One Knight Only Page 16

  “Is that it?” Arthur asked. Bob met his gaze for a moment and then looked down. “Well, well. It seems the little jest I made prior to the State of the Union had a longer-ranging effect. You remember: where I said that I was just going to ‘wing it’ instead of going with the prepared text?”

  “Yes, I know, Mr. President, I remember,” said Ron, and there was a hardness in his eyes, but also a sadness, as if somehow . . . he knew. “However, I also seem to recall that you’re a man who prides himself on speaking the truth. And I noticed that you’re not actually denying what I just said.”

  “Ron,” Arthur began.

  Kellerman was looking in confusion from one to the other, but Ron’s gaze never left Arthur’s. “Mr. President . . . what’s going on? Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

  Cook, the Secret Service agent who was seated in the front section of the limo, half turned and called behind him, “Mr. President, we’re here.” Indeed, the long black car was slowing, the Capitol building looming in front of them.

  Arthur drew in a deep breath and then let it out very slowly. Then he said, “You will find, Ron, if you live long enough, that very little of what happens in life has anything to do with what one deserves. The innocent, the good, the pure of heart die horrible deaths. Those whom we term evil live long, healthy lives in want of nothing. And mankind clings to quaint notions of God and an afterlife in order to gain some solace that the hideous unfairness that is our daily existence will somehow be sorted out.”

  “Quaint notions?” said Ron, his face barely discernible in the darkness. To Arthur, the shadows felt almost alive, as if extending icy black tendrils about him. “I seem to recall your believing in the Holy Grail. Nothing ‘quaint’ about that.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps,” Arthur said with a rueful smile. He suddenly felt every one of his thousand-plus years of age. “But if there is a God, Ron . . . what has he done for me lately?”

  Before Ron could answer, the back limo door was opened by a Secret Service man who was holding an umbrella overhead to shield Arthur from the rain. “Mr. President,” Ron began, and it was clear from his face that he suddenly felt as if things were slipping away from him.

  “Showtime,” was all Arthur said as he clambered out of the limo.

  Kellerman looked with concern at Ron. “What just happened here? What’s going on?”

  Ron just shook his head. “You heard the man. It’s showtime.”

  “MR. SPEAKER ... THE President of the United States!” Everyone was on their feet, warmly applauding, as Arthur made his way down the aisle toward the Senate floor. The place was absolutely packed, a sea of dark suits and familiar faces. So many of them had stood in opposition to him on so many things, that Arthur couldn’t help but feel as if a goodly chunk of them were damned hypocrites for pretending to be happy to see him. Then again, perhaps some of them had changed their feelings toward him. He had, after all, been subjected to a great personal tragedy in front of millions upon millions of Americans. News stations and newspapers had been filled with editorials and articles about “getting behind the President” at this time of national crisis. He should have regarded such a swelling of support as uplifting. Instead, he couldn’t help but feel as if the entire country was pitying him.

  He’d known that feeling before, all too well. Back when Guinevere’s duplicity, her adultery with Lancelot, had become public knowledge. He had felt the eyes of his knights upon him, regarding him with pity or, even worse, contempt. Perhaps these men were seeing him the same way. Perhaps they were thinking: How can you possibly defend the United States? You couldn’t even protect your own wife.

  He tried to tell himself that he was imagining it all, but the uncertainty burrowed its way into his heart, into his soul, and he became more convinced than ever that his course was the correct one.

  Arthur wasn’t even aware that he had reached the floor of the Senate until he was turning to face his audience, which was still applauding. He raised his hands, indicating that enough was enough, that they should take their seats so he could get on with the purpose of his having come there. Just to show their independence, Congress remained on its feet another few moments before finally settling down into its seats.

  The TelePrompTer had Kellerman’s speech displayed on it, as opposed to the State of the Union, which he had committed to memory. In the galley seats above, the press core waited for Arthur to speak the words that had already been released to them in the preprinted speech. It was as if he were an actor, taking the stage, whose only job was to—as Hamlet implored—speak the speech trippingly and on the tongue.

  Arthur gripped the sides of the podium, and once again breathed deeply in order to relax, like a sprinter about to embark on the most difficult race of his life. He had no reason to feel nervous, he knew. He had never been one to be nervous about anything once he’d made his mind up about it, and he most definitely had done that in this case. So there was nothing to do but get on with it.

  “Mr. Speaker,” he said, “esteemed members of Congress . . . members of the press . . . and my fellow Americans. I thank you for allowing me to come to speak before you this evening.”

  Then he stopped.

  It was not simply a dramatic pause. It was of sufficient length that it began to be uncomfortable. Congressmen were looking at one another, as if trying to affirm to one another that something seemed off. The words glowed on the TelePrompTer, moving slightly up and down, trying to reset to the proper place in the speech, the operators concerned that Arthur had lost his place in the text.

  “So!” Arthur abruptly said with such force that some people jumped slightly in their seats. “Here we are again. It seems just yesterday that I stood before you in much the same circumstances, speaking of our successes . . . speaking of the greatness that is this country, and the inevitability of our success against terrorists. Then I step out of here, and the next thing I know, terrorism nearly claimed the life of the First Lady . . . of Gwen, my wife.”

  The reporters were looking in confusion from the prepared text back to Arthur. They were realizing that what he was saying wasn’t reflected in what they had in front of them. Still, it might be chalked up to simple ad-libbing, but they nevertheless appeared a bit disconcerted. Only Fred Baumann, whom Arthur spotted toward the front of the galley, didn’t seem perplexed. Instead he appeared almost anticipatory, not even bothering to glance at the copy as if he knew that it was about to be rendered moot.

  Arthur caught a glimpse of Cordoba and Kellerman toward the back. Kellerman looked perplexed. Cordoba didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “So . . . I must have looked like a bloody fool to many of you,” Arthur continued. “Overconfident. Smug. Preening. And yet, I have experienced nothing but an outpouring of sympathy from all of you, and from the American people. The cards, the letters . . . we’ve received enough flowers at the White House to reforest the Amazon rain forest. We’ve received enough offers of blood donation to provide sufficient plasma for a hundred thousand first ladies. It has all been very, very appreciated. I don’t . . .” He drummed softly for a moment on the podium. “I don’t think I truly comprehended the nature of this country’s character until the support that I’ve seen from its people in this time of my very personal crisis.

  “And I have also been told, uncategorically, that Americans are firmly behind anything that I do in retaliation. The general consensus seems to be that I should order a nuclear strike against Trans-Sabal. That’s the simplest answer, you see. Nuke them. Drop a bomb on them, be done with them, because of course that will solve everything. At the very least, declare a full-scale war upon them in response to what’s been done.

  “I am here to tell you . . . what I’m going to do.”

  Again he took a deep breath, and he was certain that he was the only one breathing in the room at that moment.

  “I’m going to get the bastard.”

  Immediately there was a roar of applause, and everyone was on their feet,
banging their hands together like so many trained seals. Arthur tried to gesture for silence, but they would not be denied. And why shouldn’t they react in that manner? He’d said exactly what they’d wanted to hear. Like a hero in an action movie, he’d drawn a line in the sand and effectively told the bad guys that they were going to pay for having stepped over it. It was a quintessentially American response to the situation.

  They weren’t stopping. If anything, the applause seemed to be feeding upon itself, growing and growing with each passing moment, and finally Arthur shouted the words that would be prominently featured in stories in every newspaper the following morning, the words that would be showing up on computer news services in less than twenty minutes:

  “I am . . . but you’re not.”

  That stopped them dead.

  Never had Congress looked quite as collectively stupid as it did at that moment. Many of them were frozen with their hands in mid-clap, unsure that they had heard what they thought they just heard.

  “Sit down,” Arthur said very softly.

  They sat.

  He felt sorry for them. It was as if he had just slapped them in the face. They looked confused, even betrayed. Well, let the betrayals continue.

  “Do not think for a moment that the decision I have made is one that I make lightly . . . or even willingly. But I have studied the Constitution . . . and I believe I know not only what is in my own heart, but was in the hearts of those wise men who drew it up.” His throat was suddenly feeling constricted, and he cleared it forcibly. “When I think of what happened to my wife . . . when I think of her lying there, unmoving, unspeaking . . . not experiencing a life but instead a simple existence . . . such anger floods through me that clouds my brain, chokes my reason.” His voice grew louder and louder. “My heart cries out for vengeance, and I hear the cries of revenge coming from my people, urging me on, egging me on. Nuke them all! Annihilate them all! Destroy them all!” With each of those three sentences, he slammed his fist on his podium forcefully for additional emphasis. Then he flattened his hand on the top of the podium as if bracing both it and himself, and continued, “And it is one thing for the average citizen, secure in his living room, pontificating from his easy chair, to talk of such things. But I am a president. I am an individual who can make such things happen, who can destroy all that lies before me! I can reduce countries to rubble, people to ashes. With every fiber of my being, I want to do this thing.

  “I cannot trust myself.”

  He paused once more, and there was confused murmuring from the Senate floor. People were shaking their heads, still not fully comprehending what he was saying. Some were beginning to tumble to it, though, and noise was starting to flow from the press galley as cell phones were being pulled out, stories being dictated even as events were unfolding.

  “I have given it a great deal of thought . . . looked long and hard into myself . . . and I feel that my judgment in this matter cannot be unclouded. Because of the personal turn that recent events have taken, I do not believe that I can make the sort of dispassionate decisions that this country requires. If a possibility for compromise presents itself, my anger might very well propel me away from such a circumstance, and instead down a path that will lead to the deaths of American servicemen simply to sate my own quest for vengeance. Thirst for retribution fills my throat like bile . . . and the American people deserve better than that. They deserve someone with a clear head, uncontaminated judgment.

  “Therefore, it is my considered opinion that I am not fit to carry out the duties of the office to which I have been elected.”

  Never had there been such a thunderous uprising of shouts, confusion, chatter as there was at that moment. Bafflement reigned among the politicians, and above all the clamor, Arthur’s voice soared. “Therefore,” he continued, “pursuant to Article Two, Section One of the Constitution, and Section Three of the Twenty-fifth Amendment,” and reaching into his jacket pocket he produced a document that he turned and handed to the stunned Speaker of the House, “I am presenting my official resignation as President of the United States of America. I intend to devote my remaining years to my wife’s bedside, and to settling old scores in a manner that need not drag an entire country down the road to war. Thank you and good evening.”

  No one applauded because everyone was talking at once. All sense of decorum and tradition had evaporated. In a perverse way, it was one of the most exciting moments of Arthur’s life. The place resembled more the floor of the stock market during the height of trading frenzy than the floor of the legislature.

  As if he were above it all, Arthur stepped down from the podium and started for the far exit. People were converging upon him, words colliding with one another and shattering into incoherence. He made no endeavor to respond to anyone, but he did not lower his gaze. Instead he was looking everyone in the eye, nodding in acknowledgment. He did not want to seem the least bit ashamed, did not want anyone to think—even for a moment—that he felt as if he had done something wrong. The Secret Service escort formed a wedge around him, plowing through the throng that was amassing in front of him. No one was attacking him, certainly, but it was as if everyone was pressing forward demanding some sort of further explanation, or utter their condolences, or shout their rage, or voice their disapproval-but-understanding. The words remained indistinguishable, but the wild variety of sentiments flowing over him were certainly comprehensible enough.

  I’m doing the right thing ... I’m doing the right thing ...

  “DOU’D BE DOING the right thing.”

  She smiles at him, Miss Basil does, in a most satisfied manner. It may be that she is simply relieved that Arthur has not reacted with pure rage to the mere suggestion.

  “Resign,” he says incredulously. He had not expected it, and yet now he wonders why he is at all surprised. “You want me to resign the presidency.”

  She moves around him with inhuman smoothness and grace, like a dancer whose body is lighter than air. It’s hard to tell if she’s even touching the floor. “The truth is, Arthur, that you want to resign the presidency. You do. I am simply giving you the opportunity . . . in exchange for a glorious vengeance upon your enemy.”

  “Why,” he asks, “do you think I would possibly want to resign? I have never walked away from a challenge in my life.”

  “Of course not,” she replies. She speaks with assured confidence, as if she already knows what the answer is going to be, and everything preceding it is just the merest game. “But then . . . you’ve never done anything in your life for yourself, have you? First you did things at the order of your adopted father and brother. Then all that you did, you did for Merlin. Then for Guinevere, and for Lancelot, and for Camelot, and then for Guinevere and Lancelot and Camelot all together. And here you are, a thousand years later, and the first thing that happens is that you’re back to doing what the little wizard wants you to do. Truth be told: You have no real interest in leadership anymore. Every day, as you sat in that cave, wondering when the call would come, you dreaded it. If you could have remained hermited in that cave forever, you would gladly have done so.”

  “You think you know me so very well,” he says, trying to sound full of contempt. But he doesn’t manage it nearly as well as she does. She exhales scorn the way others do carbon dioxide.

  “I know you well enough to be aware of the fact that you’ve yet to tell me I’m wrong,” she points out.

  He says nothing. Instead he simply stares into space.

  “The simple fact, Arthur,” she continues, “is that you have never, in your life, truly been in control of it. As a king, as a president, you have commanded millions of souls, and yet never commanded your own. I dispatched Merlin, and part of you despises me for it, but another part is relieved, and do not bother to turn upon me and express fury that I would say such a thing. You will simply make yourself look foolish, and I will not believe you in any event. I am a monster, Arthur, masquerading as a woman. You would have me seek out and destro
y a man masquerading as a monster. Yes, he does that, you know. He masquerades. For he quivers in fear of his own mortality, just as most men do.” Her voice grew softer, more wheedling. “I will dispatch him for you. Him . . . and his entire operation. Think of all the American lives that will be spared. Think of all the women who will not have to mourn their sons as their bodies are shipped back, in pieces. Think of all the good that those brave young soldiers will be able to do as they are allowed to grow up, grow old.

  “You will have doubts, Arthur, of that I am most sure. Any man would have doubts, and you are certainly not just any man. There will be some who will not understand. They will speak harshly to you, say that you have turned your back on your country. But you and I, we know the truth. This is not your country. These are not your people. Your people are long dead. The creatures who walk this continent . . . they are merely Merlin’s means to your end. The only one who truly mattered to you is Gwen, and in the final analysis, you were not able to protect her. But you can avenge her, through me . . . by ridding yourself of the office that you never truly would have sought if it had been left up to you. The simple fact, Arthur, is that there really isn’t a downside here. It’s all benefit for you. All of it.

  “Take time to think about it, if you wish . . .”

  And what astounds Arthur, then and now, is how he ultimately needed no time at all. Everything she says is true. Everything. He was and is a man out of his own era, and he has spent much of his time here living the dream of others. He lived Merlin’s dream. He lived Gwen’s dream. He did it for them. But Merlin is gone, and Gwen is not quite gone . . . but she is not there, either.

  Only Arthur is there.

  And he does not wish to be there anymore.

  “Sandoval’s death must be incontrovertible. Everyone must know of it,” he says to her.