Above all else, President Amboko did not trust the Soviet Union. He feared that Russia coveted his little nation’s resources-the gold, iron ore, diamonds-and, in a power grab, might try to put his people back into a colonial stockade. He had reminded Dilman of the experience of one of his neighbors, Guinea, with Russia. After the French had left Guinea in 1958, the newly independent nation, tempted by the Soviet Union’s anti-colonial talk and its offer of economic credit, had invited the Russians to help them. Within three years Guinea had been forced to expel the Russians because the Soviet Embassy, it was learned, had been working with native union leaders against the democratically elected government. President Amboko feared that the same Soviet activity might occur, if it was not already taking place, in Baraza, and he wanted to anticipate and thwart it.
Impressed as he was by Amboko’s concern, Dilman had felt that he must not be sidetracked by a small nation’s problems to the detriment of world peace. He had tried to behave as T. C. might have behaved. He had insisted upon the compromise, promising that Montgomery Scott, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, would assign a sufficient number of his agents to Baraza to keep a watchful undercover eye on any subversive activity there. Amboko had agreed to think the matter over further, and to give his final reply to Dilman before returning home. He would be leaving for Baraza, Dilman remembered, after tonight’s State Dinner.
“Mr. President.” It was Edna Foster on the telephone again. “I spoke to Mr. Illingsworth. He’ll take care of everything.”
“Fine.”
“There are two messages from Leroy Poole. He wants to discuss the last chapter of the biography with you. Shall I have Mr. Lucas give him an appointment?”
Dilman tried to interpret Poole’s calls. If there had been only one, the writer might indeed have wished to discuss the book. But two messages indicated something more urgent. Dilman suspected that it was the Turnerite business, still. For one who had insisted that he was not a member of that avowed direct-action group, Poole’s interest in the organization was unaccountable. Three weeks ago he had agitated Julian into fighting with his father. A week ago he had cornered poor Nat Abrahams in the Mayflower lobby, without success. Now, no doubt, because of the Hattiesburg sentence rendered by Judge Gage, he was trying to get to Dilman once more.
While Judge Gage’s verdict of “guilty” in the Mississippi trial had probably been technically exact, his sentence had been unduly harsh and vindictive. Two days before, in his Southern courtroom, he had sentenced all the Turnerite pickets, including the blinded one, to the maximum ten years’ imprisonment in the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman, under State Criminal Code Section 2011. While the Crispus Society had agreed to review the legalities of the case with an eye to an appeal, the Turnerites were too outraged to be patient. The Jeff Hurley statement to the press yesterday had been an uncomfortable threat, understandable, yet imprudent. “We are told this is justice, and to abide by the law of the land,” Hurley had announced. “We are also told to abide by the words of the Old Testament, that ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ But this cautious and creeping Lord is not our Lord. We find a better Lord with better guidance in the words of Nahum, ‘The Lord revengeth and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries.’ ”
Dilman had deplored Hurley’s injudicious statement. Such pledges of lawlessness gave further ammunition to the enemies of the Negro race, and made Dilman’s own situation that much more difficult. No, he would not discuss the Turnerite activity with young Poole again. There were other ways to proceed, better means, within the law, and he would hasten them when he felt that it was possible.
“Miss Foster, you call Poole and tell him I’m too busy right now,” he said. “I’ll discuss the book with him-well-tell him next week.”
“I think he wanted to see you this morning.”
“Impossible.”
“Very well, Mr. President. Then there is Chancellor McKaye’s letter, the invitation to Trafford. I have a notation on my calendar that it must be answered by today.”
Dilman had forgotten. Chancellor McKaye and the Regents of Trafford University had written to him, inviting him to appear on Founders’ Day to accept an honorary Doctor of Philosophy degree and to be the principal speaker at the gathering of the student body, alumni, and faculty.
Even his son had put aside his pique to congratulate him and to beg him to make the appearance. Dilman had avoided any decision, but now he knew that he must reach one. His instinct, he admitted, was against the appearance. If he could not turn down the honorary degree, he must turn down the invitation to speak. Julian would be disappointed, perhaps upset, but there were more important considerations. To date, he had avoided public speeches, accepting the advice of T. C.’s advisers that they might be inflammatory no matter what he said. While he must give his first television press conference this afternoon, and hold others later, this contact with the public would be buffered by reporters. When the time came to speak in public, he would have to do so, but certainly it would be unwise to make his first such appearance at a Negro school.
“Miss Foster,” Dilman said, “you write Chancellor McKaye to this effect-that I’m moved and pleased to be offered the honorary degree and that I will accept it later if I may, but that I regret I cannot accept the Founders’ Day speaking engagement. Tell him my overloaded schedule will not allow my leaving Washington. Make it-make it as tactful as possible. Leave the door open for the future. Say maybe on another occasion, when things ease up, I can pay Trafford a more informal visit. Tell him I’m not unmindful of the good job they are doing there, and I speak not only as Chief Executive but as the father of one of their undergraduates. You know how to write it. I’ll read and sign it later in the day. Anything else?”
“Mr. Flannery and Governor Talley have just walked in. They’re ready to brief you on the press conference.”
“Tell them to wait in my office. I’ll be right there.”
After hanging up, Dilman considered a second cup of coffee, rejected it for lack of time, rose, tugged his jacket straight, and found his briefcase. He left the Yellow Oval Room and went into the West Hall.
As he started for the elevator, he heard his name. He spun around, to observe Sally Watson, waving a sheaf of papers, hurrying toward him. Once again he was aware of her dress. The variety of her attire-he could not recall seeing the same garment on her twice in three weeks-fascinated him, as usual. She was wearing a claret-colored sheer blouse and magenta skirt, costly, unornamented, the subtle colors contrasting pleasantly with her sleek blond hair. She had more the appearance of a hostess than that of a secretary, Dilman decided, and he did not mind. At first he had worried about her conspicuous beauty, but by now it blended into the stately beauty of the White House itself. Besides, to his relief, with one exception, the press had played down and been uncritical of her being chosen to fill the position of social secretary. The expected exception had been Reb Blaser, acidly writing that the wily new President was trying to disarm the Southern bloc in Congress by embarrassing bribes, beginning with the hiring of the daughter of Senator Hoyt Watson. Dilman’s annoyance at this gratuitous observation had been teased away by Sally herself. “Now really, do I look like a Southern Trojan horse, Mr. President?” she had joked.