Free The Art of the Devil by John Altman Page B

Take it outside.’
    He gave her a crooked grin, which left her unmoved. She pointed stiffly down the hall. ‘Outside.’
    And so Isherwood took his cigarettes and his fedora and his cluttered thoughts out into the afternoon, where the breeze was cool and crisp. The fresh air turned out to be a blessing; he supposed he owed Dunbarton some thanks. Walking the firm ground, he wandered toward Farm One – Secret Service agents he passed along the way conscientiously reporting his every move via walkie-talkie – where he could keep monitoring Eisenhower.
    Drawing near the screened-in porch, he changed his course a moment too late to avoid being seen. ‘You there,’ Eisenhower called. Standing behind his easel, the man again wore his red bathrobe, now with a military greatcoat draped over his shoulders.
    Isherwood pointed at his own chest, raising his eyebrows:
Me?
    â€˜Yes, you. Come here.’
    So Isherwood moved closer to the sun porch, with the Chief’s words beating through the back of his mind:
We’re under specific orders from the doctors not to rile the President during his convalescence. He needs not only rest, but relaxation: everything sunshine and roses.
    â€˜Afternoon, sir.’ Suddenly, Isherwood was aware of two agents standing just around the corner of the house – Brennan and Skinnerton? – ready to intervene at the drop of a hat.
    â€˜Maybe from where you’re standing, soldier. But from in here, it’s a goddamned crap afternoon.’
    Diplomatically, Isherwood said nothing.
    â€˜I’m a captive in my own goddamned home. And I don’t take kindly to it. You want to give me one of those cigarettes?’
    Isherwood hesitated. ‘I thought you’d quit.’
    â€˜I did,’ said Eisenhower archly. ‘But good Christ, man, something’s got to give.’ With a dramatic sigh, he planted hands on hips and looked off to the west, where black birds wheeled restlessly. ‘Do you know: the bloodiest battle in the bloodiest war in our nation’s history was fought right over that ridge. Brother against brother, father against son. A travesty before the eyes of God, no doubt. But nevertheless, honorable deaths. Those men went out the way they’d lived, fighting for what they believed in. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.’
    Again, Isherwood held his tongue. When he looked around these gentle hills, he saw men being led like sheep to the slaughter; he saw pride and folly, vengeful ghosts, grieving widows, orphaned children. But Eisenhower evidently took a pleasant reminder of past glories, of flags being planted and medals pinned to chests. Somehow this man who had witnessed untold bloodshed on European beaches and fields still clung to his military values.
    Or was the truth more complex? Of course Ike, the Supreme Allied Commander who had led America to victory during World War II, was and would always remain a soldier. And the President’s fascination with Gettysburg’s bloody history was infamous; he had eagerly talked the ear off many a captive audience while relating details of old melees. But the man’s battle-ready image served a purpose, thought Isherwood: keeping the Soviets in line, allowing the President to engage in a game of nuclear brinksmanship which otherwise would have been impossible. As a lifelong poker player, Ike knew the importance of a good bluff. And some agents who had worked closely beside the man portrayed another Eisenhower, kept carefully out of the public eye, who had seen enough devastation in Europe and Japan to fully appreciate the value of peace. There was no denying that in his foreign policy he had certainly proven himself to be a great compromiser – and to his critics, a willing appeaser.
    â€˜Soon enough,’ said Isherwood lamely, ‘you’ll be out and about.’
    â€˜Now you sound like the goddamned doctors.’ But a flash of the famous