“Well, how did it sound to you?” he asked. “There are a few rough spots, but I think we can smooth them out in the morning. Otherwise, I believe it says what should be said.”
Jed Stover was all enthusiasm. “I think it’s great, and about time!” He held up the stopwatch. “Almost on the nose, Mr. President. Only fifteen seconds over.” Then he added, “This is going to make Amboko and the African Unity Pact nations very happy.”
“I’m not so sure it’ll scare Premier Kasatkin,” said Jaskawich, “but it’s sure as hell going to scare the living daylights out of the Senate!”
Revolving his empty teacup in its saucer, Nat Abrahams said nothing. He saw Dilman’s attention focus on him.
“What about that, Nat?” Dilman asked. “I’ve given you a tough enough job, asking you to handle that trial, without making it tougher. Anything you want me to reword or tone down?”
Nat Abrahams removed the pipe from between his teeth. “Hell, no,” he said. “The devil with the Senate. Sure they won’t like this, but it’s only a big stick you’re waving at Russia, not a bazooka. It probably won’t influence a single senator’s vote, one way or the other, not yet.”
“Then you think it should read as it stands?” asked Dilman.
“Not quite,” said Abrahams. “If anything, at least in one passage there, I’d be a little more explicit. I mean earlier, when you go into our military resources, and when you detail the power potential of the Dragon Flies. I think you should come right out and explain why you and Steinbrenner have selected this all-white force for the African assignment.”
Dilman’s features revealed his worry. “I don’t know, Nat-”
“Why not, Mr. President?” asked Abrahams. “It’s in the open anyway-”
“It sure is,” said Jaskawich. “Mr. President, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Abrahams. You heard the late afternoon broadcasts, saw the early evening papers. ‘A reliable top-level Pentagon source admitted today that the military chiefs are doing their best to dissuade President Dilman from throwing only white troops into the African inferno.’ ” Jaskawich snorted. “ ‘A reliable Pentagon source’-ha! Spelled Pitt Fortney. You’ll never be able to prove he leaked it, but one gets you ten he did. You’re his superior officer, Mr. President, so he can’t blow you down face to face. What he’s doing is the next-best thing, whipping up a tornado against you among the general public. If anybody’s going to fight and die for us in Africa, he’s going to make damn sure it’ll include our Negro soldiers with our whites, even though the mixed battalions aren’t prepared for that kind of warfare. Or maybe he just wants to solve our race problem by shipping as many colored men to Africa as possible. No, seriously, Mr. President, Fortney’s tidbit has been out for hours, burning across the country like a prairie fire, prejudicing more and more misinformed people against you. Mr. Abrahams is right. Douse that fire while you can.”
“Maybe I should,” Dilman mused.
Abrahams bent forward, leaning on his elbows. “It wouldn’t take much, another line or two in the speech. You know, ‘Fellow Americans, concerning the Dragon Flies, you may have heard irresponsible talk that this entirely Caucasian battle force will be committed to the defense of Baraza, if required, because of your Commander in Chief’s desire to protect those of his own race. This canard could not be further from the truth. The Secretary of Defense recommended the Dragon Flies because their units are the only ones equipped and trained for the type of defense indicated. Unfortunately, there are no colored soldiers in the Dragon Flies, because none have been given the long training necessary for handling weapons of such complex-” Abrahams shrugged. “That sort of thing, and that would be enough. It may blunt a good deal of criticism from around the country, and it’ll certainly show Fortney you’re not going to take any of his treachery lying down.”
Dilman hit his fist on the table. “Sold. We’ll write it in.” He stared at Abrahams. “Do you think all of this will become an issue in the trial, Nat?”
Abrahams emptied his pipe. “Mr. President, everything you say or do is an issue in the trial. But you wouldn’t be making this speech at all if you didn’t believe there are some things more important than the trial.”
“That’s right, Nat.”
“So-”
There was a sharp rapping on the corridor door, and Nat Abrahams stopped and looked over his shoulder as the door came open and a distraught Tim Flannery rushed into the room. His face was as fiery as his hair, but then, as he started toward Dilman, he seemed to realize there were others present.
“Sorry to bust in on you like this,” he apologized, “but-” He hesitated, as if wishing to speak to the President, yet unsure if he should do so in front of Abrahams, Jaskawich, and Stover.
“What’s wrong, Tim?” Dilman asked. “Is anything the matter?”
“I hate to tell you, Mr. President,” said Flannery, “but your boy’s out in the press lobby-”
“My boy? You mean Julian-he’s here?”
“He just popped in from nowhere, and before I heard about it and could stop him, he had gathered the wire service men around him and begun making a statement. When I got out there, it was too late, dammit. Now he’s answering their questions-wouldn’t listen to me-so I thought I’d better find you-”
Dilman came to his feet. “What kind of statement? What’s Julian saying?”
Flannery hesitated, then blurted, “He just now confessed that he had for a long time been a secret member of the Turnerite Group. He-he said that young Negroes like himself got sick of seeing how their parents had been bought off by white men’s lying promises-sick of seeing the way the old folks were still in the anteroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for their citizenship papers-and he was one of the ones who had decided to do something about it. So he joined the Turnerites and pledged himself to secrecy.”
“He confessed to all of that?” said Dilman quietly.
Flannery nodded. “Right off. Then he told the reporters that if they believed that much, they had to believe more-that he never did a single violent thing or subversive act for the Turnerites-only did clerical work for them-and shortly after the Turnerites were banned, he telephoned Frank Valetti and resigned. Then he said-” Flannery faltered, and glanced uncertainly about the Cabinet Room.
“Go on,” Dilman said, “what else did he say?”
“He-he was sorry about only one thing-that he had to lie to you from the start. He told the reporters you never really knew he was a member, and that Zeke Miller’s Article of Impeachment concerning him was idiotic-because not only you didn’t know, but if you had, you wouldn’t have obstructed the Justice Department or made a deal with Hurley, because you disliked the Turnerites and their policies and their methods.” Flannery paused, and shrugged helplessly. “That’s as much as I heard. I was afraid to stop him, haul him in here. I didn’t want to start any commotion. But if you’d like me to go out there now and-”
Flannery halted, suddenly aware that no one in the room, not Dilman or any of the others, was listening to him any longer. Their attention had been diverted to someone behind him. Puzzled, Flannery turned around, and then he, too, saw Julian Dilman standing in the open doorway.
For once, Julian’s hair was not sleekly pomaded, and his form-fitting suit was wrinkled. Fidgeting, his tremulous eyeballs rolled, and his gaze went from Abrahams to Dilman to Flannery, and then back to his father. With an effort, he seemed to gather up his courage and finally entered the room.
“You heard what I did?” Julian said to his father. Julian nodded toward Flannery. “He told you?”
“Yes,” Dilman said.
“I-I know it’s going to count against you in the-the trial-but I had to do it.”
“Why?” Dilman asked.
“Why?” Julian repeated. “Because when they impeached you, I figured you’d quit, and you didn’t. You set out to fight in the open the ones I tried to fight in secret. And then, from what I heard on the radio today, I knew you meant it-not being scared to punish Hurley because you believed he should be punished, and then-what I figured out from that ‘reliable source’ Pentagon story against you-that you were not afraid of the big-brass Charlies in uniform because you believed our best troops, no matter what color, should go to Africa. It-it just made me sick of my lying, when all I had wanted to do was to fight back in the open like you-so I took the plane here and figured the best way to begin was to stand up and tell the truth.” He paused. “I-I hope you’ll forgive me for what I did in the past, and what I did out there just now.”