The American Ambassador by Ward Just

political section. I drove them around, did a little interpreting, fetched him a Scotch and soda when he wanted it. I mean LBJ. Dunphy fetched his own Scotch, beginning about ten each morning.”
    Hartnett smiled. “Well, that’s something. Drunks’re easy.”
    â€œHe’s not a drunk,” North said. “He was drinking because there was nothing for him to do, except look after LBJ. The old man wasn’t well, you could see it. He was drinking because he hated to see what was happening to the old man. He was devoted to him. He said that LBJ would be dead in a year, and he was. Pat Dunphy is an awfully angry man. He’s a son of a bitch.”
    â€œWhat’s he doing with Winston’s committee?”
    â€œHe goes in and out,” North said. “Public, private, public, private. Loves trouble. Loves stirring it up. Loves watching it happen. He loves to get even.”
    Hartnett was thoughtful a moment. “Why?”
    Carruthers cleared his throat. “He’s got an idea that it was the government that failed LBJ. Made him withdraw in ’sixty-eight. Killed him.”
    â€œSo he doesn’t care much for the Department of State.”
    North smiled, “I think that’s fair to say, Dick.”
    â€œThere’s something else,” Carruthers said. “LBJ wanted to make him an ambassador. Nothing big, he wanted to do his boy a favor. He sent out the word just shortly after he withdrew from the race. We dragged our feet at the Department, and one or two gents spoke out of turn. Passed the word quietly to the Foreign Relations Committee that LBJ was trying to pull a fast one, place one of his hacks as chief of mission to a
very important country.
Pat Dunphy: not qualified. Before you knew it, it was summer. The Democratic Convention, poor Hubert, all the trouble, LBJ despised and pitied. The Foreign Relations Committee never got around to holding hearings, and the nomination was dropped. But Pat Dunphy didn’t forget.”
    â€œWell, well,” Hartnett said. “So it’s personal.”
    Carruthers screwed up a tight smile. “It usually is,” he said. He consulted a document, then laid it face up on the table. It had the seal of the Department of State at the top of the page, and was stamped
    Â 
SECRET — SENSITIVE
EYES ONLY
    Â 
    An internal memorandum, something for the under secretary. North couldn’t see the date. Carruthers covered it with another piece of paper. He said, “Everybody’s got a history. Entangling alliances, old enmities. Enmities,” he repeated. “So that’s what we’re up against, Pat Dunphy wanting to get even. Warren Winston wanting to make a name for himself. And others on the committee simply
curious.
” He looked up. “I know this is hard.”
    â€œYes,” North said. “It is.” Then, “But I’ve been through it before, and you have my report.”
    Hartnett looked at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock.”
    Carruthers said, “We’d like to talk to Elinor.”
    â€œYou know where to find her,” North said.
    â€œIt would be . . . very helpful if she’d cooperate.”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask her. But she doesn’t know any more than I do.”
    â€œYes, of course,” Carruthers said.
    â€œShe doesn’t know anything.”
    Hartnett said, “When do you think we can wind this up?”
    â€œOur problem is, we have to know everything they know. When they come snooping around with their pieces of paper. Dunphy and the gumshoe. We have to be able to say, Oh, yes, well, there’s a simple explanation for that. So if we might.” Carruthers looked at Hartnett, raising his eyebrows. The look said, A little while longer. His soft voice caused the two men to lean forward, the better to hear him; each word was carefully enunciated. “So if we might, just so I have it clear in my