Out of the Ashes Read Online Free PDF Page A

was any of their goddamned business. No—the president is supposed to be perfect. Can’t ever be sick in private. Can’t be a human being. No, the president has to be superman.
    â€œEd,” the aide said, “are you all right?”
    â€œYes, of course I am. No, I’m not. Hell, I don’t know. I’m getting old, that’s what.” He sighed heavily. “What is on the agenda for this afternoon?”
    â€œThe meeting with the analytical and statistical chief of the CIA’s overseas intelligence operation.”
    â€œHal Brady, you mean?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œTitles. Everybody has to have a title,” Fayers muttered. “When is the meeting?”
    â€œRight now.”
    â€œSend him in.”
    Harold Brady limped into the oval office, carrying a thick briefcase jammed with papers. His limp was the result of his days with the old OSS during World War II; a leg broken during a jump into France and never properly set.
    Brady glanced at the aide. “In private,” he said shortly, as was his manner. Abusive-sounding until one got to know the man.
    The aide left the room.
    â€œYou look exhausted, Mr. President,” Brady said. “I thank you for seeing me on Sunday afternoon. I know you like to rest on this day. Are you feeling well, sir?”
    â€œAs well as could be expected,” Fayers replied, pouring them coffee. “Hilton Logan is privately saying he is unbeatable; he is our next president. God help us all, for he’s probably correct. The unions are bitching and striking—as usual. Every minority group in this nation is complaining—loudly—that I am discriminating against them . . . and my wife has had a headache for three weeks. At night. Calls me a horny old goat.” President Fayers smiled. “And you think you’ve got troubles.”
    Brady laughed along with his boss. “Well, sir, at least you’ve managed to keep your sense of humor.”
    â€œOnly by straining, Hal. And by keeping in mind that in a few months I will be out of this office. Now then, what glad tidings have you to offer?” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips.
    â€œI believe certain factions within the U.S. are preparing to start a war between Russia and China.”
    Fayers dropped cup and saucer to the carpet. “That’s a rotten joke, Hal!” He knelt to pick up the broken bits of china ware.
    â€œIt isn’t a joke,” the CIA man said, opening his briefcase, spreading papers on the president’s desk. “You’d better sit down, sir.”
    Behind his desk, his face ashen and suddenly shiny with sweat, Fayers asked, “When is ... all this supposed to occur?”
    Brady shrugged. “I don’t really know, but I would guess within a week. Maybe less. I just put together the remaining bits and pieces of evidence and supposition this morning.”
    â€œDo you want the secretary in on this?”
    â€œNot just yet. You listen first, sir.”
    A half-hour later, President Fayers told his aide, “I don’t want to be disturbed the rest of the evening. I’m going to Camp David to rest and to spend the night. That’s all anybody needs to know.”
    Â 
    Sunday evening—Camp David
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    â€œBegging your pardon, Mr. President,” General Travee said, after recovering from his initial shock, “but I ... just can’t believe it.”
    â€œYou’d better believe it, C.H.,” Brady said. “I’ve been working on this for months. In total secrecy. I just didn’t know who I could trust—not even you. But when the computers turned out this new evidence, I ... had to come to the President.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you come to me before this, Hal?” Fayers asked.
    â€œBecause . . . I believe your staff—a few of them—are part of this. I don’t know which ones. And the secret service; there again, I don’t know