Q Clearance by Peter Benchley
Never mind how you feel, he told himself in an effort to reduce his fever to a manageable temperature, think how she must feel. He resolved not to be angry, not to detest her, but to understand her and feel sorry for her.
Sure. You bet.
"Bitch!" he said aloud, and the word felt exquisite in his mouth. "Self-righteous bitch!"
Foster Pym stood at the bathroom sink, letting his eyes adjust to the dim red glow from the darkroom bulb he had screwed into the fixture over the sink. He had tacked a black rubber raincoat over the bathroom window, and the few rays of light that leaked around its edges would do no harm.
When he could see, he unscrewed the right earpiece from Eva's half-glasses and, with a pair of tweezers, withdrew the strip of 8mm. film. He coiled the strip around a pencil, then slid it off into a standard 35mm. film cannister. He found an unexposed roll of film and, following Teal's precise written instructions, loaded it into the frame of the glasses.
He was worried about Eva. The confrontation with the President had shaken her badly. She had come home and declared that she was through: He could call the police, do what he would, she would rather go to jail for what she had done—naively or not—than risk a life sentence for something she had been forced to do. She had never so much as hinted that she might seek immunity in return for informing on him, but they both knew that the option was open to her.
He had striven to avoid a confrontation with her. He had accentuated the positive: She had tweaked the lion in his den and had lived to tell the tale.
She saw only the negative: She had been ten seconds away from being arrested by the President of the United States as a spy.
He said that demonstrated that the President was only human, not omniscient and omnipotent.
She said it demonstrated that this stupid game he was playing had dangers far beyond any possible reward.
He tried to appeal to her politically, reminding her that she had once sent him a paper she had written at Bennington entitled "Disarming the American Bully."
She said that was vapid bullshit and he was only interested in being allowed to live off the fat of the land for the rest of his life.
Finally, he had been forced to play two audio tapes for her, tapes in which she had innocently identified and located three of her former compatriots who were still at large and still being sought for involvement in the Glen Canyon Dam affair.
She had thrown a bottle of sherry at him and burst into tears.
He had tried to comfort her.
She had called him a ruthless bastard and asked if he had any conscience at all, even about destroying Burnham's life.
He had replied that no, he had no conscience at all, especially about that simpleton Burnham, at which he was shocked mute by her expression, which told him unequivocably that she was falling in love with Burnham.
Which worried him most of all.
She had poured herself a glass of vodka large enough to stun Rasputin.
He had said that drinking was a silly—not to mention reckless—way to avoid reality.
She had told him to fuck off.
He pulled the raincoat off the bathroom window, turned off the red light, and walked into the living room.
Eva was asleep on the couch.
He picked up the telephone and dialed Teal's number, and when identification had been established, said, "The hostess's order of B-twelve is in . . . Yes ... All right. . . I'll be there."
He hung up.
"B-twelve?" Eva said foggily from the couch.
"The code name for our Mr. Burnham." Pym smiled. "You were the inspiration."
"I was?"
"Isn't that the vitamin you said makes him believe all is right with the world?"
"So?"
"Well, if we play him correctly, he can make all right with our world."
ELEVEN
Even if, intellectually, Burnham had wanted to stop seeing Eva, he could not have. He would have lied to himself as facilely as an alcoholic lies to himself to justify the 10:00 A.M. tumbler of vodka: It may be early here, but in Baghdad it's almost evening; I'll just have this one shooter now, and then I'll taper down tonight; I'll quit tomorrow.
For, in ways that he sensed but could not analyze, he was addicted to her. She made him feel good, and not only sexually, though that was her most obvious achievement: Her sexual wizardry had stripped ten years off his life and imbued him with a new potency and pride. She nourished him, literally, by controlling his diet—not, like a health-food nut, feeding him only what was good for him and would help prevent cancer of the colon, things like humus and bulgar, but by restricting his intake to those foods which made him feel physically fine, mentally alert and sexually immortal.
She was entirely nonjudgmental. Whether or not she was apolitical he had no idea, but whenever, conversationally, he sought her opinion about an issue that had come up during the day—for example, how to draft a statement for the President that managed to kick the ass of the President of France for harboring 173 goggle-eyed Italian terrorists, while, at the same time, avoided driving the silly bugger farther out onto the radical fringe—her considered response was invariably based on three priorities: what would be best for Burnham, what would be best for the President and, last and least, what would soothe the ruffled feathers of the vocal moralists.
It was so relaxing, especially compared to life with Sarah.
He had tried, every couple of days for more than two weeks, to set up a meeting with Sarah, in hopes of talking through their differences or at least of establishing a modus Vivendi by which he could see his children, whom he missed with a pain that was physical, visceral. Even his midget Maoist daughter. Sarah had refused to see him and, by now, was refusing to take his calls. If she answered and heard his voice, she would hang up immediately. Sometimes a man answered. Burnham didn't know (and didn't particularly care) who it was. He assumed it was a bright-eyed towhead from one of the Hickory Hill litters. Sarah was out. Always.
Burnham didn't know what more to do. Several of his friends had been divorced, but acrimonious as some of the splits had been, the combatants had always talked, if only through their lawyers. How do you force your wife to return your phone calls? He should probably hire a lawyer who would go to a judge who would issue a writ (he didn't know what a writ was, but it sounded good) to be served on Sarah who would tear it up. He could stop paying his rent, but that seemed self-defeating, because if Sarah and the kids were moved out onto the street, he had no doubt that Sarah would find a way to have his salary attached. Without speaking to him on the phone. What he could do, and what he intended to do one of these days, was stop paying into their joint checking account, close that account, and let her start papering Georgetown with rubber checks. Unless she had already found a new sugar daddy to keep her in electricity and cooking gas, that should move her to make a phone call.
Meanwhile, Eva came to his office each day around noon. If he could get away, they played squash. If not, they had a quick lunch in the Mess or, if time was very short, he sent Dyanna down to fetch sandwiches for them. If he was working—editing a speech or preparing a statement or just thinking—she read. She seemed pleased to be there, and he was ecstatic to have her there. He drew sustenance from her. If he was under pressure, on a deadline, frantic to find an answer, a smile from her could (or so he felt, and, if there was truth to the precepts of biofeedback, as she insisted there was, feeling it made it so) lop twenty points off his blood pressure.
Dyanna did not like Eva. At first, Burnham thought her problem was jealousy: It was one thing for him to have a woman outside the office, but to establish another female in Dyanna's nest smacked of professional adultery. Then he realized that the problem was fear. Dyanna was afraid of Eva: She saw Eva as a destabilizing influence on Burnham, a threat to his position and, therefore, to hers. She had no control over Eva, and she knew that Eva had complete control over Burnham, which, of course, meant control over Dyanna.
Burnham spoke t
The President was unfailingly courteous to Eva, had taken to calling her by her first name, had even once asked her what she thought about a value-added tax like those imposed all over Europe (Eva denied knowing what a value-added tax was).
After the second time the President met Eva, Burnham had gone to the President and consented to a full-field FBI investigation of Eva. He said he could not imagine that the FBI would find any skeletons in her cupboard, but he agreed with the President that it was best for all concerned that she be certified officially safe.
The President had called the Director of the FBI while Burnham was in his office, and Burnham had provided the Director with what few relevant details he possessed: her name, her address, her college, her job.
Then the President had shaken Burnham's hand and said, "If she's good for you, Tim, I know she'll be good for the country."
The only thing Burnham had yet to do was tell Eva.
He hadn't dared. Not that he was afraid she wouldn't understand—she understood everything, that was one of her beauty parts—but she might be annoyed that he hadn't consulted with her before launching the investigation. Perhaps she had a few youthful peccadilloes that she'd like to keep private. Perhaps the FBI might dredge up an early marriage— maybe a child or two—that she had kept from Burnham.
What right did he have to employ the federal government to steal all her personal secrets? None. Suppose she wasn't who she said she was, suppose she had been lying to him, suppose . . .
He was supposing himself into lunacy. He had to tell her, and tell her soon, before any one of the inane fantasies that competed for space in his head gelled into a credible scenario.
And before she found out on her own, as surely she would, for soon FBI agents looking like IBM salesmen would fan out across the land, asking probing questions of her pediatrician, her eighth-grade field-hockey coach and her gynecologist. One of them would be bound to call her and ask what was going on, was she being nominated ambassador to Mali.
On a Monday when the President was not due back from Camp David until the afternoon, Burnham and Eva went for a walk on the Ellipse. A light breeze blew from the northwest, carrying mountain pollens that irritated Burnham's allergies but keeping the humidity down so the air was pleasantly dry.
Tour buses clustered around the Washington Monument, disgorging graduating seniors from Cranbury High School to mount the cenotaph and there, it was hoped, to osmose the glory of America's heritage amid gum wrappers, cigarette butts and Magic-Marker messages that said things like "Scungo 154."
Burnham and Eva circled the Ellipse without speaking— she because she was enjoying the human extravaganza, he because he was trying to compose a graceful way of telling her about the FBI investigation.
In his mind he tried: "The President thinks so highly of you that he wants to spend a quarter of a million of the taxpayers' dollars to find out more about you."
And: "Our relationship has become important to more than just us. It's important to America."
And: "If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't have sicced the FBI on you."
Finally, thinking that he was actually saying something but in fact still stalling, he said, "I have something to tell you."
"Oh? What?"
"That first day, when the President came into my office and saw you there, he—"
"And called me Sarah."
"That's the day. Afterward, he called me into his office and—"
"Dad!"
Burnham stopped. Why did he stop? There were a thousand fathers here, and a thousand children calhng to them. The voice was familiar. He looked around.
"Dad! T.B.!"
It came from behind him. He turned. There, stopped at a light, was a yellow school bus, and hanging out of one of the windows was the torso of Christopher.
"Chris!" Burnham jogged to the curb. He was excited and nervous and happy. He hadn't seen his son in more than three weeks. He wanted to say everything at once. What came out was, "How you doing?"
"Awesome! Going to tennis camp."
"School's over?"
"A week ago."
"Oh. Right. Hey, I've missed you."
"Yeah, me too."
"See you when you get back?"
"Sure. I'll call you." The light changed, and the bus lurched forward.
"Maybe I'll be home by then." Keep him hoping, Burnham thought.
"I doubt it. Mom's already filed for divorce."
"What?" The bus was gathering speed, and Burnham ran alongside, dodging prams and hot-dog stands. "She couldn't have!"
"She did," Christopher said. The bus was pulling away now, and he had to shout. "Cruel and unusual punishment, I think it is. See ya!" He waved and vanished into the bus.
Burnham stood at the comer, staring after the bus, feeling winded, shocked, betrayed, traduced, raped.
Eva came up behind him and took his hand and laced her fingers into his.
"Did you hear what he said?"
She smiled and, with her free hand, rubbed the inside of his elbow.
"I've never been cruel or unusual!"
They walked, and she held his hand and let him vent his sorrow and his rage and his bitterness. He plotted vengeance, and she nodded; he voiced despair, and she rubbed his elbow.
Eventually, he was empty, and then he, too, was silent.
"Nature does a wonderful thing with pain," she said.
"What's that?"
"Builds a shell around it, insulating you from it little by little, and then one day you realize that you haven't thought about it for a while, and, what do you know, it's gone."
"How long does that take?"
"Depends if you have somebody helping you." She squeezed his hand in both of hers. "You do."
He stopped walking and took her face in his hands and kissed her.
From somewhere nearby a young male voice called out, "All right!"
"Have you ever thought of being a shrink?"
She laughed. "I didn't do anything."
They started walking again, hand in hand, and she said, "What was it you were going to tell me?"
"Oh. Yes." He spoke without hesitating, because he wasn't worried any more. He loved her, he knew she knew it, and she knew he wouldn't do anything to hurt her. Besides, the whole thing made eminent good sense if you looked at it from a logical perspective.
"The President gave me two options: stop seeing you, which I don't consider an option, or make sure that our relationship won't jeopardize anything."
"What does that mean? Jeopardize anything?"
"From a security standpoint. He feels, and I know you'll agree, that if you're going to be in my office, in my heart and my head"—he smiled—"someone with my security clearance, with access to the things I have access to, then you'd better be secure, too."
"What do I have to do to be secure?"
"Nothing. Not a thing. It's all done for you."
"How?" Her pace had been in sync with his. Now it slowed. Her grip on his hand loosened just a bit.
"The FBI sends some guys around to ask questions, that's all." He felt her fingers slide away from his. "I know it sounds scary, but it's no big deal, I promise. The only things they care about are if you're a Nazi or a Communist or a Martian."
He laughed. "I think it's safe to bet you'll pass with flying colors."
She stopped walking. She took her hand from Burnham's and appeared to fish for something in her purse. Her breathing had quickened. "Has it started?"
He chose a judicious fib. "I think so. I don't have anything to do with it. Personally."
"I thought
"Well ... in the sense that once I said I wouldn't stop seeing you, it was a given that they'd start inv . . . asking questions." He put his hand on her shoulder. The muscles were as hard as marble. "Hey. I'm sorry. It was selfish of me. I should've asked you. I'm really sorry. I—"
"Don't worry." She forced a smile. She took his hand again, and her fingers felt like chilled pickles.
"I know it sounds gruesome. But it really isn't anything."
"I guess I was surprised, that's all." She wiggled her fingers in his. "Feel my hand. What a chicken I am."
"Don't be silly. If somebody told me out of the blue that the FBI was doing a full-field investigation of me, my mind'd go ape trying to remember every time I sassed a teacher or got a parking ticket."
"Is that what they call it?" Her voice was a little girl's voice. "A full-field investigation?"
Burnham closed his eyes and cursed himself. "Yes. But it's really a two-dollar name for a two-bit formality."
Eva made a perfunctory pass at her watch and said, "Look at the time!"
"Yeah, we'd better—"
Bmeep! Bmeep! Bmeep! Bmeep! Bmeep! An urgent, abrasive, soprano signal was triggered somewhere inside Burnham's pants, like the digital wrist alarms that always seem to go off in theaters at the peak moment of tender passion.
"What's that?" Eva looked horrified, as if discovering that the FBI had taken up residence in Burnham's trousers.
Abashed, Burnham fumbled under the tail of his jacket, contorting himself as if possessed by Saint Vitus' dance, and pushed a switch that silenced the beeping. "See?" He tried to grin. "I get all the perks of being a doctor without ever going to med school."
"What wit?"
"I'm not allowed to be out of touch any more. At all. Ever. So if I'm not near a phone, I have to carry this." He unclipped the small black metal monitoring device from his belt. "If they want me, they fire it from the White House."
"Then what?"
"I call in, unless it's this message, and then I hie my ass back as fast as I can." He held the device before her face and pointed to three letters flashing in the LCD window: B.T.W. "Himself has returned from Camp David."