addressed, of course, but for all that it was for them a deeply held principle, and Ryan actually respected it.
The former President took a calming breath. He had his work to do. He was two years into his memoirs and in the home stretch. The work had gone quicker than he’d expected, so much so that he’d also written a confidential annex to his autobiography that would not see the light of day until twenty years after his death.
“Where are you?” Cathy asked, thinking of her schedule for the day. She had four laser procedures scheduled. Her Secret Service detail had already checked out the patients, lest one come into the OR with a pistol or knife, an event so unlikely to happen that Cathy had long ago stopped thinking about it. Or maybe she had stopped thinking about it because she knew her detail was worrying about it.
“Huh?”
“In the book,” his wife clarified.
“The last few months.” His tax and fiscal policy, which had actually worked until Kealty had applied a flamethrower to it.
And now the United States of America was muddling along under the presidency—or reign—of Edward Jonathan Kealty, a silver-spooned member of the aristocracy. In time it would be fixed one way or another, the people would see to that. But the difference between a mob and a herd was that a mob had a leader. The people didn’t really need that. The people could do without it—because a leader usually came along somehow or other. But who chose the leader? The people did. But the people chose a leader from a list of candidates, and they had to be self-selected.
The phone rang. Jack got it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jack.” The voice was familiar enough. Ryan’s eyes lit up.
“Hi, Arnie. How’s life in academia?”
“As you might expect. See the news this morning?”
“The Marines?”
“What do you think?” Arnie van Damm asked.
“Doesn’t look very good.”
“I think it’s worse than it looks. The reporters aren’t telling the whole story.”
“Do they ever?” Jack wondered sourly.
“No, not when they don’t like it, but some of them have integrity. Bob Holtzman at the Post is having a conscience attack. He called me. Wants to talk to you about your views—off the record, of course.”
Robert Holtzman of The Washington Post was one of the few reporters Ryan almost trusted, partially because he’d always been straight with Ryan and partially because he was a former naval officer—a 1630, the code the Navy used to designate an intelligence officer. While he was at odds with Ryan on most political issues, he was also a man of integrity. Holtzman knew things about Ryan’s background that he’d never published, despite the fact that they would have made juicy stories, perhaps even career-making stories. But then again, maybe he was just saving them for a book. Holtzman had written a few of those, one a bestseller, and had made decent money from the effort.
“What did you tell him?” Jack asked Arnie.
“I told him I’d ask, but you’d probably say not just no but hell, no.”
“Arnie, I do like the guy, but a former President can’t trash his successor. ...”
“Even if he’s a worthless piece of shit?”
“Even then,” Jack confirmed sourly. “Maybe especially then. Hold on. I thought you liked him. What happened?”
“Maybe I hung around you too much. Now I have this crazy notion that character counts for something. It’s not all political maneuvering.”
“He’s damned good at that, Arnie. Even I have to grant him that. Arnie, you want to come down for a talk?” Ryan asked. Why else would he call on a Friday morning?
“Yeah, okay, so I’m not exactly subtle.”
“Fly on down. You’re always welcome in my house, you know that.”
Cathy asked sotto voce, “What about Tuesday? Dinner.”
“How about Tuesday for dinner?” Jack asked Arnie. “You can stay the night. I’ll tell Andrea to expect you.”
“Do that. I’m always half worried that woman’s going to shoot me, and as good as she is, I doubt it’d be a flesh wound. See you around ten.”
“Great, Arnie, see ya.” Jack set the phone back down and stood up to walk Cathy to the garage. Cathy had moved up in class. Now she drove a two-seat Mercedes, though she’d recently admitted she missed the helicopter into Hopkins. On the upside, now she got to play race-car driver, with her Secret Service agent, Roy Altman, former captain in the 82nd Airborne, holding on for dear life in the passenger seat. A serious guy. He was standing by the car, jacket unbuttoned, paddle holster visible.
“Morning, Dr.