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"Let's keep it a select club, shall we?"
"Whatever you say, Mr. President."
"I deeply appreciate your bringing this matter to my attention, Mr. Pitt."
"Would you like me to pursue it?"
"No, I think it best if we drop the treaty back in its coffin for now. There is no purpose in damaging our relations with Canada and the United Kingdom. I see it as a simple case of what nobody knows, won't hurt them."
"John Essex would have agreed."
"And you, Mr. Pitt, would you agree?"
Pitt closed his briefcase and stood up. "I'm a marine engineer, Mr. President. I steer well clear of political involvement."
"A wise course," said the President with an understanding smile. "A wise course indeed."
Five seconds after the door closed behind Pitt, the President spoke into his intercom. "Maggie, get me Douglas Oates on the holograph." He settled behind his desk and waited.
Soon after taking up residence in the White House he had ordered a holographic communications system installed in his office. He took an almost childlike interest in studying his cabinet members'
expressions, body movements and outward emotions while he visually talked to them miles away.
The three-dimensional image of a man with wavy auburn hair and conservatively attired in a gray pinstripe suit materialized in the middle of the oval office. He was seated in a leather executive chair.
Douglas Oates, the secretary of state, nodded and smiled. "Good morning, Mr. President. How goes the battle?"
"Douglas, how much money has the United States given away to Britain since nineteen fourteen?"
Oates stared quizzically. "Given?"
"Yes, you know, war loans written off, economic aid, contributions, whatever."
Oates shrugged. "A pretty substantial sum, I should imagine."
"Over a billion dollars?"
"Easily," replied Oates. "Why do you ask?"
The President ignored the question. "Arrange for a courier. I have something of interest for my friend in Ottawa."
"More data on the oil bonanza?" Oates persisted.
"Even better. We've just been dealt a wild card on the Canadian solution."
"We need all the luck we can get."
"I guess you might call it a red herring."
"Red herring?"
The President had the look of a cat with a mouse under its paw.
"The perfect ploy," he said, "to divert British attention from the real conspiracy."
The President side stroked to the edge of the White House pool and pulled himself up the ladder as Mercier and Klein came from the dressing room.
"I hope an early morning swim doesn't disrupt your schedules."
