“Okay. Well, that clears up a lot of misconceptions for me,” Clyde said.
“Basically you need to give the Register, or the Trib or whomever, this story on a platter.”
“No one’s going to investigate this thing except for me,” Clyde said.
“You got it.”
“Okay, well, let’s get out of this dang valley, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee for your time,” Clyde said.
“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” Town said. But a few minutes later, as they were winding their way back up, he said, “I tell you what. I’m going to bounce this off my editor at the Register. Like I said, based on what you’ve told me, there’s no story here. But it would be such a big deal if something was going on—I’d hate to miss it.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Clyde said.
“But even if they like it, they won’t move unless you can give them a smoking gun. Something they can take a picture of.”
“Like what?”
“Come on, Clyde,” Town said, finally sounding a little impatient. “You’re claiming that Tab Templeton constructed a botulin factory for these guys. Where the hell is the factory?”
“Could be anywhere,” Clyde said. “In a house or an old barn or garage. None of the neighbors saw Tab or the van at the house where the Iraqis live, so it’s not there.”
“Show me the goddamn factory. That’s what it comes down to, Clyde.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Clyde said.
December
Chapter Fourty-Seven
George Bush had always got a bad cold around the beginning of December, and he had one now on the morning before Pearl Harbor Day as James Gabor Millikan gave him his early-morning national-security briefing. Millikan, on the other hand, was exultant. He had retrieved himself from the ruin that he had almost suffered from being too pro-Saddam. Through his Iraq task force he had blocked both Hennessey and that bottom fish in the Agency whose name he had forgotten, but who had been sternly dealt with and who would soon be cast back into the outer darkness. He had had a triumphant time organizing the United Nations effort, for which he had received so much approval from the President and from the press. All was going well—except that the President had that look on his face.
George Bush, underneath all the stiffness and Yaliness and malapropisms, had one big problem for James Gabor Millikan. He was a softy. He really liked people. He worried about people. He worried himself sick about gas attacks and chemical warfare and his precious Americans dying in the sands of the desert.This irritated Millikan.
“So what about the biological and chemical developments?” the President asked as he turned to his military adviser.
“Nothing new. If they launch anything, it will be out of those South African weapons, and it will be nothing that we can’t control.”
“Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
Millikan interjected. “If I could, sir, you were unduly upset by the reports written by that analyst who has been mustered out of the service after miserably failing a routine polygraph examination.”
Bush had a way of looking through people, and at this point he began doing it to Millikan. Bush said nothing, which made it even worse. Millikan at times like this could not stand the silence. “Our task force, which you yourself said was blue-ribbon all the way, is on top of this.”
“What about Hennessey?”
“He’s on board, sir.”
“Who’s he working for now? I can never remember.”
“The Bureau, Mr. President.”
“Oh, good! So he can do domestic stuff without kicking up a fuss in the press.”
“If need be, Mr. President. But we don’t see domestic as being a major concern.”
When Millikan left the meeting, his assistant, Dellinger, was waiting for him, looking troubled. “Out with it!” Millikan said as they walked down the corridor together.
“The Des Moines Register has got wind of a wild story again and, once again, is asking some funny questions,” Dellinger said, and went on to tell a bizarre little tale about a backwater university town in Iowa.
“Jesus Christ,” Millikan said, “do whatever it takes to kill that story. That’s just what we need! For the President to get wind of something like that.”
“Yes, sir. I anticipated that you’d feel that way and already set some things in motion.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes. You should know that Hennessey has had a couple of meetings with Vandeventer—the CIA person. None too discreetly, I might add.”
“I am getting so tired of that woman,” Millikan said, and heaved a deep sigh. “What access does she have? Weren’t all her clearances removed?”