World War III

“I suppose you read what he said in the papers this morning? He’s all hot air, but unless you begin some rebutting, people are going to start believing this drivel.” Kimball read from a clipping. ‘“In Senator Weston’s scathing denunciations of the president’s newest tightening of the grain embargo of the Soviet Union, the erstwhile political ally and protege of the president succeeded in demolishing the Administration’s entire apologia for this self-defeating policy.’” He glanced up at the president. “Crap like this is what hurts.”

“Our beloved Miss Longworth is using Milt to mangle me.”

“She’s an ass, Mr. President. But people read her tripe. She’s a strong columnist, lots of papers pick her up. She wants you and Weston to destroy each other so her own candidate can pick up the jellybeans and move in here. Can you believe she’s seriously backing Wes Nichols for president? Wes Nichols, for chrissake!”

“They call it freedom of choice, Dick. Nobody said you have to be smart to exercise it.” McKenna watched him a moment. He’d been waiting for the right time. Now was perfect. “She’s here, you know.”

“Who is?”

“Dorothy. I’m seeing her right after I leave you.”

Kimball nearly choked on his coffee. “Longworth!”

McKenna smiled broadly. “Right the first time.”

“Oh, my.” The campaign manager set his coffee down and closed his eyes. “Oh, my!”

“My loyal friends of the Fourth Estate depress me; they’re so upset with everything. Mind you, they’re correct in their depression. But our Miss Longworth feasts on despair and she tells me a lot. She doesn’t know it, but her questions are their own answers.” Kimball exhaled a defeated breath. “You’re the president, Mr. President.”

“I’ll get my resident economic genius started on a rebuttal speech — that should please you. But that’s it for now, Dick. I won’t attack Senator Weston directly and I’m not ready to announce. Okay?”

“Well… “—Kimball let out a long sigh— “…shit! All right. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“If I don’t Stu Fielding can make it sound as though I do. Isn’t that what speechwriters and campaign managers are for?”

“I don’t trust Stuart Fielding,” Hickman said seriously. “He’s ugly and horny. That’s a bad combination.” Then he smiled. “It’s much better to be fat and bald.”

The door to the study opened and Kimball looked in. “Mr. President, it’s time for your nine-fifteen.”

“Be right there. And, Wayne, put me down to see Stu Fielding sometime today. Short. I want a paper that shows positive results of our Soviet grain embargo. I want our farmers to understand… you know what I want.” Kimball was writing furiously. “Right. Brilliant speech. Embargo. Farm vote. I got it.” McKenna turned to Hickman. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when you get me tickets to your next inaugural ball, Mr. President.” The president raised an eyebrow. He glanced at Kimball. “Won’t we all.” Dorothy Longworth was perusing one of the volumes of Churchill’s memoirs on World War II when the president joined her in the library. She was a small woman, oddly, McKenna thought, considering the clout she held in the press. He’d never actually noticed her height during press conferences as she was usually sitting down; she was not one of those jack-in-the-box correspondents of the White House Press Corps “who competed for questions from the floor. She was thirty-five with a Dresden doll’s face, and she dressed simply. She wore a dark, high-necked dress with her hair done up in a bun, an attempt, McKenna guessed, to make her appear older or more mature, perhaps both.

“Good morning, Miss Longworth,” he said graciously. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” He gestured for her to have a seat.

“Not at all, Mr. President.” She set the book on a side table rather than putting it back in its place on the shelf. “I was just reading Mr. Churchill’s reminiscences of the Potsdam meeting.” She sat down in a flowered-print chair. “Did you ever meet him?”

“Churchill?” McKenna smiled. “I was eleven years old when they divided up Europe, Miss Longworth.

I never even met Eisenhower.” He took a seat opposite her on a matching love seat. “Do you know Walter Cronkite?” Dorothy Longworth’s mouth turned up slightly, her eyes half closed. “Touche.” She took out a reporter’s pad and pencil. “You know, Mr. President, I was a little surprised to get this interview.”

“I figured it was about time we met face to face. As long as you’re writing so much about my Administration, I thought you ought to meet the source of the country’s problems.” Her eyes narrowed. “That isn’t quite fair, Mr. President. It’s not personal at all. My job is to write what I see. And I see an Administration in turmoil.”

“Do you?”

“You’re not getting much support from the Hill these days.”

“What president ever got much support from Congress, Miss Longworth?” She nodded and jotted quickly on her pad.