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“Bullshit!”
Midleton looked away from the president and shook his head. “This is really no way to be running an administration.”
“Oh, I suppose you think it would be better if I scheduled secret breakfast meetings and plotted to stab you in the back.”
“You know, I really don’t think….”
Before Midleton could finish, Hayes cut him off sharply. “Shut your damn mouth, Chuck. You never got it through that pompous head of yours that I won the presidency, not you. When you quit after New Hampshire and agreed to throw your support behind me in exchange for a spot in the administration, that’s when you lost, Chuck. The people didn’t want you, and then, in exchange for your support, I made what is starting to look like the worst decision of my political career. But I can live with that because I can be rid of you by this afternoon and do so with a clear conscience.” Midleton’s eyes grew large in disbelief. “Oh, I’m not kidding. Have you seen my approval numbers lately? They’re over seventy percent. I can demand your resignation, and a week from now you’ll be history.”
Midleton sniffed disdainfully. This couldn’t be happening to him. He wouldn’t dare.
“You don’t think I’m serious? You don’t think there aren’t a hundred guys on the Hill who wouldn’t jump at the chance to take over at State? I could even get the Republicans on board…you’re not exactly their favorite character.”
Midleton straightened himself and said, “Are you done threatening me?”
“No, I haven’t even started. You have about one minute”—Hayes held up his index finger—“to explain to me what you were doing the other morning at Congressional, and you’d better do so with some sincere remorse.”
Midleton’s mind scrambled to find some cover. “As secretary of state, I need to be concerned about the national security issues that affect this country.”
President Hayes stood abruptly. “As secretary of state,” he shouted, “you need to be concerned with what I tell you to be concerned with. I specifically told you earlier this week that if you had any questions regarding the CIA, you were to go through my national security advisor. Whom I choose to succeed Thomas”—Hayes pointed to the silent Stansfield—“is none of your damn business, and believe me, you will get no sympathy from the party when they find out you were conspiring with a Republican to thwart my nominee.”
“I would hardly use the word conspire to describe a harmless breakfast meeting, and I don’t think the party will be all that thrilled when they find out you’ve been spying on a senator, a congressman, and your secretary of state.”
Midleton had taken it one step too far. Hayes yelled, “I didn’t have to spy, you idiot. People came to us with the information.” The president didn’t want it to come to this. He honestly thought Midleton would see the error of his ways and admit fault, but the man was apparently incapable of such an act. The president marched across the room to his desk and grabbed a leather folder. He came back and tossed it onto Midleton’s lap. “Open it and read. It’s your resignation. I typed it myself, Chuck. I didn’t want to use it, but since you have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can’t trust you, I see no other choice.”
Midleton tried to speak, but Hayes didn’t allow it. “I’m done listening. You had your chance to fess up, and you blew it. Just consider yourself lucky that I’m not firing you. If you sign that resignation, we can do this the easy way. I will let you announce that you are resigning for health issues. You go ahead and pick the ailment. If you don’t sign it, I’ll walk out of here and go down to the press room and fire your ass on national television.”
Midleton was in shock. His face was ashen as he stared at a very angry and serious president. In his wildest imagination, he never thought it would come to this. He was Charles Midleton. He was one of the most loved politicians in Washington. Midleton imagined Hayes marching down the hall to the press room to tell the world that he was firing his secretary of state. The embarrassment would be too much to handle. Midleton would have no platform from which to launch a counterattack. Hayes was too popular to confront. He had once again misjudged Robert Hayes. There was no way out. With great reluctance, Charles Midleton began to sign his name. He knew at that moment he would never recover from the embarrassment. His whole life, everything he had worked for in politics, was over.
CONGRESSMAN RUDIN WAS not amused by the skullduggery that had been used to get him to this meeting. He had received a call from the speaker of the House the previous evening requesting that he meet him in his office the next morning. Rudin had arrived on time and was forced to wait fifteen minutes. When Speaker Kaiser emerged from his spacious office in the Capitol he told the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee that they were going for a ride. Rudin, never one to shy away from confrontation, demanded to know where they were going. Kaiser told him in very clear terms that if he had any hopes of keeping his chairmanship of the Intelligence Committee, he’d better change his attitude and keep his mouth shut.
Kaiser was a former offensive lineman from the University of Alabama and still looked as if he could rumble through the Cloak Room knocking fellow representatives from their feet. His stern rebuke left Rudin scrambling to try to figure out what he’d done wrong. When the speaker’s limousine pulled through the Secret Service checkpoint at the south end of West Executive Avenue, Rudin was still unsure of what he’d done to offend the gods of politics. The two congressmen were escorted to the White House Situation Room—a further sign that things were serious. In Rudin’s thirty-four years in Washington, he’d never seen the inside of the Situation Room. Matt Rohrig, the chairman of the Democratic National Committee, was waiting for them in the room. This was another bad sign. Rohrig was the party’s money man.
When Rudin attempted to ask Rohrig what was wrong, Kaiser took the opportunity to tell Rudin one last time to sit quietly until the president arrived. Rudin racked his brain trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. At one point, he thought of the breakfast he’d had with Secretary Midleton and his friend Senator Clark earlier in the week, but he ruled it out as the source of the problem. It was no secret what Rudin thought of the CIA, and the president had yet to nominate anyone as Stansfield’s successor. All he was trying to do was head the president off from making a horrible mistake.
Finally, the president entered the room with Thomas Stansfield. Albert Rudin literally recoiled with revulsion at the sight of the CIA’s director. There was no one the congressman hated more, no one in the history of the Republic who had so brutally abused and ignored the authority of Congress. The only thing that pleased Rudin about the appearance of Stansfield was that the man looked as if he might drop dead at any moment.
President Hayes helped Stansfield into his chair and then sat in his spot at the head of the table. He placed a leather folder in front of him and leaned back. With his hands folded, he looked around the table. Kaiser and Rudin were sitting to the president’s right, and Stansfield and Rohrig were on his left. The president was more than willing to play the heavy again, but Kaiser had asked for the honor. The speaker of the House believed that the president should stay above the fray.
Hayes opened the leatherbound folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I have some unfortunate news.” Hayes held the sheet between his thumb and index finger and let it hang. “The secretary of state has just resigned.” The president looked to Rudin for a reaction.
With a sour, confused look on his face, Rudin asked, “Why?”
“There’s a long version, which I don’t have the patience to give to you, so I’ll give you the short version. Secretary Midleton is a pompous, arrogant man who doesn’t know how to follow a simple order from his boss.” Hayes pointed to h
imself. “That would be me, Al, in case you’re wondering. I am the president of the United States. I run the executive branch of the government.”
Rudin was thrown by the remedial lesson in civics. Looking to Kaiser, he shook his head and said, “What do I have to do with this?”
Kaiser didn’t hesitate for a second. “Did you have breakfast the other day with Charles Midleton and Hank Clark?”
Rudin shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. It is not unusual for me to have breakfast with colleagues.”
“Who requested that meeting?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Albert. You’re on very thin ice right now.” Kaiser stared at the rail-thin Rudin.
