It’s started, Jake Yocke decided. The supply of crack has dried up and the addicts are getting restless. He pointed the car toward the National Guard armory adjacent to RFK Stadium.
He didn’t get very far into the building, of course. He showed his credentials and the soldier on duty let him into the press room, the first door on the right. There he found a half dozen government-issue steel desks, some folding chairs, and one telephone. And over a dozen of his colleagues, two of them from the Post. They were waiting for the press briefing scheduled for five p.m., fifteen minutes from now.
Yocke muttered at the people he knew — and he knew three or four of them — and found a corner to sit in. He sat there musing, thinking about the private who had killed a man when he shouldn’t have, wondering if he, Jack Yocke, would have done any better. Maybe he wasn’t really cut out to be a reporter. Stupid. He had made a stupid, insensitive remark, and now it rankled.
The reporters were waiting for Dan Quayle when he came out of Bethesda Naval Hospital. He could have avoided them but he didn’t.
Ignoring the shouted questions, he stood still and waited until a battery of hand-held microphones were waving before him. “The President regained consciousness this afternoon for a short period of time. Mrs. Bush is with him. He is asleep now. The doctors believe his recovery will be rapid. He’s in excellent health for a man his age and we have high hopes.”
“Did you discuss the hunt for the assassin with him?” someone shouted.
“No,” said Dan Quayle. Actually the President wasn’t well enough to discuss anything, but he didn’t say that. He thought about it and decided to let the monosyllable stand alone.
“Mr. Vice-President, what about the claim that the Colombian Extraditables are making, that they are responsible.”
Quayle ignored that one. Then he heard a question he couldn’t ignore.
“The Extraditables say that the terrorism will stop if you release Chano Aldana. Could you comment on that?”
“Said when?” Quayle asked, silencing all the other reporters.
“About an hour ago in Colombia, Mr. Vice-President. It just came over the wires.”
Quayle thought about it. “We’re not going to bargain with terrorists,” he said. The crowd waited. The red lights on the fronts of the television cameras stayed on. “Chano Aldana is going to get a fair trial. As long as I am acting for the President, I promise you, I will use the full might and power of the United States government to accomplish that come what may.”
“Are there any circumstances where you might release Aldana?” someone pressed.
“If the jury acquits him.”
“Before trial, I mean.”
“Not even if hell freezes over,” Dan Quayle replied, and turned away.
“You know,” Ott Mergenthaler said to Senator Bob Cherry, “the man has the personality of a store dummy, but I do believe there’s some steel in his backbone.”
Ott was in the senator’s office and the two of them had just finished watching Quayle’s performance. The senator reached for his remote control and killed the picture and sound after Quayle walked off camera and the network analysts came on.
Cherry sneered. “He’s a medical miracle. He’s got the brain of a penguin and the jawbone of an ass.”
“Come off it, Senator. Say what you will, this crisis is not hurting Dan Quayle’s reputation one whit. The public is getting a good look and I think they’re liking what they see. I do, anyway.”
“Ott! Don’t kid around! You don’t really believe this National Guard move was wise? For God’s sake, man, I thought you had some sense.”
“I do have, Senator, but I found out years ago that it does no good at all to proclaim the fact.”
Had Cherry known Mergenthaler better, he would have stopped right there. When the columnist retreated to dry, edged retorts, he had been pushed as far as he was willing to go. Cherry pressed on: “Bush could control Dorfman, but Quayle can’t. Dorfman is a shark and Quayle is a damn little fish. You don’t seriously think that Dan Quayle is making the decisions over there, do you?”
“I hear he is,” Ott said mildly, cocking his head slightly.
“Don’t you believe it! Dorfman’s pulling the strings. And I guarantee you the last thing Will Dorfman cares about is the U.S. Constitution. When is the Army going to leave? What about people’s rights? Why hasn’t the Congress been asked to authorize all this extracurricular military activity? The legalities — they’ve got the troops outside the federal district, out in Maryland for God’s sake. The government will get sued for—”
“What’s your real bitch?”
Cherry looked blank. “What do you mean?”
“You’re blowing smoke. I’ve been writing a column in this town for fifteen years, Bob.”
Senator Cherry took a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “Quayle scares me. Real bad. If Bush dies we are in big big trouble.”
“Next presidential election is in two years. Look at it as the Democrats’ big chance.”
Cherry writhed in his chair. “This country can’t afford to drift for two years with a clown on the bridge. The only damn thing Quayle knows how to do is play golf.”
“Bob, you’re making a mountain out of a manure pile. True, Quayle’s had a lot of bad press, some of it his fault, some of it because he’s such an easy target to pick on and he’s a darling of the conservatives. The man has an uncanny talent for saying the wrong thing. But this country is over two hundred years old! We can survive two years with anybody at the helm, be it Dan the Bogeyman or Hanoi Jane or my Aunt Matilda.”
Cherry wanted to argue. After a couple more minutes Ott Mergenthaler excused himself. Out in the corridor he shook his head sadly. Assassins and terrorists and wholesale murder everywhere you looked, and Bob Cherry wanted to mutter darkly about Dan Quayle. Worse, he expected Ott to print it.
Cherry looks old, Mergenthaler told himself. His age is telling. Querulous — that’s the word. He’s become a whining, querulous old man absorbed with trivialities.
The news conference at the D.C. National Guard Armory had barely gotten under way when it was abruptly adjourned. A junior officer announced that someone had attacked the crowd at the L’Enfant Plaza Metro Station. The brass hustled out. Among them was Captain Jake Grafton.
Jack Yocke fought through the press crowd to get to the door and charged for the street at a dead run. He ran along the sidewalk toward the entrance to the Guard’s parking lot, just in time to see a government car coming out. He bent and scanned the passengers. Nope. The next one? Nope again.
Grafton was in the third car. Yocke jumped and waved his arms and shouted “Captain Grafton! Captain Grafton!” at the top of his lungs. The uniformed driver locked the brakes. Yocke jerked open the rear door and jumped in.
As the car accelerated away Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington looked the reporter over.
“Riding your thumb today?” Grafton asked.
“I’m really glad you stopped, sir. Thanks a lot. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tag along with you.”
“The press regulations—”
“Yessir. Yessir. I know all about them. We have them stenciled on our underwear. Still, I’d like you to bend the rules a little and let me tag along with you for a few days. If you like, I’ll even let you comment on the stories.”
Jake Grafton’s brow wrinkled and he looked ahead at the traffic the driver was threading through. Toad Tarkington gave Yocke a big grin.
Grafton held a walkie-talkie in his hand. The instrument was spitting out words too garbled and tinny for Yocke to understand. Grafton held the device to his ear for a moment, then lowered it back to his lap.