She felt a lot better after catching six hours of sleep.
In the back of the taxi she pulled out Iceberg's personnel file and reread the FBI background investigation. The FBI agent who conducted the background check had talked to the Kapuscinskis' neighbors on Hampton Avenue in Wheaton, but hadn't bothered to follow up on the MacKenzie Street address. Apparently the agent thought the MacKenzie address was too long ago to bother with.
Strand read the agent's report on his interview with the neighbors from Hampton Avenue. Yes, the Kapuscinskis were nice people. Very quiet. The father was a plumber — we think. He died when the boy was quite young. The mother didn't talk much. Well, hardly at all, really. Only said hello. Rarely saw the child. He stayed inside and didn't play with the other children. The yard was always maintained well. They were good neighbors.
Big help, thought Strand.
"Did you say four nineteen Hampton Avenue, lady?"
She looked up. "Yes, that's right."
The taxi driver pointed. "Well, that's it."
Strand gazed out the window and saw a Wal-Mart store, surrounded by a big parking lot.
"But there must be some mistake," said Strand in a puzzled voice. "The address I want is a residence."
The bearded driver, who wore a tam o'shanter cap, shook his head. "Not anymore, lady. I remember. This thing went in about two years ago. I drove past the construction a few times. These Wal-Mart stores spring up faster than mushrooms."
"Dammit!"
The driver was taken aback by the vehemence of her remark, but he quickly forgave her. This lady was a looker. — "So, you want out here?" he asked.
Strand sighed. "No."
"So where to?"
"I wish I knew."
They should pay me extra for psychoanalysis, mused the cabbie.
"Hold on a second." Strand looked through the file once more. Iceberg's father had been a plumber and his work address was listed, but he'd died when little Julian was ten years old. She had the U-Stow-It warehouse receipts and a search warrant in her purse, but decided to try the MacKenzie address first, just to be thorough — unlike the FBI agent of long ago. "Take me back to Chicago — MacKenzie Street."
"You got it, lady," said the cabbie, and he hit the gas.