“No, Mr. Chairman. Except to say that I appreciate the thoroughness, courtesies, and the fine job done by yourself and the committee. It makes me proud to be a part of such a fine and democratic process.”
“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General.” The chairman looked to the end of the table. “Senator Hawkins.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I have only one question for our esteemed nominee. Mr. Attorney General, having experienced the confirmation process, can you give this committee—and through it the Congress as a whole—any advice on how we might improve it? With an eye toward rapidity of confirmation and fair treatment of nominees.”
DeWitt thought about it.
“Essentially, Senator, I believe this committee has not only done a fine job, a complete job, and shown that when exigencies require it, it can move with alacrity and dispatch without sacrificing thoroughness. My experience with you has been pleasant, gratifying, sobering, and a privilege. I wouldn’t presume to change a thing. Do your jobs, ladies and gentlemen. Probe, question, investigate, and compel those who appear before you to be equally forthright in their responses. In that event, I can see nowhere to improve.”
“Thank you.” The senator smiled back. “Mr. Chairman, I relinquish back the remainder of my time.”
The chairman looked toward the other end of the table. “Senator Weiss?”
“Mr. Chairman, I have no further questions of my good friend from Wisconsin and gladly relinquish back my time so that we may expedite his confirmation.”
The chairman sighed and turned to his right. “Senator Roberts?”
Roberts held the closed file in both hands. This was one of those rare moments that he believed came once or twice in a man’s life. Those times when he must either accept his place as a powerless member of the silent majority or step off into the dark chasm of moral certainty and minority.
There was no way to know if the allegations contained in the file were true or not—although they had the veneer of truth about them—but there was no way to test that truth either. Not and allow the public to judge fairly for themselves.
If the file was accurate, then DeWitt was a monster. If not, then Stone was the monster. And the only way to find out was to shine the sun on them both and see who dissolved.
Or so thought the senator who had once written a paper in college entitled “Monsters: A History of Corruption in American Politics.”
A paper—folded, yellowed, decaying—that had found a home in an ultraclassified psychological profile of the man.
“Good morning, Mr. DeWitt.”
“Good morning, Senator.”
Roberts opened the file, took a deep breath, then pulled out the last sheet. A list of questions and follow-ups.
“I just have a few things I’d like to clarify, for the record.”
DeWitt nodded. “That’s why I’m here, Senator.” He looked completely relaxed, his aide slouched down in his seat, the other senators went about their business.
“You were a student at Barnsdahl College in Wilfordshire, England, is that correct?”
“For two and a half years prior to my obtaining my postgraduate degrees at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, yes.”
“And at Barnsdahl you received a bachelor of arts degree in international relations?”
DeWitt nodded. “International justice, actually. But that takes in much the same turf as an American B.A. in international relations, Senator.”
Roberts made a note in the file. The first mistake in its contents he’d found. But that could just be a misinterpretation of titles. “You were assigned to the international section, a group of students mainly drawn from countries other than Great Britain.”
“I think there were about eleven countries represented, yes.”
“Who is Rupert Everttson?”
DeWitt looked surprised. “Uh, I believe he was one of my professors at Barnsdahl.”
One fact proved.
Roberts handed two copies of a document (provided in the file) to an aide, who delivered one to the chair and the other to DeWitt.
“For the record, Rupert Everttson was a professor of European history at Barnsdahl for over twenty years. Barnsdahl records show that Mr. DeWitt took three courses given by him.”
Michael suddenly sat up. “Why doesn’t he use your title?” he whispered.
DeWitt ignored him.
“Who is James Fergét?” Roberts folded his hands and waited for an answer.
“Uh …” DeWitt seemed off balance. “If you mean Jimmy Fergét, he was a Haitian student. We were in some study groups together.” His mind raced for any connection between the effete Everttson, the nigger savant Fergét, and Apple Blossom.
But none came to mind.
Another fact confirmed, and from DeWitt’s manner, Roberts suspected that there were more to come. “Do you recall how often, or in what context, you would meet privately with Professor Everttson or Mr. Fergét?”
DeWitt was shaking his head without realizing it. He couldn’t remember much beyond their names. But then he’d spent so little time actually in class or on campus it was hard to remember much about that time.
“Senator, all I can tell you is that it was a long time ago, many years. My time at Barnsdahl was exhilarating and hectic. Filled with constant new experiences, new faces. I, uh, am ashamed to say that I would be hard-pressed to remember many of the names and faces I encountered casually during those years.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Roberts said easily. “Maybe I can help you out.” More documents were passed out. “For the record, will the committee mark these as Roberts Two, Three, and Four, respectively?”
The chairman glanced at the two black-and-white photographs and the one document, humphed, and nodded. “So marked.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Mr. DeWitt, do you recognize yourself in the photos marked Roberts Two and Three?”
DeWitt never looked up from the casually taken photos of himself with a fellow student and a professor. The kind of thing he’d posed for dozens of times, as souvenirs for the other students who wanted to remember their “great college adventure.”
“Yeah, uh, yes. That is me in the center of Roberts Two, and on the extreme left in Roberts Three.”
He looked up and reconstituted his smile. These people had nothing to do with Apple Blossom, and he’d had little to do with them at the time. Wherever the senator was going, there was nothing there.
“If it assists you,” Dewitt added, “I believe that the black man in both pictures is Mr. Fergét and the older man Professor Everttson.”
Roberts chuckled professionally. “You anticipate me, sir.” He turned a page in the file. “Did you stay in contact with either Professor Everttson or Mr. Fergét after you left Barnsdahl?”
DeWitt noticeably relaxed, although Michael was talking quietly—but urgently—on his cell phone. “Senator, as I said, it was a great many years ago. How many of us have maintained contact with old college buddies or acquaintances? Particularly those that reside in other countries.” He spread his hands in a gesture of befuddled frustration. “Perhaps if you gave a more specific context?”
Roberts made more notes in the file. Each question on the list had accurately anticipated DeWitt’s responses. As did the next one, which was typed in red capital letters. Casually, Roberts read it aloud.
“Mr. DeWitt, to be more specific, I’ll quote from a certified copy of a statement released by New Scotland Yard on March twenty-sixth of 1973.” He waited for the copies to be delivered, then began in a strong voice.
“Professor Rupert Everttson, late of Barnsdahl College in Wilfordshire, has been taken into custody on charges of serving as an intermediary for the KGB.”
A rumble went through the room.
“It is alleged by the Crown Prosecution Service that Professor Everttson acted as a recruitment officer for the KGB at Barnsdahl and later as a ‘post office’ for those he recruited to send their stolen secrets on to their KGB masters.
“Also taken into custody was Professor Everttson’s lover, a Haitian national, James Fergét. Mr. Fergét is actively cooperating in identifying those recruited by Professor Everttson.”
DeWitt was red with anger. “Senator! Are you suggesting …
But Roberts held up a restraining hand. “All I’m doing is seeking the truth, Mr. DeWitt.
The chairman pounded his gavel five times before order was restored. “Mr. Attorney General, you may finish your answer.”
DeWitt hardly knew where to start. His greatest nightmare had been to be discovered as an agent for the Chinese. He’d lost count of the nights he’d wake up screaming in terror at the thought/nightmare. But this, to be tarred by the brush of something he’d never been involved in…
He glanced at a note from Michael. It said, simply and unmistakably: Moral outrage!!!!!
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” He took a deep breath, then turned to face Roberts eye-to-eye. “Senator, this country has spent too much time in the past debating half-truths and innuendos. Joseph McCarthy and Ken Starr both used that despicable tactic—the whispered half-truth, the sourceless leak, the knowledgeable source—to destroy the lives and reputations of some good men and women.
“If you have an allegation to make, sir, make it aloud and specifically, man to man. But before you do, let me state this clearly and for the record.”
He seemed to gather himself. Like a volcano growing quiet before the final eruption.
“My record, my life, my very being, reject your smarmy implications. That I have to say this aloud saddens me deeply, that the monument of my life is not evidence enough to the contrary, I find deeply disheartening. But let me say it now, for the record and for all time. I have never been—now or at any time in my past—an agent for the Soviets. And I am filled with repugnance at the insinuation in your line of questioning!”
Scatterings of applause filled the chamber as all eyes turned to Roberts.
The senator nodded, not in awe or respect for the brilliantly displayed moral outrage in front of him, but in admiration that the question list had anticipated that exact response—almost to the words.
He waited until he was sure he had the complete attention of the crowd, the nominee, and the committee before he handed another document for delivery. Then he read the next question, certain now that the file contents must be accurate.
“I am reading from an uncertified copy of a statement from Mr. James Fergét given freely to New Scotland Yard investigators in 1974. Quote: I do not know their names, his name, but I am certain in my belief that there was at least one American recruited by Rupert in his time at Barnsdahl. Unquote.”
Roberts paused.
“Mr. DeWitt, please don’t misunderstand me. I make no allegations against your sterling record. Your time as attorney general has demonstrated a deep concern for maintaining the national security of the nation. It is specifically because of that, that I ask the question.”
Roberts smiled like a friend. “Help us out, sir, you were there, knew the other Americans at Barnsdahl and in Professor Everttson’s classes. Help us solve a decades-old mystery.”
He folded his hands calmly in front of him. “Who is…” He checked his notes. “What did they call him? Oh yes … who is Apple Blossom?”
“Senator Roberts,” DeWitt said slowly after the excitement around him had died down. “My apologies if I seemed to overreact just now. The burdens of assisting the president in our time of crisis, I fear, has frayed my nerves more than I was aware.”
He took a long, calming drink of water. “This news about Professor Everttson comes as a shock and a complete surprise. Of course I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.”
“Mr. DeWitt,” said Roberts, smiling back, “if any of my comments were misinterpreted, I apologize as well. But the synchronicity of this revelation—”
“This twenty-five-year-old revelation,” the chairman interrupted.
Roberts nodded. “This twenty-five-year-old revelation does seem to have a startling synchronicity with our business here. Perhaps, since we are engaged in so momentous an event in our history, you would be willing to help us—within the confines of this committee’s hearings—to clear up what I am sure is merely a dastardly attempt to besmirch a great American.”
“I will, Senator.”
Roberts continued reading. “Mr. Chairman, I request that the committee recess until Monday morning to allow staff to examine the documents and allegations contained in this report. To better assist the vice president designate in helping us unearth the truth to this…”
The sheet said to pause, and had been right so far, so he paused.
“This Apple Blossom.”
On Grimes’s farm, Canvas flicked off the set the moment the committee unanimously voted to recess for the weekend. He didn’t need the talking heads critique that would follow, probably for hours and days to come. He didn’t need to hear the White House spin, DeWitt’s protestations, or the dissection by the politicians.
He had his own analysis to make. And quickly too.
“Too pretty,” he mumbled as he turned to Steingarth, who had watched the hearings with him. “Too bloody neat.” He glanced at the hurried notes he’d made, then looked up at Steingarth. “You don’t have any connection with this Everttson, do you?”
“None at all,” the old man said hurriedly. “If he was a Soviet asset-in-place, we would have no knowledge of it. And if he was in the history department, the point is only reinforced. Our people were solely in psychology and ethics venues.”
Canvas nodded. “Right.” He shook his head. “There is a poetry there, though.”
He actually smiled. “The Americans react to nothing quite so violently as the good old Soviet Boogeyman. Accuse, but offer an out—he’s not the spy, but might know who the spy is. Provide evidence that is irrefutable and eminently checkable—except for the key piece, the Apple Blossom comment from an uncertified transcript.” He nodded in appreciation. “Pure poetry.”
“But who could be behind it?” Steingarth asked with obvious concern.
“Who do you think?” The German looked blank. “Xenos.”
“But he’s dead. You killed him yourself.”
“God bless resurrections,” Canvas mumbled as he walked into the next room, where three aides were working frantically. “What do you have?” he asked one.
The man looked upset. “Everttson and Fergét were who they said and busted when and why they said. Everttson killed himself within three months, the Haitian the next year. Two of the interrogators died in the last five years from natural causes, the third is senile and in a home near Baysingstoke.”
“So nothing can be verifiably proved or disproved. Sweet.”
His aide continued after looking over some papers that were handed to him. “Scotland Yard will confirm the generic facts of the case, but refuse to give any details to the press.” The man thought about it. “My guess, they’ll make a Senate investigator fly to London for a face-to-face; to go through the files. Could take days, maybe weeks, you know what Central Registry’s like on old files.”
Canvas nodded. “What about cross-checking Apple Blossom?”
The assistant looked positively ill. “Pei used it sixteen times in nine different debriefings. Always vague, general.” He hesitated, then spoke in a barely heard whisper of almost physical pain. “Always an American educated in Europe, in the sixties, a sleeper asset designed to take over a senior role in the U.S. government.”
“Shit.”
“There’s no way the investigators will miss the cross-reference.”
Canvas sighed, then moved to the window. He looked out at the woods around him, the calm, pastural setting. Vaguely watched some squirrels lightly leap from branch to branch on a nearby tree.
“Why can’t you just die like other people, Jerry?” he whispered.
He sighed again, ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair, then turned back to the waiting men.
>
“We go on the offensive right away. Before they get a chance to throw another chain saw at us, right? Have De-Witt issue a statement saying as how he is honored and all that crap to help ferret out this Russki spy. But for God’s sake, he is not to use the phrase ‘Apple Blossom in any circumstances. Get Grimes and whoever else we have in the media to dredge up a lot of old footage of Joe McCarthy and the like. Phrases like ’rush to judgment and’ guilty by suspicion and the lot.
“Walker?”
“Yes, Guv?”
“Let’s have someone in Congress, several someones, talk about expediting the nomination so that the committee can concentrate on the hunt for the real spy. Patriotic duty to get DeWitt in office and all. Time enough for a quarter-century-old scandal later.”
“On it.”
Canvas walked a few paces away from the group with the man. “Anything from Krusiec?”
The man shook his head. “Not since she called in an emergency. Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Canvas repeated sadly, then clapped the man on the back. “Get on it. The man raced off as his boss nodded for Steingarth to follow him into the next room.”
“We have a problem, you and I.”
“I’ve noticed,” the German said morosely.
Canvas shook his head. “Forget DeWitt. Our problem is a bigger one.”
The older man looked intensely curious but didn’t say a word. Just waited.
“Xenos is out there somewhere,” Canvas said in a low tone. “If he’s alive, then it’s only prudent to assume that Alvarez and the rest are alive as well.”
“I see your point.”
“You see half of it.” He led them out the door for a walk among the privacy of the trees. “As long as we have her kids, Alvarez stays in line. But how long can we hold them? And if we lose positive control on Alvarez, the party’s over.”
“You want to kill the children now?” Steingarth sounded neither shocked nor eager, merely inquiring.
The 4 Phase Man Page 29
