But by far the most common retort was, “Where’s the constituency,
Danny? How does feeding the Ethiopians get me reelected in Illinois?”
As he was quickly ushered from office after office, he sensed that they
all looked at him with pity: Danny Buchanan, perhaps the greatest
lobbyist ever, was now muddled, senile. It was so sad. Sure, it was a
good cause and all, who can doubt that, but get real. Africa? Starving
babies in Latin America? I’ve got my own problems right here.
“Look, if it ain’t trade, troops or oil, Danny, why the hell are you
here wasting my time?” one highly regarded senator had told him. That
could be the quintessential statement on American foreign policy.
Could they be that blind? Buchanan had asked himself over and over. Or
was he the utter fool?
Finally, Buchanan decided he had only one option. It was completely
illegal, but a man pushed to the precipice could not afford allegiance
to pristine ethics. Using the fortune he had amassed over the years,
he had taken to bribing, in very special ways, certain key politicians
for their assistance. It had worked wonderfully. The aid to his
clients had grown, in so many different ways. Even as his own wealth
was dissipated, things were looking up, Buchanan believed. Or at least
things were not getting worse; he would count the holding of precious,
hard-won ground as a success. It had all worked well, until about a
year ago.
As if on cue, the knock on his office door startled him from his
reverie. The building was closed, supposedly secure, the cleaning
crews long since departed. He didn’t get up from his desk. He simply
watched as the door swung inward, the silhouette of a tall man framed
against the opening. The man’s hand reached out and flicked on the
light.
Buchanan squinted as the glare of the overheads hit him. When his eyes
adjusted to the brightness, he watched as Robert Thornhill took off his
trench coat, smoothed down his jacket and shirt and sat down across
from him. The man’s movements were graceful, unhurried, as though he
had plopped down for a leisurely drink at his country club.
“How did you get in here?” Buchanan asked sharply. “The building is
supposed to be secure.” For some reason Buchanan could sense that
others lurked right outside the door.
“And it is, Danny. It is. For most people.”
“I don’t like you coming here, Thornhill.”
“I’m courteous enough to use your given name. I’d appreciate
reciprocity on that point. A small thing, to be sure, but at least I’m
not demanding that you address me as Mister Thornhill. That’s the norm
between master and servant, isn’t it, Danny? You see, I’m not so bad
to work for.”
The man’s smug look was designed, Buchanan knew, to drive him to such
distraction that he couldn’t think clearly. Instead he leaned back in
his chair and settled his hands across his middle.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Bob?”
“Your meeting with Senator Milstead.”
“I could easily have met him in town. I’m not sure why you insisted
that I go to Pennsylvania.”
“But this way you get one more opportunity to make your pitch for all
those starving masses. You see, I do have a heart.”
“Does it even make a dent in whatever you call a conscience that you’re
using the plight of millions of men, women and children who consider it
a miracle to see the sun rise, to further your own selfish agenda?”
“I’m not paid to have a conscience. I’m paid to protect the interests
of this country. Your interests. Besides, if having a conscience were
the criteria, there would be no one left in this town. In fact, I
applaud your efforts. I have nothing against the poor and helpless.
Good for you, Danny!”
“Sorry if I don’t buy that.”
Thornhill smiled. “Every country in the world has people like me. That
is, they do if they’re smart. We get the results everybody wants,
because most ‘everybody’ lacks the courage to do it himself.”
“So you play God? Interesting line of work.”
“God is conceptual. I deal in facts. Speaking of which, you powered