It was the Government’s serve. At precisely ten o’clock the District Judge had entered the courtroom and the defendants had refused to rise. Judge Irwin’s lips had compressed; he had adjusted his robes and delivered an address from the bench on the subject of contempt of court, at the end of which he cautioned the defendants that if they attempted to disrupt the proceedings he would order them bound and gagged.
No one took it for overreaction. The trial of the Washington Seven gave every indication of turning into a spectacle. Philip Harding and his clients knew they had no hope of avoiding conviction; the only hope was to overturn it on appeal. If the court could be baited into losing its temper it might lay the basis for future appeals or the declaration of a mistrial. And since the defendants sought the overthrow of the system which the court represented they had no reason to obey its rules of decorum and etiquette; they meant to defy and provoke at every opportunity.
The Government’s every ball had to clear the net and land inside the service court. There was not much doubt there would be basis for sufficient appeals to carry the case to the Supreme Court, but the Attorney General had to make certain the Supreme Court had no grounds to reverse the convictions.
The reading of the indictments was a rote formality; Ackert’s presence was an indication of the President’s personal involvement in the case, as was Satterthwaite’s. Brewster had said, “Just show yourself. Let the reporters see you.”
In the seats around him Satterthwaite counted four Senators and six Representatives—members of both parties, well-known figures. Congressman Molnar from California, who stood about four goose-steps to the right of Hitler; Congressman Jethro, the black socialist from Harlem; Senator Alan Forrester from Arizona, who stood plumb in the political center. The President’s intent was to demonstrate the solidarity of the Government and it was interesting that the angriest of these spectators was the Leftist Jethro because in his estimation the bombers had set back his cause by ten years.
To Satterthwaite causes and ideologies were tiresome things. He saw history in terms of the theory of random games. The course of events was determined not by mass movements or ecopolitical struggles but by royal whims and feminine intrigues and the accidents of personalities and coincidences. Those in power had the responsibility for judging odds, estimating resources, placing the right bets on the right numbers; the long-term goal was to win more than you lost and the method was to study each turn of the wheel as an individual case. “Long-term policy” was a meaningless phrase because you could never predict when you might encounter an opponent’s surprise gambit, a new Hitler, a new Gandhi. You did your best with what chips you had.
The Attorney General’s voice droned on, the monotone of a man reading aloud from documents designed more to be printed than spoken. The defendants were skirting the boundaries of contempt: yawning, playing ticktacktoe, scratching themselves, laughing intermittently. Robert Walberg was flipping a coin continuously in an obvious effort to make a point about the trial and Establishment justice. Philip Harding with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest grinned obscenely at Ackert throughout the reading of the indictments.
Ackert reached his summation and paused for breath and that was when Satterthwaite’s electronic device began beeping.
The thing always alarmed him; this time it gave him a grateful sense of reprieve as well. He climbed across six knees and walked quickly up the aisle.
A guard held the door for him and Satterthwaite stopped to ask the location of the nearest telephone.
“Court clerk’s office, sir.”
He followed the direction of the pointing finger and entered an office occupied by several women behind desks. Satterthwaite spoke a few words; one of the women turned a telephone toward him.
The President’s secretary was unusually crisp; she sounded distressed. “The President wants you immediately—we’ve sent a car for you.”
So it was more than a trivial flap. He strode toward the street.
The EPS squadrol was just drawing in at the curb, the seven lights on its rooftop flashing red and amber. The driver had the back door open for Satterthwaite when he reached the foot of the steps, and as soon as he was inside the siren climbed painfully against his eardrums. The cruiser surged along the boulevards, slowing for the red lights, dodging lanes, and he felt the speed against his kidneys.
In the outer office the President’s secretary told him, “They’re in the Lincoln Sitting Room,” and he went there, striding along on his short legs with a growing sense of urgency.
The President was on his feet pacing; he acknowledged Satterthwaite with a palm-out gesture that stopped Satterthwaite just inside the door. Satterthwaite quickly catalogued the half dozen men in the room: B. L. Hoyt, Director of the Secret Service; Treasury Secretary Chaney; the directors of the FBI and the, Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency; and Secretary of State John Urquhart.
The President came forward speaking over his shoulder with his favorite executive mannerism, the disguised order in the form of a question: “Now shouldn’t you boys get moving?” He came right by Satterthwaite and touched his elbow as he passed through the doorway; he took B. L. Hoyt in tow and the three of them tramped across the carpet. The President’s cigar left a wake of ash and smoke through which the Secret Service agents traveled efficiently; one of them held the door and the three men passed into the President’s office.
Brewster walked around behind the Lincoln desk and sat, a bit vague against the light that spilled in through the three windows behind him. Satterthwaite, making his guess from the selection of men who had been in conference with the President, said flatly, “Something’s happened to Cliff Fairlie.”
The President’s twang was emotional and pained. “He’s been kidnapped.”
B. L. Hoyt had his finger on the large globe behind the flagstaff. “In the Pyrenees.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Satterthwaite breathed. There followed the President’s hard grunt. Satterthwaite’s consciousness receded defensively: he could absorb only fragments of the President’s story: “… on the way to Madrid to nail down the bases with Perez-Blasco.… was McNeely who tumbled to it first.… phony Navy helicopter … pilot’s dead … a mountain called Perdido about seventy-five miles west of Andorra.”
The President tapped his palm against the desk top gently and his ring clacked against the wood. Satterthwaite came to. “He was taken alive?”
“Apparently.” That was B. L. Hoyt, very dry. “At least we have no evidence to the contrary.”
“Do we know why?”
Howard Brewster said, “We don’t know who and we don’t know why.” He removed the cigar from his mouth. He had nearly bitten it in two. “Goddamn it.”
Satterthwaite had a little trouble with his knees; he found his way to a chair. “Sweet Jesus.”
“We got word about two hours ago. I’ve put the machinery in motion, we’re using every plane and helicopter and pair of eyes we’ve got in the Med. Madrid’s cooperating, naturally.”
Satterthwaite plucked the handkerchief from his pocket, took off his glasses and wiped them. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I feel stunned—it takes getting used to.”
The President said, “I know,” and spoke into a telephone: “Have you got McNeely yet? … Buzz me the minute he’s on.” He dropped the receiver on its cradle. “McNeely’s all right. The minute he discovered what was going on he sealed off the exit road up there and restricted the telephone switchboard to official calls—he’s got the reporters bottled up in there, he’s giving it out that Fairlie’s got a head cold, some temporary indisposition.” Brewster smiled briefly. “McNeely’s a country slicker just like me.” He tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. “We want to keep it in the family for a few hours. Maybe we can get Fairlie back before it gets out.”