Spencerville

just read which clarified an earlier directive and had something to do with the worrisome problem of who reports to whom.
    Keith switched channels, but the background static brought to mind the organizational chart of the intelligence community. The National Security Council, on which he had served, was headed by the president’s assistant for National Security Affairs, known as the national security advisor, whose birth name was Edward Yadzinski. The job they were offering Colonel Landry was that of Mr. Yadzinski’s assistant, or perhaps military aide or liaison, with some connection to the secretary of defense, upon whom they all now waited.
    This organizational chart, Keith recalled, had these neat labeled boxes and rectangles, all somehow connected by tortuous lines that never crossed and resembled an electronic schematic for a nuclear submarine. Unlike an electronic schematic, however, which had to obey the laws of science to work, the intelligence community chart obeyed no known laws of science, God, or nature, only the laws of man, which were subject to executive whimsy and congressional debate.
    That aside, Keith saw no real reason for his old boss, General Watkins, to be present, since Watkins was on the far right side of the chart, over on Seventeenth Street, while Keith was now in the center, a few guys away from the top dog himself. Keith suspected, though, that General Watkins was there to serve a sort of penance for letting Colonel Landry go, which of course was what he’d been ordered to do, but Watkins should have anticipated that, two months later, the president would ask for Colonel Landry by name. Poor General Watkins.
    Watkins, of course, did not have to apologize for giving Colonel Landry the heave-ho, but he had to be present at Colonel Landry’s rehiring, and he had to smile, or make what passed for a smile. Watkins was thoroughly pissed off, of course, as he had every right to be, but Watkins wouldn’t utter a peep.
    The center of power, Keith reflected, in any time or place, was by definition a haven for lunatics and lunatic behavior—the Kremlin, a Byzantine palace, the Forbidden City, a Roman emperor’s villa, the Führerbunker—it didn’t matter what it was called and what it looked like from the outside; inside was airless and dark, a breeding ground for progressive madness and increasingly dangerous flights from reality. Keith had a sudden impulse to charge for the door, shouting something about the inmates running the asylum.
    General Watkins said, “Keith, you have that smile on your face that used to annoy me.”
    “I didn’t know I was smiling, sir, and never knew it annoyed you.”
    “That smile was always a prelude to some smart remark. Can we expect one now?”
    “General, I’d like to take this opportunity to—”
    Charlie Adair interrupted. “Keith, perhaps you’d like to hold that thought for another time.”
    Keith thought the time was perfect to tell Watkins what he thought of him, but at that moment the door opened, and the secretary of defense ambled in. He was a slight, balding man with spectacles, not the type you’d guess would be head of the most powerful military machine on the face of the earth. And his meek appearance didn’t mask a strong personality—there was no Mars, God of War, lurking in that frail body. He looked like a milksop, and he was a milksop.
    Ted Stansfield presented the secretary of defense, who smiled, shook hands all around, and said to Keith, “Delighted you could come.”
    “Delighted to be here.”
    Stansfield pulled out a chair at the end of the long table, and the secretary sat. General Watkins and Colonel Chandler were directed by Stansfield to the secretary’s right, and Keith and Charlie were directed across from them. Ted Stansfield, still standing, said, “Mr. Secretary, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.” He left.
    The secretary looked at Keith and said, “Well, Colonel Landry, you’re probably wondering why you’ve been asked to come out of retirement, so I’ll tell you. You made a favorable and lasting impression on the president during some of the intelligence briefing sessions, and a few days ago, he asked for you by name.” The secretary chuckled and added, “When someone told him you’d retired, he said you looked too young to retire. So here you are.” He smiled at Keith.
    Keith considered several replies, including a recitation of Charlie’s Scottish ballad. Instead,