Free Acts of Mercy by Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg Page A

let him see how I was going to handle the media.”
    “For God’s sake-Briggs?”
    Augustine nodded. The sun burning against his face illuminated it so brightly that the lines on his cheeks and around his eyes appeared deep and sharply etched, like the scars of old wounds. “Briggs,” he said. “I didn’t expect he’d go this far, but I should have known he was capable of it.”
    Harper’s hands had clenched again; he flattened them out against his hips. “I suppose we’ve all been guilty of underestimating people.”
    “Yes. Well, Briggs is a dangerous man, there’s no question of that now. Something has to be done about him.”
    “Granted. But what?”
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to decide, walking out here with Christopher.”
    “And?”
    “And—I don’t know; I just don’t know. I could fire him, that’s the obvious choice—”
    “It’s also the worst thing you could do right now,” Harper said. “It would make a martyr out of him.”
    “I know that, Maxwell. I’ve already discarded the idea.”
    The collar of Harper’s shirt felt tight, sticky, but he did not lift a hand to loosen his tie. If Justice could stand the heat properly dressed, so could he. He felt Justice looking at him then, glanced at the man and saw his own frustration mirrored in the steady brown eyes; he put his gaze back on Augustine.
    The President said, “There’s got to be another way.”
    “I don’t envision it yet if there is. Beyond your being very careful, that is, not to make any more controversial remarks—no candid comments, no jokes, nothing that can be misinterpreted or deliberately taken out of context.”
    “I have every intention of being careful,” Augustine said. “From now on I’ll exclude Briggs from press conferences and other public appearances; I’ve already informed him by memo that he is not to join us on the trip to The Hollows this weekend. But that won’t stop him. No, there has to be some sort of direct action. And someone has to find it damned soon.”
    Harper was silent. The three of them stood in the hot sun, listening to the faint hum of a lawn mower somewhere on the grounds, the murmur of traffic and voices from the East Gate as the last of the White House tour groups left for the day. Listening to their own thoughts.
    Augustine said finally, “Isn’t that so, Maxwell?”
    “Yes,” Harper said. “Someone will have to find a way.”

Sixteen
     
    We have all the evidence now that we need: the traitor stands convicted. And the hour of his execution is at hand.

    When we slip quietly into the press secretary’s office, the anteroom is dark and as deserted as the West Wing corridors; it is after nine o‘clock and nearly all the White House staff has left for the day. But there is a strip of light showing beneath the door of the traitor’s private office. He is waiting for us just as we requested by telephone at five o’clock. Even though we did not tell him why we wanted to see him at such a late hour, he agreed to the meeting without question. In that sense only he is an ideal press secretary—a man whose time is perceived solely in terms of how others will utilize it.
    We open the door without knocking, step inside. Briggs has been sitting on the leather couch against one wall and he frowns when we come in, probably in reaction to our unannounced entrance. Then he stands, puts aside a sheaf of press clippings he has been reading and comes forward. He does not smile as he faces us.
    He seems to want to say something about observing the proprieties before entering one’s private domain, but he is too used to a role of passive servility to assert himself to anyone who represents authority. Instead he says, “Well, right on time.”
    “Yes,” we say, “right on time.”
    “Welt—would you care to sit down?”
    “We’d... I’d rather stand.” Careful. Careful.
    “All right.” He takes a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, extracts one, lights it with