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The man from the White House climbed back beside the driver and gave directions for South Royal Street and to look for St. Mary’s Catholic Church. He eased open the door and left the hum of the streets for the silent calm of the nave, looked around and perceived a single figure kneeling up by the altar.
His feet made no sound as he crept the length of the nave past the eight stained-glass windows that were the only illumination. A Baptist, he caught the faint odor of incense and the wax of the burning votive candles as he approached the kneeling silver-haired figure praying before the white-clothed altar surmounted by a simple gold cross.
He thought he was quiet, but the figure raised a single hand to admonish him not to break the silence. When the praying man had finished his orisons, he rose, inclined his head, crossed himself and turned. The man from Pennsylvania Avenue tried to speak, but another hand was raised, and they proceeded calmly back down the nave to the vestibule by the door to the street. Only then did the older man turn and smile. He opened the main door and spotted the limo across the street.
“I have come from the White House, sir,” said the staffer.
“Many things change, my young friend, but not the haircuts or the cars,” said Devereaux. If the staffer thought “White House,” which he adored using, would have the usual effect, he was wrong.
“And what does the White House wish to say to a retired old man?”
The staffer was perplexed. In a society paranoid about youth, no one called themselves old, even at seventy. He did not know that in the Arabic world, age is revered.
“Sir, the President of the United States wishes to see you.”
Devereaux remained silent, as though thinking it over.
“Now, sir.”
“Then I think a dark suit and a tie is in order, if we can pause by my house. And as I do not drive, I have no car. I trust you can bring me there and home again?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Then let us go. Your driver knows where I live. You must have been there to see Maisie.”
At the West Wing, the meeting was brief and took place in the office of the chief of staff, a hard-nosed Illinois congressman who had been with the President for years.
The President shook hands and introduced his most trusted ally in all Washington.
“I have a proposition to put to you, Mr. Devereaux,” said the Chief Executive. “In a way, a request. No, in every way a request. Right now I have a meeting I cannot butt out of. But no matter. Jonathan Silver will explain everything. I would be grateful for your reply when you feel able to give it.”
And with a smile and another handshake, he was gone. Mr. Silver did not smile. It was not a habit of his except rarely, and then only when he heard an opponent of the President was in deep trouble. He took a file off his desk and proffered it.
“The President would be grateful if you would first read this. Here. Now.” He gestured to one of the leather armchairs at the back of the room. Paul Devereaux took the file, sat, crossed his elegantly suited legs and read the Berrigan Report. When he was done, ten minutes later, he looked up.
Jonathan Silver had been working on papers. He caught the old secret agent’s gaze and put down his pen.
“What do you think?”
“Interesting, but hardly innovative. What do you want of me?”
“The President wishes to know this. Would it be possible, with all our technology and Special Forces, to destroy the cocaine industry?”
Devereaux gazed at the ceiling.
“A five-second answer would be valueless. We both know that. I will need time to conduct what the French call a projet d’étude.”
“I don’t give jackshit what the French call it” was the reply. Jonathan Silver rarely left the USA except for his beloved Israel, and when he was away, he loathed every minute of it, especially Europe, and even more especially France.
“You need study time, right? How long?”
“Two weeks, minimum. And I will need a letter of empowerment requiring every authority in the state to answer my questions frankly and truthfully. Otherwise the answer will still be valueless. I presume neither you nor the President wish to waste time and money on a project doomed to failure?”
The chief of staff stared back for several seconds, then rose and strode from the room. He returned five minutes later with a letter. Devereaux glanced at it. He nodded slowly. What he held was enough to overcome any bureaucratic barrier in the country. The chief of staff also held out a card.
“My private numbers. Home, office and cell. All encrypted. Totally secure. Call me anytime, but only for a serious reason. From now on, the President is out of this. Do you need to keep the Berrigan Report?”
“No,” said Devereaux mildly. “I have memorized it. Ditto your three numbers.”
