Bill Pronzini - Acts of Mercy

Do you want to check over these appointments, Mrs. Augustine? Not particularly. Oh all right, Elizabeth, let me see them. Yes, yes. What about this United Jewish Appeal luncheon tomorrow? Do you think I really have to attend?

How can I tell you that, Mrs. Augustine?

I suppose you cant, can you. Its just that there are so many decisions to make and it would be nice to have someone help me make a few of them. The small ones, at least.

I understand.

Do you? Then give me your opinion on the UJA luncheon. Should I attend?

Well, yes, I believe you should It was scheduled three months ago, remember. And after the Presidents press conference this morning, it might create the wrong impression if the First Lady were to cancel out.

Youre right, of course. Elizabeth?

Yes, Mrs Augustine?

About the press conference. What did you think of the Presidents remarks on Israel?

Oh, well, Im sure he didnt mean them as they were interpreted by the press.

Certainly he didnt. Its just that hes been under a terrible strain recently. Weve all been under a terrible strain these past few months.

Yes, I know.

Why do you say it like that?. So gravely, with that troubled look in your eyes.

Im not troubled, Mrs. Augustine.

But you are. Youve been my confidential secretary for a long time; I know you fairly well. Something is bothering you.

Its nothing I can explain, exactly.

Id like you to try.

Well, its just a feeling that something is wrong here in the White House.

Wrong?

Yes. Its like an undercurrent, a feeling of oh, this sounds melodramatic, but a feeling of strangeness, of impending tragedy.

Tragedy? What sort of tragedy?

I dont know, Mrs. Augustine.

Does it involve the President?

Im not sure. I suppose it must, in some way.

Nothing is going to happen to the President, Elizabeth.

Oh, I didnt mean to say that. Of course nothing is going to happen to him.

Is there anything specific that makes you feel the way you do? No, nothing specific. I guess I just wish

What? What do you wish?

That everything was the way it was up until six months ago. That the media hadnt turned against the President, that so many things hadnt been going wrong and the administration wasnt under so much pressure. That Peter Kineen and his people werent trying to split the party again, the way it was four years ago. Maybe its all of those things that make me feel so uneasy.

Yes. Maybe it is.

Are you all right, Mrs. Augustine? You look a little pale.

Im just tired, Elizabeth. All this talk about strangeness and tragedy-its enough to unnerve anyone.

Im sorry, Mrs. Augustine. But you insisted that I tell you what was on my mind

Yes. I did, didnt I?

If you dont feel well, we could cancel the UJA luncheon today. And I could call Doctor Whiting No. I dont want to see Doctor Whiting. Im fine; Ill go to the luncheon as scheduled

Do you want to dictate any letters this morning?

No. You can leave now, Elizabeth. Ill call you if I need you.

Just as you say, Mrs Augustine. And Im sorry again if I upset you; I wont say anything more about my foolish intuitions. Everything will be all right, I know that.

Of course it will. Everything will be fine.

Tragedy. My God. But shes wrong, there wont be any tragedy. Nothing is going to happen to Nicholas. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen.

Monday, May 14

PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL

The Honorable Nicholas Franklin Augustine

President of the United States

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. President:

I urge you to take what I am about to say in the absolute seriousness with which it is written.

Despite the necessary anonymity of this letter, I am not a crank. On the contrary I am someone quite close to you, personally and politically-a member of the inmost White House circle. But for reasons which will become clear, I cannot at this time tell you who I am. I must call no more attention to myself than I already gain as a result of my position.

The tragic realities of the situation are these, Mr. President. Not everyone you trust is as faithful to you as I am. There are those among your staff who are deceitful, who care only for the furtherance of their own positions and not at all for you or for the common good of the country, that same good to which you yourself have been selflessly dedicated since your inauguration. These individuals believe you to be weak and ineffectual, and they have formed a treacherous alliance against you. They are doing everything within their power to undermine your credibility so that you will be defeated for renomination in Saint Louis in July. Secretly, slyly, they have placed their support with the coalition headed by Peter Kineen.

In all good conscience I cannot at this time reveal the names of these turncoats, for I have no specific evidence against any one person. But I do have very strong suspicions, and it is only a matter of time until I am able to obtain proof.

But time may be another of your enemies, and that is why we are writing this letter. I mean, why I am writing this letter. You must be alert to the danger confronting you, Mr. President. You must be vigilant, as we are. As I

We take our fingers from the typewriter keys, cease their clattering; then we rip the letter from the carriage, tear it into tiny pieces and drop the pieces into the wastebasket. It is too painful for us to write in the first-person singular because we are not singular. Other people think we are, of course-as I thinks we are-but we know differently. This is both good and bad. It allows us to observe and to plan in emotionless privacy, but it also hinders our ability to function in what I would call a normal fashion.

The idea of writing a letter was a poor one in the first place, we know that now. If it was not ignored completely, it would plant seeds of doubt and unease of the wrong type: vigilance for the existence of a paranoid crank, rather than vigilance for the true danger.

No, we must have more knowledge before we can take action of any kind. And when we have that knowledge, the action we take must not be the writing of letters. Nor personal appeals or any other sort of passive endeavor. We are beginning to understand that the strongest of measures are called for, and that we alone must carry them out. Only then can the threat to Nicholas Augustine be neutralized.

And we are beginning to understand too, as we sit here alone in this quiet room, what those measures must be. After all, as has been demonstrated throughout history, there is only one just way to deal with traitors.

They must be executed.

When Christopher Justice entered the Oval Office, Nicholas Augustine was standing at the French doors behind his desk, staring out at the White House grounds. He turned as Justice approached, gave him a wan smile. Sit down, Christopher, he said.

Yes sir.

Justice sat on one of the leather chairs facing the desk, buttocks resting on only half of the cushion, feet planted firmly. He felt vaguely ill at ease, as he always did when the President summoned him here. There was something about the Oval Office that instilled a sense of awe and humility in him: the great men who had occupied these premises, the momentous decisions that had been made here, the heads of state who had maybe sat on this very same chair. He put his hands flat on his knees, waiting quietly.

Augustine remained standing before the French doors, framed between the American flag and the blue-and-white Presidents flag, backlit by the wash of hot May sunlight coming through the scrubbed glass. To Justice the President looked imposing in that aspect, larger than life. But then Augustine came forward in heavy movements and sat at the desk, and the illusion vanished and he was just a handsome man in his mid-fifties-cool, sharply drawn features, fine cheekbones, gentle gray eyes. A weary man, too, Justice thought. You could see that in the faint slump of his shoulders, in the crosshatched lines under the eyes and around the wide mouth, in the distracted motions of his hands as he began straightening the clutter of papers in front of him.