Night of Camp David Read online

  “Yes,” said Jim. “That about describes him and the situation, I’d say.”

  “Well, then,” said Griscom, “listen to this under a section entitled ‘Paranoid States.’ Quote. ‘In paranoid states the delusions are less systematized and bridge the gap between the paranoid proper and the paranoid schizophrenic. There is often some evidence of disordered thought processes, as well as hallucinations and other psychopathological symptoms, but without the severe personality disorganization, thought fragmentation and loss of contact with reality which are found to be typical of paranoid schizophrenics. In many cases these delusional systems develop rather suddenly, often following some particularly traumatic life experience. They are usually transient and of short duration, clearing up spontaneously without psychotherapy.’ ”

  Griscom closed and replaced the book, and led MacVeagh back to the bare corner office. He settled into his swivel chair again and banged his pipe on a thick glass ashtray, scattering ashes over the tax file.

  “It seems fairly reasonable to assume that your man is evidencing some paranoid symptoms,” said Griscom, “but we don’t know whether this is just a transient case or whether the man is in a bad way and needs psychiatric help. Of course, Jim, as a starter, I don’t understand why you haven’t got your man into the hands of a good psychiatrist.”

  “He won’t go,” Jim lied swiftly. He could think of no other adequate explanation for failure to pursue this obvious course. “I tried to persuade him, but he insists there’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps some big emotional upset has occurred, something in his personal life that rips at him and produces this reaction. A woman perhaps? That’s always the first assumption, you know.”

  “No,” said Jim quickly. “I’m sure there’s no woman trouble of any kind. He’s happily married, quite content in that department, I’d say.”

  “But,” mused Griscom, “you never know what goes on beneath the surface of these supposedly placid marriages.” The lawyer tapped his pipe on the ashtray. “Well, let’s try to narrow our problem. As I get it, you’re concerned because this man has an influential hand in government policy. Then I’d say the simplest thing on earth is just to take the story to President Hollenbach and let him ask for the fellow’s resignation. Even if he’s not a permanent mental case, he probably needs rest and relief from tension, so the President would be doing him a favor.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Jim was guarded now. “You see, Paul, this man is an elected official. He can’t be removed like that.”

  “Oh,” said Griscom, “a member of Congress?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Now, Jim, you’re not too alert this morning.” Griscom smiled at him. “If he’s elected, he has to be a member of Congress, unless, of course, you’re talking about Pat O’Malley.”

  “Don’t worry. It isn’t O’Malley, although he’d have ample cause right now.” He noted that Griscom mentioned only O’Malley and not Hollenbach, the No. 1 elected official in Washington. Not even Griscom’s mind would link a president to such a story. MacVeagh grinned, a bit limply. “You boxed me in there, Paul. I wasn’t thinking too fast.”

  Griscom leaned back and folded his shirt-sleeved arms. His eyes dwelled on MacVeagh and there was sympathy in his look.

  “For some mysterious reason,” he said, “you decline to name names. That’s no way to treat a lawyer and ordinarily, under the circumstances, I’d refuse to take the case.” He smiled warmly again. “But as you said at the outset, you’re deeply troubled, and I appreciate your feeling. Look, Jim, are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

  “I certainly don’t think so.”

  “All of us are lacerated from time to time,” said Griscom, “over an endless number of things. It’s a rare man who hasn’t felt himself slipping, who hasn’t wondered whether perhaps he has loosed his mental moorings. And the pressures of this thing we call civilization don’t help us any.” Griscom was eying MacVeagh closely as he talked. “I see these people troop through this law office. Something has cracked their shell and then they stumble in here, shattered people, looking for a legal out. But many of them pull themselves together and manage to work back to a normal life—whatever that is, precisely.”

  Griscom dropped his eyes and seemed to be inspecting his pipe as though it were a slide rule and he needed a measurable answer. “For instance, as you know, Jim, I live on O Street in Georgetown.”

  Jim started. “I’d forgotten that,” he said.

  “I thought perhaps you had,” said Griscom softly. “At any rate, several times I’ve seen a man who very closely resembles a well-known senator leave a house on O Street. He looks around, somewhat furtively, and walks rapidly away. In this particular house, Jim, lives a very attractive and sensuous woman who works for a politician whom we both know. Now the man, if he is the senator I believe he is, has a lovely wife and a fine daughter. It’s pretty obvious that he’s carrying on an affair of some sort with this woman on O Street. Now, how do you explain behavior like that? It happens every day, sure, but in the context of mental adjustments and problems, just how do you explain it?”

  MacVeagh went rigid and stared Griscom in the eye without blinking. What kind of game is this? he thought. He made an effort to keep his voice cool. It came out quite cold.

  “I don’t know about the explanation,” he said, “but it sounds to me like you’re in a position to blackmail somebody if you want to.”

  Griscom smiled kindly, the seams in his weathered face relaxed. “Oh, no, nothing like that, Jim. I’m not the kind. Besides, I couldn’t positively identify the man. I just use him as an example. What goes on in a man of intelligence, position and stature to make him lead two lives like that? A simple appetite for sex isn’t quite sufficient answer. But we don’t know, do we? Is he normal? Who’s to say? Of course, admittedly this isn’t on a par with persecution complexes, delusions of grandeur and all that, but couldn’t the tension of such a double life produce, in some individuals, a sharp psychological wrench that might lead a man into a temporary paranoid state?”

  MacVeagh was too stunned to answer. My God, he thought, Paul actually thinks I’ve been describing myself, and now he’s trying to tell me, not very subtly either, that he knows I’m the one with the mental ailment. Jim was prompted to deny the implication at once, but, no, he reasoned, what good would that do? Paul would merely think he was lying out of self-protection. Besides, to make the point, he’d have to confess about Rita to distinguish between the two persons, himself and Hollenbach. The idea of mentioning Rita’s name to a third person was repugnant. He couldn’t do that, even if she had screamed at him over the phone like a mother tern.

  Griscom was still talking in a quiet, leisurely vein: “So in the case of your man, Jim, I wouldn’t do anything right now. Don’t be in any hurry. The government’s in no crisis that I know of, and I doubt if your man could unduly influence the course of events a great deal anyway, at least not over the short haul. Look at it this way. If it’s a paranoid state, maybe it’ll all be over in a few days. If not, there’s always time to consult a psychiatrist if the condition becomes worse. Why don’t you give the case a little time?” Griscom grinned. “I’ve never heard of a piece of litigation yet that didn’t mellow under a little judicious delay.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Jim muttered. Balls of fire, how could he extricate himself from this zany web Griscom was weaving?

  “Here’s one concrete suggestion, Jim. Why not do some prodding and probing into the man’s early life? The psychologists tell us that the seeds of breakdowns in adult life are often sown back in the formative years.” He looked fixedly at MacVeagh. “And in this particular case, Jim, I don’t think you’d have much trouble looking back into the man’s early days.”

  An anger of frustration welled up in MacVeagh and he felt his skin growing warm. By God, he does think
I came here to describe myself. He thinks I’m either indulging in some damned self-purgative or I’ve come to him for psychiatric advice about myself. Me, the most normal guy in town. Jim felt like lashing out at Griscom, upbraiding him for his pose of being a “country boy” attorney from Wyoming when actually he was a canny lobbyist-lawyer who traded on highly placed friends and wasn’t above hinting that he knew the trade of blackmail. MacVeagh raged inwardly. Yes, an adroit, posing manipulator, who joined all the exclusive clubs and went around with unpressed pants. And as for the sly reference to Rita, MacVeagh decided he detested Paul Griscom for it. Jim found it an effort to get himself in hand for a decorous exit. He rose slowly and put out his hand.

  “I appreciate the advice, Paul.” He knew it sounded stiff. “It was more than considerate of you to take the time.”

  Griscom came around the desk. He grasped MacVeagh’s hand and held it in a warm, firm grip. “Jim, I’ve seen some items in the press about you and the vice-presidency. Apparently some leaders in Wisconsin are getting up a write-in campaign for you.”

  MacVeagh was in no mood to discuss politics, but he nodded curtly. “I do have some friends out there,” he said. “Of course, it doesn’t mean a thing. The decision is exclusively the President’s.”

  “I know,” said Griscom. He continued to hold MacVeagh’s hand. “But it means you’re definitely in the running. I congratulate you. It’s a high compliment to your ability.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Jim,” said Griscom, “I understand how you feel about your—uh—friend. I’ve gone through some gritty periods myself and I know what it’s like. Let time be the healer. At least, it’s worth a try. And if it fails, and our man doesn’t recover, then come back and see me. I think a lot of you, Jim, and I’m anxious to help all I can.”

  His voice was sincere, the friendly voice of a man who would soon know old age and needed nothing more from life now but good marks from those he liked or respected. But Jim was still seething. He broke off the handshake.

  “Thanks, Paul. You’ve been a big help.”

  The British secretary’s smile was one of approval, complimenting him for having the sound judgment to bring his difficulties to Griscom, Fotheringill & Hadley. MacVeagh lunged out of the office without a good day, yanking the door behind him. But it did not slam. A pneumatic device slowed the door’s motion, and Jim heard it click sedately behind him.

  He was still in vile humor when he arrived at his Senate office. The idea that Senator MacVeagh might suffer a mental lapse because of an affair with Rita Krasicki was so ludicrous that Jim couldn’t understand how a man of Griscom’s discernment could possibly reach such a conclusion. Either Griscom was a light-weight whose reputation overshadowed his talents or he, MacVeagh, had botched the mission horribly. He had gone to the law office as a frightened man seeking counsel, and he had come out in a frustrated rage. He had accomplished absolutely nothing—except to learn that Griscom knew of Rita. He could imagine Griscom standing in his living room, peeping at him from behind a curtain. Griscom’s knowledge rattled him, and Jim wasn’t sure who angered him more at the moment, Griscom or himself.

  Flip Carlson called on the intercom with news—another Wisconsin mayor had come out for MacVeagh for vice-president—but Jim cut him off. Later, he said brusquely. Right now he had other things to do.

  Then, as he sat at his desk, digging at the big blotter with a letter opener, his ire began to drain away. Griscom had made a logical deduction, especially in view of Jim’s refusal to name names. And what did Griscom’s conjecture matter, really, when weighed against Jim’s own growing belief about Mark Hollenbach? He saw Hollenbach again, striding about shadowy Aspen lodge, poisonously assailing his fancied persecutors and, alternately, immersing himself in the rapt vision of a preposterous union of nations that would prove the world’s salvation.

  Jim had to do something, but just what? Well, the first thing was to do his homework—which Craig Spence had accused him of neglecting. To start with, he ought to know precisely what the law and the custom was in cases where a president’s physical or mental condition was called into question. What was that fellow’s name at the legislative reference service of the Library of Congress? Oh, yes. A Mr. Brunton, one of those hundreds of faceless civil servants who knew everything a senator didn’t.

  He telephoned the Library of Congress, got the proper extension, and heard the pale, courteous voice of Mr. Brunton.

  “This is Jim MacVeagh of Iowa, Mr. Brunton,” he said. “Say, I need whatever you’ve got on the subject of presidential inability. What? A speech? No, no, just a request from a constituent.”

  He listened for a moment. “Yes, that’s it. The early agreements, Eisenhower-Nixon and Kennedy-Johnson, and now the one between President Hollenbach and Mr. O’Malley. And those Senate hearings run by Senator Birch Bayh of Indiana. Also, the American Bar Association recommendations. In short, everything you’ve got.”

  “I’ll send over what I’ve got this afternoon, Senator.” Mr. Brunton was apologetic. “But right now a great deal of that material is out to somebody else. There’s always a lot of interest in that subject, you know, and our folder keeps making the rounds. But as soon as the other material comes back, I’ll shoot it right over.”

  Jim tilted back in his chair. That was a starter, but he ought to be doing something else. The fear he’d felt when riding back from Camp David came seeping back. Was Mark really…? He hesitated to think the word again. But time might count, and he ought to act somehow. Then he thought of something Paul Griscom had said. Yes, that certainly should be done.

  He ruminated for almost half an hour, planning his course. Then he dialed his assistant on the intercom.

  “Flip,” he said. “Come on in here. You’re going on a trip for me.”

  7.

  La Belle

  Six days later, on a Sunday afternoon, Jim MacVeagh was sitting in the upstairs den of his McLean home with the window wide open. The calendar marked the first day of spring, and an unseasonable blaze of heat sucked at the winter’s moisture deep in the earth of suburban Virginia. The MacVeagh back lawn perspired under the sun. The vacant field beyond the back fence steamed and glistened in the sudden thaw. The last of the snow had vanished overnight. Branches of a dogwood tree outside Jim’s window gleamed moistly, and he could see the first green fuzz of new buds. The smell of the opening land was full and pungent, and under his sport shirt Jim could feel a trickle of sweat.

  The sunlight, bursting through the window as though newly freed of confinement, sparkled on a tray of knives in a corner of the room. The velvet case of old surgical instruments, some dating back two hundred years, reminded Jim of his father and of old Jamie MacVeagh’s disappointment. He had wanted to be a surgeon, but the family lacked the tuition for medical school, and Jamie had wound up selling insurance. A frustrated physician all his life, he’d used much of his spare funds to accumulate one of the country’s finest collections of ancient medical weaponry. On his father’s death, Jim had sold most of the collection, given some of it to a medical museum, and retained only the case of knives. Life has its odd twists, thought Jim. His father, balked in his ambition for a medical career, spent most of his life collecting symbols of the profession. And now here was the son, supposedly the leading candidate for vice-president, collecting all the information he could find about the man who had offered him the post. The situations weren’t analogous, thought Jim, but somehow he better appreciated his father’s frustration today.

  Jim MacVeagh was curved in a red leather easy chair on the base of his spine, his sneakered feet propped on a hassock, while he read a typewritten report from his brash young assistant, Flip Carlson.

  In his despair the Monday before, Jim recalled something Paul Griscom had said—that he ought to look into the early life of the man whose mental stability he suspected. Seeds of breakdowns often are sown in the formative years, he’
d said. Griscom, of course, was urging Jim to look back on his own childhood, thinking as he did that MacVeagh was his own patient. But the more Jim thought of the advice the better he liked it. What, indeed, had Mark Hollenbach’s early life been like? Nobody really knew much about it, only cursory mentions in highly favorable campaign biographies and a few broad sketches in the magazines. Everyone knew the highlights. Hollenbach’s father had been superintendent of schools in rural Hendry County, Florida, and the boy was reared in the little county seat of La Belle. Then Mark had gone north to college at Denison University, Granville, Ohio, and later joined the faculty of the University of Colorado at Boulder as a history professor. From there he’d gone into politics, rising to governor of Colorado and finally president.

  MacVeagh had wanted to swing around the country himself, interviewing those who knew Mark Hollenbach as a boy and young man, but realized he’d be recognized as a U.S. senator and that he would have no excuse for prowling about on such a bizarre mission. So he had enlisted his administrative assistant, Flip Carlson, whose zest for politics was matched only by his craving for travel. Jim told Carlson that he had decided to do a biography of Hollenbach, a quick job hopefully to be printed in a hurry and placed on sale during the fall campaign. The author’s credentials—a Democrat, a senator and a friend—would ensure at least a modest reception, he told Carlson, but suppose he were selected as vice-president? Then the novelty of a book about the candidate, written by his running mate, might produce a best seller. Carlson agreed the idea had “schmaltz,” as he put it, and he was eager to do what he could.

  Despite the need for speed, MacVeagh cautioned, he wanted to picture the young Hollenbach in depth (“How about width and breadth for a change?” asked Carlson), so he needed to know everything Carlson could dig up. How did the boy’s mind work? What were his emotional responses as he went through school and college? Who were his friends and what were his dreams? In short, it ought to be a real personality study and not the traditional banal tale of an aspiring youth who was sure to become president. Carlson, intrigued by the venture, left Washington the next day with a portable typewriter and a carton of notebooks.