Executive orders - Tom Clancy [108]
* * *
12 - MONKEYS
RYAN HAD DONE ALL OF his own writing. He'd published two books on naval history-that now seemed like a previous lifetime summoned to memory on a hypnotist's couch-and uncounted papers for CIA. Each of these he had done himself, once on a typewriter and later on a series of personal computers. He had never enjoyed the writing-it was ever difficult work-but he had enjoyed the solitude of it, alone in his own little intellectual world and safe from any sort of interruption as he formed his thoughts and adjusted their method of presentation until they were as close to perfect as he could achieve. In that way, they were always his thoughts, and there was integrity in the process.
No longer.
The chief speech writer was Callie Weston, short, petite, dirty blond, and a wizard with words who, like many of the enormous White House staff, had come aboard with President Fowler and never managed to leave.
You didn't like my speech for the church? She was also irreverent.
Honestly, I just decided that I had to say something else. Then Jack realized he was defending himself to someone he scarcely knew.
I cried. She paused for effect, staring into his eyes with the unblinking gaze of a poisonous snake for several seconds, manifestly sizing him up. You're different.
What do you mean?
I mean-you have to understand, Mr. President. President Fowler kept me around because I made him sound compassionate-he's rather a cold fish in most things, poor guy. President Durling kept me around because he didn't have anybody better. I bump heads all the time with staffers across the street. They like to edit my work. I don't like being edited by drones. We fight. Arnie protects me a lot because I went to school with his favorite niece-and I'm the best around at what I do-but I'm probably the biggest pain in the ass on your staff. You need to know that. It was a good explanation, but not to the point.
Why am I different? Jack asked.
You say what you really think instead of saying what you think people think they want to hear. It's going to be hard writing for you. I can't dip into the usual well. I have to learn to write the way I used to like to write, not the way I'm paid to write, and I have to learn to write like you talk. It's going to be tough, she told him, already girding herself for the challenge.
I see. Since Ms. Weston was not an inner-circle staff member, Andrea Price was leaning against the wall (it would have been in a corner, except the Oval Office didn't have one) and observing everything with a poker face-or trying to. Ryan was learning to read her body language. Clearly Price didn't much care for Weston. He wondered why. Well, what can you turn out in a couple of hours?
Sir, that depends on what you want to say, the speechwriter pointed out. Ryan told her in a few brief sentences. She didn't take notes. She merely absorbed it, smiled, and spoke again.
They're going to destroy you. You know that. Maybe Arnie hasn't told you yet, maybe nobody on the staff has, or ever will, but it's going to happen. That remark jolted Agent Price from her spot on the wall, just enough that her body was standing instead of leaning.
What makes you think I want to stay here?
She blinked. Excuse me. I'm not really used to this.
This could be an interesting conversation, but I-
I read one of your books day before yesterday. You're not very good with words-not very elegant, that's a technical judgment-but you do say things clearly. So I have to dial back my rhetoric style to make it sound like you. Short sentences. Your grammar is good. Catholic schools, I guess. You don't bullshit