‘He doesn’t,’ said the fourth member at the table, a rotund, middle-aged man with a cherubic face and the impatient eyes of a scholar below a rumpled thatch of red hair; his elbow-patched tweed jacket labelled him an academic. ‘And I’ll bet ten of my patents that some profound miscalculation will take place before his first term is over.’
‘You’d lose,’ said the fifth member at the table, an elderly woman with silver hair and dressed elegantly in a black silk dress with a minimum of jewelry. Her cultured voice was laced with those traces of inflection and cadence often described as mid-Atlantic. ‘Not because you underestimate him, which you do, but because he and those behind him will consolidate their growing consensus until he’s politically invincible. The rhetoric will be slanted, but there won’t be any profound decisions until his opposition is rendered damn near voiceless. In other words, they’re saving their big guns for the second term.’
‘Then you agree with Jacob that we have to move quickly,’ said the white-haired Samuel Winters, nodding at the gaunt-faced Jacob Mandel on his right.
‘Of course I do, Sam,’ replied Margaret Lowell, casually smoothing her hair, then suddenly leaning forward, her elbows firmly on the table, her hands clasped. It was an abruptly masculine movement in a very feminine woman, but none at the table noticed. Her mind was the focal point. ‘Realistically, I’m not sure we can move quickly enough,’ she said rapidly, quietly. ‘We may have to consider a more abrupt approach.’
‘No, Peg,’ broke in Eric Sundstrom, the red-haired scholar on Lowell’s left. ‘Everything must be perfectly normal, befitting an upbeat administration that turns liabilities into assets. This must be our approach. Any deviation from the principle of natural evolution—nature being unpredictable—would send out intolerable alarms. That ill-informed consensus you mentioned would rally round the cause, inflamed by Gid’s mongrels. We’d have a police state.’
Gideon Logan nodded his large black head in agreement, a smile creasing his lips. ‘Oh, they’d stomp around the camp-fires, pulling in all the good-thinking people, and burn the asses off the body politic.’ He paused, looking at the woman across the table. ‘There are no shortcuts, Margaret. Eric’s right about that.’
‘I wasn’t talking melodrama,’ insisted Lowell. ‘No rifle shots in Dallas or deranged kids with hang-ups. I only meant time. Have we the time?’
‘If we use it correctly, we do,’ said Jacob Mandel. ‘The key factor is the candidate.’
‘Then let’s get to him,’ interrupted the white-haired Samuel Winters. ‘As you all know, our colleague Mr. Varak has completed his search and is convinced he’s come up with our man. I won’t bore you with his many eliminations except to say that if there’s not complete unanimity among us, we’ll examine them—every one. He’s studied our guidelines—the assets we seek and the liabilities we wish to avoid; in essence, the talents we’re convinced must be there. In my judgment he’s unearthed a brilliant, if totally unexpected, prospect. I won’t talk for our friend—he does that very well for himself—but I’d be remiss if I did not state that in our numerous conferences he’s shown the same dedication to us that his uncle, Anton Varak, was said to have given to our predecessors fifteen years ago.’
Winters paused, his penetrating grey eyes levelled in turn at each person around the table. ‘Perhaps it takes a European deprived of his liberties to understand us, understand the reasons for our being. We are the inheritors of Inver Brass, resurrected in death by those who came before us. We ourselves were to be selected by those men should their attorneys determine that our lives continued in the way they envisaged. When the sealed envelopes were given to each of us, each of us understood. We sought no further advantages from the society we live in, coveted no benefits or positions beyond those we already possess. Through whatever abilities we had, aided by luck, inheritance or the misfortune of others, we had reached a freedom granted to few in this terribly troubled world. But with this freedom comes a responsibility and we accept it, as did our predecessors years ago. It is to use our resources to make this a better country, and through that process hopefully a better world.’ Winters leaned back in the armchair, his palms upturned as he shook his head, his voice tentative, even questioning. ‘Lord knows, no one elected us, no one anointed us in the name of divine grace, and certainly no bolts of lightning struck down from the heavens revealing any Olympian message, but we do what we do because we can do it. And we do it because we believe in our collective, dispassionate judgment.’
‘Don’t be defensive, Sam,’ interrupted Margaret Lowell gently. ‘We may be privileged, but we’re also diverse. We don’t represent any single colour of the spectrum.’
‘I’m not sure how to take that, Margaret,’ said Gideon Logan, his eyebrows arched in mock surprise as the members of Inver Brass laughed.
‘Dear Gideon,’ replied Lowell. ‘I never noticed. Palm Beach at this time of year? You’re positively sunburned.’
‘Someone had to tend your gardens, madame.’
‘If you did, I’m no doubt homeless.’
‘Conceivably, yes. A consortium of Puerto Rican families has leased the property, madame, a commune, actually.’ Quiet laughter rippled across the table. ‘I’m sorry, Samuel, our levity isn’t called for.’
‘On the contrary,’ Jacob Mandel broke in. ‘It’s a sign of health and perspective. If we ever walk away from laughter, especially over our foibles, we have no business here… If you’ll forgive me, the elders in the European pogroms taught that lesson. They called it one of the principles of survival.’
‘They were right, of course,’ agreed Sundstrom, still chuckling. ‘It puts a distance, however brief, between people and their difficulties. But may we get to the candidate? I’m absolutely fascinated. Sam says he’s a brilliant choice, but totally unexpected. I would have thought otherwise, given—as Peg said—the time factor. I thought he’d be someone in the wings, on the political wings of a Pegasus, if you will.’
‘I really must read one of his books someday,’ interrupted Mandel again, again softly. ‘He sounds like a rabbi but I don’t understand him.’
‘Don’t try,’ said Winters, smiling kindly at Sundstrom.
‘The candidate,’ repeated Sundstrom. ‘Do I gather that Varak has prepared a presentation?’
‘With his usual regard for detail,” answered Winters, moving his head to his left, indicating the glowing red light on the walled console behind him. ‘Along the way he’s unearthed some rather extraordinary information relating to events that took place a year ago, almost to the day.’
‘Oman?’ asked Sundstrom, squinting above the light of his brass lamp. ‘Memorial services were held in over a dozen cities last week.’
‘Let Mr. Varak explain,’ said the white-haired historian as he pressed an inlaid button on the surface of the table. The low sound of a buzzer filled the room; seconds later the library door opened and a stocky blond man in his mid to late thirties walked into the shadowed light and stood in the frame. He was dressed in a tan summer suit and a dark red tie; his broad shoulders seemed to stretch the fabric of his jacket. ‘We’re ready, Mr. Varak. Please come in.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Milos Varak closed the door, shutting out the dim light of the hallway beyond, and proceeded to the far end of the room. Standing in front of the lowered silver screen, he nodded courteously, acknowledging the members of Inver Brass. The glare of the brass lamps that reflected off the glistening table washed over his face, heightening the prominent cheekbones and the broad forehead below the full head of neatly combed straight blond hair. His eyelids were vaguely sloped, bespeaking a Slavic ancestry influenced by the tribes of Eastern Europe; the eyes within them were calm, knowing, and somehow cold. ‘May I say it is good to see all of you again?’ he said, his English precise, in his voice the accent of Prague.
‘It’s good to see you, Milos,’ countered Jacob Mandel, saying the name with the proper Czech pronunciation, which was ‘Meelos’. The others followed with brief utterances.
‘Varak.’ Sundstrom leaned back in his chair.
‘You look well, Milos.’ Gideon Logan nodded.
‘He looks like a football player.’ Margaret Lowell smiled. ‘Don’t let the Redskins see you. They need linebackers.’
‘The game is far too confusing for me, madame’
‘For them, too
‘I’ve told everyone about your progress,’ said Winters, adding softly, ‘as you believe your progress to be Before revealing the identity of the man you’re submitting to us, would you care to review the guidelines'”
‘I would, sir ‘ Varak’s eyes roamed around the table as he collected his thoughts ‘To begin with, your man should be physically attractive but not “pretty” or feminine. Someone who meets the maximum requirements of your image-makers—anything less would present too many obstacles for the time we have. Therefore, a man men identify with the masculine virtues of this society and women find appealing. Nor should he be an ideologue unacceptable to vocal segments of the electorate. Further, he must give the appearance of being what you call “his own man”, above being bought by special interests and with a background to support that judgment. Naturally, he should have no damaging secrets to hide. Finally, the superficial is a most vital aspect of the search. Our man must have those appealing personal qualities that can help propel him into the political spotlight through accelerated public exposure. A figure of real or projected warmth and quiet humour, with documented acts of courage in his past but nothing he would exploit to overshadow the President.’