Witnessing the verbal scuffle, Edna Foster saw that this time it was Wayne Talley’s turn to be cowed. Eaton had made it clear that he and T. C. would make the final decisions on African intervention. He had, in a refined way, reminded Talley that although he was the President’s aide, he was not his first adviser, in no way his Gray Eminence, but only his sounding board and runner. He had put Talley in his place, which was not between the President and the Secretary of State, but somewhere behind them, outside them. But it had been carefully done, so that Talley would not lose face before a lesser State Department appointee.
Edna noted that Governor Talley reacted to the encounter, and subtle rebuff, as he always had in the past. His right eye, the one that was slightly crossed, involuntarily began to twitch. His bulbous nose reddened. He seemed less sure of the checkered suit and blue shirt and gaudy gold-coin tie clasp he was given to wearing. He appeared, Edna thought, like the officious manager of a Midwest haberdashery, who had just been reminded by the wealthy absentee owner that he had once been a humble clerk.
“Of course,” Eaton was saying now, with a serious smile, “we are dealing with yesterday’s facts, are we not? What I know, what you know, Wayne, and what you know, Jed, is useful, as of this minute, but in five minutes the President will be speaking to us from Frankfurt. After another morning with the Russians, he may have new facts, new ideas, and our recipe for a decision on Africa may be considerably changed. Don’t you both agree?”
Edna found that she had to keep herself from smiling at the Secretary of State’s adroitness. He had taken Talley and Stover in as his equals at last, and they were mollified. Talley, grunting and bobbing his head, circled the table to sit beside T. C.’s favorite. Stover, exhaling satisfaction, found a place opposite his superior.
Edna, realizing that Arthur Eaton was waving to someone behind her, turned, and to her surprise all the others were already in the Cabinet Room. Quickly she stepped forward to show Senator Selander and Representative Wickland to their chairs. Senator Dilman had not waited for her, but had gone off to take the place farthest from the Secretary of State and the President’s aide. It was understood by all, Edna knew, just as she herself understood it, that Dilman did not rank with the others, not even with Selander and Wickland. Although Dilman, as President pro tempore of the Senate, had been wielding the gavel since the Vice-President’s death, it was known that he held the position as a political gesture.
“Sorry to be the last!” Edna heard a voice boom out from the door. It was four-star General Pitt Fortney, the rigid, scarred Texan, pulling off his leather gloves. “SAC has been bending my ear from Omaha. It wasn’t easy to get away.” He handed his trench coat to Edna and strode to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting stiffly in it. He addressed Eaton. “Steiny had me on the phone last night. He thinks Premier Kasatkin means business. Even flew Marshal Borov in from Leningrad. Maybe the President ought to have me over there.”
Eaton appeared to look down his nose at Fortney. “I think Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner can represent the Pentagon very well, General. I am sure T. C. feels you are needed here.”
Noticing that her platinum wristwatch gave them two minutes to conference time, Edna Foster started around the Cabinet table toward Eaton and the portable loudspeaker.
Passing Representative Wickland, she saw him lean across the table and ask Talley, “What’s this about Earl MacPherson flying to Frankfurt from Buenos Aires? He was supposed to be here in Washington today.”
“Just a one-day detour,” said Talley. “The President felt you boys in the House could spare your Speaker for one more day. T. C. wanted him on hand.”
“On African economic aid legislation?”
“Probably. If T. C. tells you what’s going on, you boys in the House might not listen. If your own Speaker tells you, then you might listen. MacPherson’ll be back on the Hill tomorrow.”
Edna had taken a position behind Eaton, and was about to inform him that it was precisely seven o’clock, when the telephone rang out shrilly. Instantly the room was hushed.
Edna bent between Eaton and Talley, punched down the “On” button atop the beige loudspeaker, then she hit the “On” button above the microphone box, turned the volume to “Medium High,” and stepped away.
She reached her waiting chair and shorthand pad, beside Leach, as a far-off erratic voice came indistinctly over the loudspeaker, and then suddenly broke out loudly and clearly.
“-calling from Frankfurt am Main, this is Signal Corps Captain Foss calling from Frankfurt am Main. Do we have the White House in Washington?”
Calmly Secretary of State Eaton addressed the microphone box. “This is the White House, Captain. This is the Secretary of State. We are assembled and ready for the conference call.”
“All right, sir. The President is waiting to speak to you.” A muffled crossing of voices slapped against the loudspeaker, and then a jagged arrow of static, and at once T. C.’s hurried, bouncy, unceremonious voice was upon them in the Cabinet Room.
“Arthur, are you there?”
“Everyone is here, Mr. President. How are you? Is everything going well?”
“Never better, never better. In fact, I just this moment talked MacPherson into betting all even on Dartmouth against Princeton next month. I want you to ask Internal Revenue if my winnings are tax-free, since we made the wager in Germany. Remember to do that, Arthur.”
Everyone in the Cabinet Room laughed, hoping the laugh would be unscrambled in Frankfurt, and then settled into silence.
T. C. was coming through the loudspeaker again. “We broke up at the Roemer before noon. We’re reconvening at two. Our gang stayed over there to eat, but a few of us slipped out on the press and the rest of them, and came over here to talk it out in privacy. I’ve been sitting in this beat-up old Palace study-it’s cold as hell, Arthur-tell Edna she was smart not to come along-and I’ve been conferring with Ambassador Zwinn, and Secretary Steinbrenner, and our obliging Speaker of the House. One second, Arthur-” There was a long pause, and then T. C. was on once more. “Just said good-bye to the Ambassador-he’s heading back to Bonn-and to Steiny-he’s needed over at the Consulate. Okay, we can settle down now. There are a few problems to contend with, at once. I want to talk this over with you, and then I’ll put MacPherson on, and he can concentrate on Harvey Wickland. Incidentally, Harv, I want to let MacPherson rest here tonight, and you’ll have him back in the Speaker’s chair tomorrow.”
There was a pause, and then T. C. resumed through the loudspeaker. “Arthur-Wayne-all of you there, the problem is Premier Kasatkin. I’d forgotten what a tough bastard he can be. He seems determined to be difficult in four-letter words, except in Russian they’re forty-letter words, and my backside is aching after these last hours. I’m determined to get out of here in a few days, but I want to get out with the knowledge that I haven’t given up New York, Detroit, Los Angeles, Bombay, and Baraza City to the Muscovites for the right to stay in Berlin.”
Wayne Talley had leaned across Eaton. “T. C.,” he said into the microphone, “this is Wayne here. Is it that bad? Does Kasatkin mean it?”
Over the loudspeaker T. C.’s retort was urgent. “Does he mean it? I’m not sure. That is what we have to judge. We have to decide how far we can go with blank cartridges. That is why I wanted to consult you before trying to digest my lunch. When I go back in there this afternoon, and sit down across from our Soviet friends, I want to know what ammunition I have or should have. In other words, I’ve got to decide how far I can go in showing Kasatkin and Marshal Borov that we intend to stand firm on Baraza, support its independence, even fight for it, at the same time making it clear that we want to be reasonable and are concerned with more dangerous trouble spots and greater issues abroad. You understand?”