The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America

The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America Read Free Page A

Book: The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America Read Free
Author: Michael Kurland
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Alternative History
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sweeter and fuller and more beautiful than either of them had known before.
    “That strange buzzing in your ears,” Miriam said sweetly, “won’t stop unless you buckle your seat belt. Not that I’m trying to influence your actions.”
    “Oh. Sorry.” Kit buckled the belt. “You know, actually, I have a very good job. It keeps me here near you. I could have been assigned to Saigon or Phnom Penh or one of those other resort areas where the natives spend their spare time taking potshots at American civilians.”
    “They only acquired the habit because American soldiers spend so much time shooting at them,” Miriam said.
    “Oops,” Kit said. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I just wish you wouldn’t take your gripes against the policies of this administration out on me. I’m merely a minor bureaucrat. My job is to report facts, not to decide what’s done with them. I just work for the government.”
    “The CIA,” Miriam said.
    “Intelligence-gathering is not a more intrinsically evil profession than college teaching.”
    “If the CIA’s only activity were intelligence gathering, I wouldn’t say a word. But both you and I know that isn’t so. You must know it far better than I.”
    “Please get that pedantic tone out of your voice,” Kit said. “I’m sorry I can’t discuss the inner policy-making of the Agency with you, but I’m far too junior for anyone to ever discuss it with me. Technically I’m not even supposed to admit to you that I’m CIA.”
    “Come on,” Miriam said. “When Aaron first introduced us he told me you were CIA. It must be a very open secret.”
    “Professor Adams is part of what we call the old-boy network. He was in OSS with a lot of people very high up in the Agency now, including my present boss. But since he’s retired from the, ah, government service, he’s assumed the right to discuss many things that we GS types aren’t supposed to talk about—including my work.”
    “What’s your point?” Miriam asked.
    “My only point is that, since I’m not allowed to discuss my work, it isn’t fair for you to take potshots at it—or me.”
    “Bang,” Miriam said. “A potshot’s better than a bullet any day.”
    “Listen, I agree with you,” Kit said. “I think the war is a mess and it’s being handled all wrong.”
    “Yes, but you also think they ought to go over there and beat the shit out of those nasty North Vietnamese,” Miriam said. “Bomb ’em back to the stone age.”
    “Damn right,” Kit said as a way of ending the discussion. And it did. Miriam sulked the rest of the way over to Professor Adams’ Chevy Chase estate.

    Professor Aaron B. Adams did not maintain his three-story stone house with swimming pool and guest cottage, along with its two acres of very subdividable land, on the salary of a tenured professor in Georgetown University’s Department of Government and Political Science. Not even when that was added to his retirement pay from the various secret branches of the government he had served in. Had it not been for an obscure Adams ancestor somewhere—after the two who had been impecunious but honorable Presidents—who had gone into business in Boston importing Japanese habutae silk and had later expanded into mother-of-pearl buttons, Professor Adams could not even have afforded the guest cottage.
    Of course, as Professor Adams himself liked to say, his fondness for money was such that, had he not inherited it, he probably would have occupied himself with making it. In which case the United States would have lost a brilliant intelligence officer and Aaron B. Adams would have led a much duller life.
    Miriam parked behind the four other cars in the driveway, groped in the back seat for a large straw tote bag, and preceded Kit into the house. Neither residents nor guests were in evidence as they crossed through the huge living room and through the open French windows to the cabaña area next to the pool, which was one of

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