The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  Isherwood nodded again.

  ‘On the other hand.’ Looking off over the terrain, reliving long-ago skirmishes, Eisenhower seemed momentarily content. ‘Pride comes before a fall. And some good men made some goddamned prideful decisions during those four days, for which plenty of other good men paid the price. J.E.B. Stuart, for one, the glory hound: off joyriding instead of giving Lee crucial intelligence. A fine soldier, Stuart, but a goddamned grandstander. Liked to read about himself in the newspapers too much. And Pickett, the old dandy, making a charge that hadn’t a chance in hell of success … just over there on that ridge, son; we trained tanks for the Great War on that very same spot. Last in his class at West Point, George Pickett. Deathly afraid he’d miss his chance to fight here at Gettysburg.’ A flinty chuckle. ‘Man ought to be careful what he wishes for, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Of course, the charge wasn’t really Pickett’s idea. He was just following orders. But it wasn’t Longstreet’s mistake, either. Nope, that particular misadventure – twelve thousand men advanced, and fully half got cut down like wheat – that was Lee’s fault. You’d be hard pressed to find a man of better character than Robert E. Lee, but the fact stands: that was his mistake, and his alone. Too much pride. Six thousand boys died in one hour. Cemetery Ridge earned its name that day, I wager.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a reason for me to be locked in this goddamned house, after all. A man’s got to know his limitations.’ He sighed, a visible puff on the cold air. ‘But it chafes, son, I don’t mind telling you. These pink walls drive a fellow out of his mind. Painted like a goddamned whorehouse in here. And I haven’t even had a real cup of coffee in two months. I went long enough without in England, drinking that ersatz crap, to last me the rest of my days.’

  ‘I understand, sir. Spent some time overseas myself.’

  ‘You served?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Eisenhower peered at him afresh, and then shook his head. ‘Men like you pulled the fat out of the fire. The old farts like me just sat back and took the credit.’

  Again, Isherwood said nothing.

  ‘And now here I am, adding insult to injury by making you listen to my bellyaching. Move along, soldier; you’re dismissed. And thank you for not giving me that cigarette – that’s a damned good call.’

  Isherwood tipped his hat and dutifully moved on.

  Once safely out of view of the porch, he lit another smoke. So that was Eisenhower, he thought. He felt gratified, and not just because the exchange would make a good story for Evy. It was one thing to defend Eisenhower the idea: the President who had guided America to victory abroad and a balanced budget at home, steering a steady course through D-Day, the death of Stalin, the defeat of polio, and the end of the Korean conflict. But it was another thing altogether to defend Eisenhower the man.

  THE CARROLL ARMS HOTEL, WASHINGTON DC

  Joseph McCarthy’s usual table inside the Grill Room was tucked into a back corner, where nobody could sneak up on him.

  Although McCarthy’s large head shook slightly with palsy, and his hand fluttered when he raised it in greeting, he was still powerfully built, evoking the boxer he once had been. Relatively young at forty-seven, he was also a sitting senator who radiated the authority of his position. Politically, he was dead in the water, yet his bearing didn’t communicate that – and besides, thought Richard Nixon as he took a seat, politically, McCarthy had never been a realistic contender in the first place. This had not stopped him from becoming, at his peak, one of the three most powerful men in Washington, second only to J. Edgar Hoover and the President.

  A house plant set too close to the chair brushed vexingly against Nixon’s shoulder as he sank down; although the lighting was recessed, a bulb jutted from the ceiling at an uncomfortable angle, shining directly into his eyes. None of it was by chance. McCarthy liked every advantage, even among his so-called friends. Yet still he had his supporters – and despite the increasing political price paid for the association, the Vice President remained proud to count himself as one.

  Keeping his composure in the face of these small insults, Nixon found and displayed a genial smile. Accepting a menu from a waiter, he consulted it briefly before passing it back with a small shake of his head. He had gained a few pounds since his Navy days, mostly in his cheeks, but tried hard to keep himself together. McCarthy, burdened by no such concerns, ordered another whiskey. Moments later the glass was added to the remnants of the meal spread across the table: two empty tumblers awaiting clearing, a plate still bloody from a vanished slab of steak, and residues of potatoes, onions, mushrooms, beans, slaw, and corn.

  For a few minutes the men indulged in polite small talk, de rigueur in Washington. Although long-time cronies, they formed an undeniably odd couple, as if the star quarterback had taken up with the star hall monitor. McCarthy loved to drink, womanize, carouse, slap backs, and gamble, while Nixon drank even coffee with hesitancy, remained steadfastly faithful to his wife and her famous Republican cloth coat, and despite his best efforts couldn’t summon much fondness for golf, let alone high-stakes card games. The balance of power between the two men was complex and always in flux. Just a year and a half before, Nixon had been the behind-the-scenes power broker pulling strings and promising McCarthy the White House. Then had come the spectacular flameout of Army/McCarthy – even as a youthful poker player, Fighting Joe had been infamously unable to resist bluffing on bad cards, and in front of a room filled with television cameras, he had finally overplayed his hand – and now McCarthy, made unelectable by his own impulsivity, was the one relegated to behind-the-scenes machinations. If either would one day take the public throne, it would be Nixon.

  Their small talk encompassed Maryland’s recent win over LSU, Washington socialite Alice Roosevelt Longworth’s broken hip, and good-natured complaints about their wives. In September of 1953, to general bewilderment, McCarthy had married Jean Kerr, his mild-mannered aide. Had the marriage been a maneuver designed to distract from mounting rumors of homosexuality? A Hail Mary pass, to reverse the man’s failing political fortunes? Or might it possibly have been the genuine article? Even Nixon, one of McCarthy’s closest friends, didn’t know for sure. In truth, he thought, there was probably no one simple answer. In Joe’s world, facts and lies and wishful thinking all blurred hopelessly together.

  With small talk out of the way, they began bellying up to the larger issues at hand. McCarthy complimented Nixon on his handling of the reins during the worst of Eisenhower’s illness, when the President had been too indisposed to lead. The compliment, thought Nixon, worked on two levels. Superficially, the senator was congratulating him for proving his ability to govern competently at a difficult time. Subtly, McCarthy was applauding the surety with which Nixon had managed to hide his own ambition. Presiding over Cabinet meetings and tending the home fires, the Vice President had given the public impression of respectful stewardship, not of watchful readiness to pounce – an adroit maneuver, considering the reality.

  ‘I’m just grateful,’ replied Nixon disingenuously as dishes were cleared, ‘that the worst seems past. I hear he’s doing well, out on that farm of his. Pretty soon he’ll be back to full strength.’

  But he could not entirely keep the resentment from his voice; after all, he had not been invited to accompany Eisenhower during his convalescence. Instead, Chief of Staff Sherman Adams had been installed in the nearby town of Gettysburg. It was a slap in the face, another indication of the increasing disfavor with which Nixon was viewed by the administration.

  After the waiter had gone, McCarthy looked around, making sure nobody was within hearing. The club catered to senators, congressmen, lobbyists, and various staffers who wanted to enjoy drinks, steaks, card games, and conversation away from prying eyes; tables were set at discreet distances from each other, and a background murmur drowned out individual voices. Nixon’s Secret Service detail stood unobtrusively by
the arched doorway, looking judiciously nowhere in particular.

  Satisfied, McCarthy leaned across the table. ‘Listen up, pal. Just between you and me: I hear things.’

  Nixon squinted into the light, rustled against the plant, awaited elaboration.

  ‘For starters: you’re too close to a certain fire-breathing champion of liberty. Yours truly, pal. Here’s the straight dope. Ike smiles to your face, tells you he’s grooming you to take his place, and then cuts you out. He keeps you away from Gettysburg, makes plans to drop you from the ticket, and tries to pin every failure on your shoulders.’

  ‘That’s old news,’ grumbled Nixon.

  ‘Okay, so here’s the headline. He’s decided to run again – that’s the scuttlebutt in the back rooms. Up until last week, he didn’t know his plans for sure. Mamie wants him to give it up, you know. But all the waiting around, convalescing, drives him crazy. He claims he doesn’t enjoy the office – too much politics, he says, too much glad-handing – but the fact is, he likes it better than the alternative. And here’s the real kick in the nuts – you ready for this?’ McCarthy leaned even closer, delivering a wilting blast of commingled whiskey and halitosis. ‘He wants Anderson by his side: a Democrat. Can you get your head around that? He wants a Democrat, and he’s going to ask you to voluntarily step down. Of course, that’s career suicide for you. But he’ll give you some patronizing bullshit about how it’s for your own good, how you need administrative experience before your own run in ’sixty, how he’ll give you a good Cabinet position during his second administration – can you believe this crap? After you take care of things so swell while the old man rots in his sickbed, this is how he repays you?’

  Coolly, Nixon leaned away. He did not want to respond to the bait, jumping like a dog at a bone for McCarthy’s amusement. But the revelation had the ring of truth – Nixon had, in fact, suspected as much for a long time – and his fury, although masked, was beyond calculation.

  Ike, the worthless traitor, the no-good rat – everything McCarthy had said was dead on the money. For as long as Eisenhower and Nixon had worked together, the elder man had accorded the younger no respect. Old enough to be Nixon’s father, Ike refused to see his second-in-command as anything like an equal. He had called the Vice President ‘immature’, declaring him ‘not presidential timber’, worrying out loud about not having established ‘a logical successor’ – although none of it had been said, of course, to Nixon’s face. Many considered Eisenhower the bravest of the brave, but Richard Nixon knew better. The President had a yellow streak a mile wide running down the center of his back.

  But as the General had waffled endlessly before committing to his first run, who had been the one to cease splitting hairs, the one who dared tell him to shit or get off the pot? Only Nixon had done him that good service. And how had Eisenhower responded? With a furious dressing-down, the sting of which the younger man still felt to this day. Time and again the President had used his Vice President as a political tool: to mollify the right, bait the Reds, and handle the negative campaigning, while Ike cozied up with Democrats, city machines, labor unions, minorities, and egghead intellectuals. And then he dared describe Nixon as overly partisan, hanging his deputy out to dry in the press.

  ‘He can’t put enough distance between you and him,’ McCarthy continued. ‘What do you think that means, Dick? That he’s getting ready to have you and the family over for dinner? Or does it mean—’

  ‘Joe.’ Nixon’s tone stopped the man in his tracks. ‘I get it.’

  McCarthy paused. Seeing the cold light in Nixon’s eyes, he smiled mordantly. ‘Just trying to help out an old buddy,’ he said. ‘Consider it a friendly heads-up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That’s not all.’ Idly, McCarthy traced with one broad index finger a fleur-de-lis embossed on the tablecloth. ‘There’s another story being told, in these back rooms.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘There are still some patriots in this country, you know. And they’re not just going to sit back and let Ike get away with this.’

  Nixon said nothing. The remaining members of the ‘Loyal American Underground’, as McCarthy called his personal web of seditionists, had lost their power when Joe had lost his, but there was no delicate way to put this.

  ‘And there’s Hoover,’ added McCarthy. ‘Don’t forget Hoover. He’s in your corner, Dick. He can make things happen – or he can get out of the way and let things happen.’

  A sly pause. ‘What things?’ Nixon asked.

  ‘Let’s just say, you never know what’s coming down the pike. Sometimes things have a way of working themselves out.’

  Nixon shook his head. McCarthy’s heart was in the right place – but he was a shadow of his former self, and good judgment had never been his strong suit. Nixon’s slow tumble from grace within the Eisenhower administration had become all but irreversible. Only if the President suddenly died or became terminally incapacitated could the Vice President, inheriting the crown by default, become a serious contender for the upcoming nomination.

  ‘My point is, things happen. Especially to old men with bad hearts.’ A waiter passed by; McCarthy raised his finger from the tablecloth. ‘Just keep it in mind – in case you were having trouble sleeping at night. Me, I sleep like a baby. Garçon: another aperitif, s’il vous plaît.’

  PART TWO

  Only Americans can hurt America.

  Dwight D. Eisenhower

  SIX

  ROUTE 30: NOVEMBER 16

  The reflection staring back from the rear-view mirror looked like hell: badly shaven, tie and hat askew, dark bags of fatigue brooding beneath weary green eyes. But the whites of those eyes were clear, and the breath, when Isherwood blew into a cupped hand, smelled of nothing except cigarettes and mouthwash.

  He was ready for his close-up, he supposed – as ready as he’d ever be.

  After tipping the service station attendant, he pulled back onto the road. One advantage to travelling at twilight was the scarcity of traffic; as soon he’d left Gettysburg, his Studebaker had become the only car in sight.

  All through the day, sitting at his window and watching Eisenhower paint and write correspondence on the sun porch, Isherwood had resented the looming appointment with Max Whitman. How was he meant to do his job when hobbled by second-guessing and distrust? Besides, he had nothing to report – four days of asking questions around town and the farm had yielded precious little of value. But with the window down and a never-ending succession of cigarettes burning between his fingertips, he found himself glad to be away from the farm, out on the open road.

  As he pressed east, undulating foothills evolved gradually into the steeper Alleghenies. In his rear-view, the lingering sunset lit the mountains gently from behind and beneath. The glow made him think of Evelyn – the way her hair hung in a loose spill, backlit by the goose-necked lamp, when she read at night in bed. He missed her fiercely. He wondered when – or if – he would get a chance to bestow the modest gift he’d bought at the chemist’s. God knew he owed her more than a bottle of dime-store perfume. But it was a start. Consider it, he would tell her, a down payment on bigger things.

  Flicking on the dashboard radio, turning up the volume to compete with the wind, he dialed past static, past a station playing standards, past static, past a rock and roll signal – WLS – coming all the way out of Chicago, past static. He found a weather report and headlines, both bracing: a cold front was coming in, and Big Four talks in Geneva had ended in failure. Snapping off the radio, he shook his head. A united Germany would encourage stability in the world. But reconsolidation seemed not to be in the cards. Sighing, he lit another cigarette from the butt of his last. He missed his wife; he missed his cats.

  The Studebaker’s headlamps carved a slice out of the accumulating mountain darkness. The engine labored as he climbed a particularly steep pass without slowing. As he crested the peak and started down, his stomach gave a vertiginous lift and corresponding drop.<
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  Then sounded a very distant crack, flat and dry – if he hadn’t been smoking with the window open, he wouldn’t have heard it at all – and in the next heartbeat the Studebaker jolted painfully. The steering went slippery beneath his hands; the wheel spun wildly, and he lost control, careening hard to the left, plowing full-force into the guard rail.

  Hart worked the bolt.

  Then he paused. The Studebaker was riding full-speed along the rail, kicking up a ferocious shower of sparks. With any luck the barrier would let go and the vehicle would tumble into the valley, and gravity would finish Hart’s work for him.

  He returned eye to scope. His shot had been true; the car’s left front tire was no more. The eerie shriek of shredding metal rang out across the valley. The blazing sparks and strange wail evoked a sudden memory: his father telling him a bedtime story, about the will-o’-the-wisp.

  For a protracted moment the Studebaker trembled against the precipice, hood welded to railing. Then the remaining tires grabbed hold of the asphalt again, and with a pained wrench the car disengaged. For twenty yards the rear fishtailed in a clumsy burlesque. Slewing back into its original lane, then, the sedan drifted into a one-hundred-and-eighty degree pinwheeling skid. At last, facing ass-backwards, it ground painfully to a stop.

  Hart clicked his tongue. Fate would require a gentle nudge, after all. But it should not be a problem. Any second now, Isherwood would step out to inspect the tire. Presenting himself in the full glare of headlights as he circled the hood, he would make an easy target.