Ben Bova - The multiple man
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The dynamic new President of the United States, James J. Halliday, seems determined to singlehandedly turn an embittered nation around from economic, political, and social ruin. No one could be prouder than his devoted press secretary Meric Albano. But is the President accomplishing this monumental task alone? After one of the Presidents rare public appearances, a derelict is found dead nearby. A derelict who not only looks like the President, but whose blood, retinas, even fingerprints match those of the man in charge. Is the real President, the man Albano swore loyalty to, still in office? Is this part of a plot to topple American democracy? Thats what Albano has to find outif he doesnt, his life, as well as his country, will be destroyed
The Multiple Man
by Ben Bova
by Ben Bova
ONE
April is the cruelest month.
Its still winter in Boston. I had tried to get that across to the staff before we left Washington. They had listened, of course, but it never really registered on them. Too excited about the trip. The President didnt make that many public appearances, and they were too busy with the details of this one to worry about topcoats. When we landed at Logan and filed out of the staff plane, that old wind off the harbor knifed right through their doubleweave suits and the womens stylish little jackets. I was the only one with a real coat. Didnt look photogenic, but I didnt freeze my ass, either.
The President didnt seem to notice the cold. While we huddled down on the windswept cement rampway, stamping our feet and blowing on our hands, he stood framed in the hatch of Air Force One, casually smiling and waving for the photographers, while the Secret Service security team set up the laser shields and their other protective paraphernalia. The Man wore only a sport jacket over his turtleneck and slacks. Mr. Casual. When McMurtrie gave him the all-clear nod, he came loping down the ramp in that youthful, long-legged stride of his. The politicians and media flaks surged toward him. The crowds beyond the police lines roared. One of the bands struck up Hail to the Chief. He smiled and grabbed hands. Everybody smiled back, warm and friendly. Especially the women.
Damn! Vickie Clark yelled over the noise. Why didnt you tell me it was going to be this cold?
I did. But Vickies a California girl. She puffed out frigid clouds of vapor and looked miserable. Which is difficult for her to do. Shes an elf, really. Good-looking in a delicate, almost fragile, sort of way. The face of an innocent. With a sharp, tough mind behind it. Vickie typified the White House staff: young, intelligent, an achiever.
Boston is a small city, and the half of it that isnt covered with universities, churches, or historical monuments is covered with politicians. They had all turned out for the President, of course. This was the first time James J. Halliday had been to Boston as President of the United States. We had all swung through twice during last years campaign, and although the people had come out to see himpouring into the streets in such numbers, the second time, that the town simply shut downthe politicos had kept a wary distance. Brilliant young governor from the Far East making a dark horse bid for the White House. They were suspicious. They remembered McGovern, way back when, and the aftermath. But now they wanted to show the President that they loved him, and the Federal revenues he represented.
Halliday was in his charming mood. He smiled at everyone, recognized each of those red-faced professional office holders by first name, and just generally went through the airport reception like a combination emperor and movie star. You could feel waves of adulation welling up from the press, for Gods sake. And the people behind the police security lines were cheering louder than they would for Pat OBriens reincarnation. The politicos kept staring and studying The Man with their beady little eyes, trying to figure out what his magic was.
So we had the parade, and the afternoon speech in Boston Commona cool half-million people overflowed the old park and completely stopped downtown traffic for two hours. (You shouldve told me to bring my ski parka, Vickie complained as we stood off to one side of the speakers platform. I grinned and lent her my topcoat. The sun was shining through the still-bare trees. If The Man could tough it out in a sport jacket, so could I. My coat dropped to Vickies ankles.)
We rode in the Presidents limousine to the Boston Sheraton for his press conference. I took the jump seat next to Robert Wyatt, the appointments secretary, and went over the names of the local newsmen with The Man, showing him flash pictures of their faces on the TV viewer built into the limousines back seat. Halliday had his eidetic memory going; hed take one look at each picture and have the persons name fixed in his mind.
I can flash their names on the podium. I told him.
He leaned back in the seat, utterly relaxed. Might as well. Ive got them all up herehe tapped his temple with a forefingerbut its always better to be over-equipped than embarrassed.
Robert H. H. Wyatt nodded a tightlipped agreement. Everybody on the staff thought the H. H. stood for His Holiness. At least, thats what we called him behind his back. He was a crusty old dude, bald, lean, sharp-eyed. Been a retainer of the elder Hallidaythe Presidents fathersince before James J. was born. We all felt that one of His Holinesss main duties was to report back to the old man on how and what his son was doing.
Wyatt said, Mrs. Hallidays due to land at four-fifty; youll still be at the press conference.
The Man let a flicker of annoyance show. The First Lady had been originally scheduled for an earlier flight, but had begged off for some reason. Youll have to meet her, Robert, and bring her to the dinner.
Halliday had always been able to handle the Washington press corps like a chess master playing a roomful of amateurs simultaneously. So I wasnt expecting any trouble from the news hounds at the Boston Sheraton. I took a chair in the rear of the ballroom, behind the news and media people and all their cameras and lights, and tried to relax. The Man was enjoying himself up there, making my job easy.
The only sour face in the big ballroom belonged to McMurtrie, who headed the Presidents security team.
Relax, Mac, I whispered to him, while Halliday was explaining his stand on the Iranian invasion of Kuwait. The only danger hes in is from being smothered with affection. These people love him. Hes another JFK.
McMurtrie shifted his bulk uneasily, making the folding chair groan. Nice analogy.
It was a stupid thing to say. I tried to retrieve with, Come on you guysve got laser deflectors, riot gas, electric prods, sonic janglers itd take a nuclear bomb to hurt him.
McMurtries face looked like a worried Gibraltar. The Saudis have nukes.
I gave up and leaned back in my chair. Which did not squeak. Im lanky, but bony.
Up on the podium, under the TV lights, The Man was saying, Naturally, if Saudi Arabia intervenes, then we will have to assure both the King and the Mullahs that the United States will remain neutral. Weve sold arms freely to both sides. As long as they dont threaten our oil supplies, we can continue to sell them munitions. Short of nuclear weaponry, of course.
One of the women, Betty Turner from SGR, jumped to her feet and got the Presidents nod. Is that moral, selling arms to both sides?
Halliday gave her his best grin. No. Its not. Its not moral to sell weapons or munitions to anyone. But there is no morality in international politics. I found that out long ago. No morality at all.
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