Washington Deceased Read Free Page A

several foreign policy questions during the last campaign than they would have without my discreet contributions. I saw to it that one or two senators on the Intelligence Oversight Committee knew they were being lied to twelve hours before the Washington Post did.”
    â€œAnd you thought you might be able to cash in on that?”
    â€œI had at least a prospect of doing so. If I’d stayed with the Service I could not unreasonably have hoped for an ambassadorship to one of the countries traditionally reserved for professionals rather than political appointees, or perhaps a senior administrative post—AID Director, that kind of thing. If I were very, very lucky, I could get Deputy Under Secretary of State, or even Under Secretary. Failing any of those, however, I’d just be a Senior Counselor until retirement.”
    â€œThat idea didn’t appeal to you?”
    He shrugged noncommittally. “I decided to go for the gold ring, so to speak.”
    â€œBy retiring?”
    â€œBy retiring. Getting a sinecure at Brookings. Writing a little book for the cognoscenti. Giving talks to insiders. Having chats over lunch with syndicated columnists. Writing an op ed piece every now and then. Consulting with promising campaigns. Engaging generally in shameless self-promotion.”
    â€œThe idea being what?”
    â€œTo see if, when administrations change, I could obtain one of the top three foreign policy-making positions available to an unelected American citizen: National Security Adviser, Secretary of Defense or Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
    Wendy blinked. “Not Secretary of State?”
    â€œIt’s no use being Secretary of State unless you’ve made your mark already in one of the three posts I just named. Absent that, the United States Secretary of State has less functional authority than a bird colonel in the White House basement.”
    â€œIs your plan working?”
    Michaelson smiled.
    â€œTime will tell,” he said.
    â€œThere’s something I think I should tell you,” Wendy said. “You’ve been very kind to agree to help and everything, but—” She hesitated.
    â€œIf you think you should tell me something, then by all means do.”
    Wendy sat back and forced herself to make eye contact with him.
    â€œI thought that what you were saying back at Brookings about apartheid was appalling.”
    â€œI agree. The truth often is.”
    Before they could pursue this topic, the young man with the bullhorn interrupted them. He had noticed defections from the rear ranks of his followers, and there still wasn’t a minicam in sight. He was casting about desperately for something to hold the demonstration together for a few more minutes, and when he saw what Wendy and Michaelson were eating he decided he’d found it.
    â€œDo you know how much suffering went into that veal you’re eating?” he demanded of Wendy.
    â€œIt’s chicken,” she said mildly.
    â€œIt’s still meat,” the man asserted.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” Michaelson interjected, “but it’s not, you know.”
    â€œWhat?” the man squeaked, turning toward Michaelson.
    â€œMeat is the flesh of a mammal,” Michaelson explained. “Like this.” He flourished what remained of his roast beef sandwich. “Chickens aren’t mammals. Therefore, chicken isn’t meat. You were mistaken.”
    â€œThen what about what you’re eating? Do you realize that to produce that sandwich a helpless calf had to suffer unspeakably….”
    â€œOh, no doubt,” Michaelson shrugged. “But of course it is only my enjoyment of this sandwich that gives meaning to that creature’s suffering. If I weren’t eating this sandwich, the steer whose fate you bemoan would have lived, suffered and died for nothing.”
    To this outrageous proposition the wiry-haired man could conceive only one