“Not sure I need anything more at the moment.”
She cleared her throat. Looked at him oddly. “There are several research groups working on producing artificial semen. But they’re probably six or seven years away. So it’s not likely to happen on your watch.” “Artificial semen?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the point of artificial semen?”
“You have better control of the product.”
“You mean the baby.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But you’re telling me that males are going to become irrelevant.” “I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“Mr. President.” She delivered a wicked grin. “I don’t think you have to worry about guys becoming completely irrelevant. That’s never going to happen.” —In the face of so much turmoil, the Moon story should have been a light diversion, a bit of stand-up comedy delivered by an egomaniacal billionaire with too much time on his hands. But people were jittery. Too much was happening. The voters had reached a point that nothing surprised them anymore. They were prepared to believe anything.
Ray Chambers was standing in the doorway.
Cunningham waved him in, and they both took seats at the exquisitely carved round table he’d inherited from the Obamas. “Got anything, Ray?” he asked.
“George, it looks as if the situation in Utopia is working out.” That was Ray’s ongoing joke, implying that everything was fine save for one or two minor issues. “I understand we’re going to live a lot longer.” “If not,” said Cunningham, “it will at least seem that way. Is there anything new on the Myshko business?” “Maybe,” said Ray. “I still think we should just get away from it.” “What have you got, Ray?”
“We’ve been calling around. Jasper and I have talked to everyone we can think of who was ever associated with the Nixon White House. One of them was a staffer for Bob Haldeman. Her name’s Irene Akins.” “Okay. What did Irene have to say?”
“That NASA saw something on the Moon. Before Neil Armstrong. She said it was a ‘big deal’ at the time.” “When was that?”
“She’s not sure of the date. And she told us, she wasn’t supposed to say anything. She never did, never heard anything more, and eventually decided it was all a joke of some kind.” “So what did NASA see?”
“She never knew. And she never heard about any secret flights.” “Where does she live, Ray?”
“Apparently, she’s still in the area. She’s over in Alexandria.” “Bring her into the White House.”
“George, that’s not a good idea.”
“Just do it, Ray. Try to get her here this afternoon.” —Irene Akins had joined the White House in March 1965, and had remained until 1978, when the Carter administration was in place. Her name until 1970 had been Hansen. She’d received positive evaluations from three presidents, which suggested she hadn’t been simply another political appointee.
At a quarter after four that afternoon, Kim informed him that Ms. Akins had arrived and was waiting for him, as per his instructions, in the Vermeil Room. The Vermeil Room had a fireplace, and the walls were decorated with portraits of five of the twentieth century’s first ladies. Its name derived from the collection of gilded silver on display. Despite the glitter, it possessed a casual ambience. It was the place Cunningham always used when he wanted to put a guest at ease.
Ray was waiting with her when he entered. They were drinking coffee, and she was standing in front of the portrait of Jackie Kennedy.
Akins was in her seventies. A small woman, with white hair and glasses. A walker stood to one side of her chair. Her face was creased, but she managed a delighted smile. “It’s hard to believe this is actually happening,” she said.
Ray did the introduction and turned to leave, but Cunningham signaled him to stay. “Is this the first time you’ve been back?” he asked her.
“To the White House?” Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, no. I’ve been here any number of times, Mr. President. Brought my kids on the tours. And their kids. I have a lot of happy memories here.” The smile faded. “And some unhappy ones.” “Yes,” said the president, returning the smile. “I know exactly what you mean.” One of the interns came in with more coffee. She refilled the cups. Poured one for Cunningham, asked if anyone needed anything else, and hurried out.
“It must have been difficult at times,” he said. “Especially during the scandal.” “That’s true. But I wasn’t close to any of that. I didn’t see President Nixon much. Just in the hallways once in a while.” She stopped. Shook her head. “I know what they said about him. And I guess he had some faults. But I liked him.” “Ms. Akins, you know about the rumors? That there were early landings, not reported, on the Moon?” “It would be hard not to, Mr. President. It’s all over the news. But I don’t know any more than I told that man on the phone.” “We thought that might be the case. But it seemed worth the effort to try. I’m hoping coming back here might jar your memory.” He tried to keep his tone light. “While you were here, did you ever hear anything about special lunar missions?” She shook her head. “No, Mr. President. Not a word.”
He tried the coffee, but didn’t notice the taste. “Irene—Is it okay if I call you that?” “Of course, Mr. President.”
“You said something on the phone about NASA’s having seen something on the Moon.” “That’s correct.”
“But you don’t know what it was?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“What actually did you hear?”
She adjusted her glasses. Brushed back a curl. She would have been, Cunningham decided, an attractive young woman in her day. “Mr. President, I wish I could tell you. But I really don’t remember any specifics. Mr. Haldeman might have said something. And maybe Mr. Ehrlichman. In fact, yes, definitely Mr. Ehrlichman. It’s fifty years ago. I just don’t recall—” “Okay. You also said they’d made a big deal of it. What did you mean by that?” “Well, I didn’t mean that they made a big deal about the Moon. Just that when I asked about it once, I was told there was nothing to it. And the guy telling me was really upset. It was the only time I can remember someone there losing his temper with me.” “Who was it? Who lost his temper?”
“Gordon Brammer. He was a special assistant to the chief of staff.” “Brammer?” said the president.
“He’s dead now, sir. Died a long time ago.”
“Okay. Thanks, Irene.”
The president started to get up. But Irene was lost in thought. “There was something else,” she said. “About Jack Cohen.” She frowned. “Funny. I haven’t thought of him for years.” That brought Ray into the conversation. “Who’s Jack Cohen?” “I don’t know, Mr. Chambers. He was just somebody who was in the office a lot at the time. The only reason I remember his name is—” She smiled. “I had a boyfriend with that name once. A long time ago.” “And this was when? In 1969?”
“Well, it was somewhere in the late sixties when Cohen was hanging around the White House. Then I didn’t see him for a long time. Two or three years. He showed up one day seriously upset.” “When was that?”
“That’s easy. It was right before the Watergate thing blew up.” Three years later. It couldn’t be connected. “Was he a consultant of some sort?” Ray asked.
“I really don’t know. He just showed up at the White House sometimes. I don’t know who he was coming to see. As I said, the only thing that stuck with me was the name. I don’t even remember what he looked like.” “So what was his connection with the Moon?”
“He came in that one day, looking really freaked-out. This was, as I say, right before Watergate. Now that I think of it, I remember they hustled him right into the Oval Office. Later, one of the bosses, Ralph Keating, I think it was, said something about it’s being that goddam Moon thing again. Forgive the language.
“The comment seemed so off-the-wall that I never forgot it. I never heard an explanation. But for the next couple of days, everybody looked really upset.�
� —Ralph Keating had been dead almost forty years. The official records contained no mention of a Jack Cohen who’d been connected in any way with the Nixon White House. The president was talking about it with Ray when Kim called to remind him of a 5:00 P.M. meeting with representatives from the National Economic Council. Cunningham hated economics and relied heavily on his treasury secretary to see him through discussions on fiscal policy. But the long struggle to right the economy was continuing, and his presence was necessary to demonstrate he was a serious player.
When it was finally over, and he got back to the Oval Office, it was after seven. Ray was waiting for him. He looked pleased.
“I found Cohen, George.”
“Good, Ray,” he said. “Who is he?”
“He was a friend of Ehrlichman’s. They were pretty close. Both World War II veterans. They flew together with the Eighth Army Air Force, I think it was. He was an anthropologist. Taught at George Washington University.” “Okay.”
“Irene was right. He used to spend a fair amount of time in the White House.” “Is he still alive?”
“Died in 1987.”
“We just don’t catch a break, do we?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. By the way, there’s something else that connects him with Ehrlichman.” “What’s that?”
“They were both Eagle Scouts.”
23
Milt Weinstein thought that Ray Chambers and the president had lost their minds. Despite his conversation with Amos Bartlett, it was obvious to him that the entire affair was a chase after hobgoblins. It was so ridiculous, he’d wanted to tell his wife about it, but he’d been sworn to secrecy, and he knew his ability to keep his mouth shut was the critical reason he’d become Chambers’s most trusted aide.
He and Sheila had been the classic high-school pairing. There’d never been another woman in his life, and he more or less regretted that now. Not that he regretted Sheila. She was all he could have asked for. But there were times when he felt he’d missed something. And he suspected she felt the same way.
She lurked in the background as he leaned over the keyboard. “Milt, if we’re going to watch In Harm’s Way, we should get started before it gets any later.”
“Okay, hon,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.”
She came up behind him. Pictures of people dressed in clothes from another era lined the screen. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“This is The Cherry Tree,” he said.
“The what?”
“It’s the yearbook from George Washington University. Nineteen seventy-five.”
“That’s a little before our time, isn’t it?”
“A little.”
“Why are we interested?”
He shrugged. “Idle curiosity, babe.”
She caught the code word. More secret stuff from the White House. “Okay,” she said. “When you’re finished, I’ll be in the den.”
He was looking at pictures from the Anthropology Department. Professor John C. Cohen, the department chairman, was at the top of the page, dressed in a dark pin-striped suit with a black tie, gazing serenely back at him. He wore a neatly trimmed black beard, and his expression suggested a kind of amused superiority.
Weinstein switched over to the bio. Cohen had been born in Israel of American parents, had served during World War II with the Army Air Force. He’d piloted a B-17 in the raids over Germany. His navigator had been John Ehrlichman. After the war, the two men stayed in touch. Cohen taught for several years at the University of Pennsylvania before moving to George Washington. When Ehrlichman came to D.C. with the Nixon administration, the two reunited and remained close until Cohen’s death in 1987.
He frowned. Ray thought there might be a connection between Cohen and the Moon dustup. But it was hard to see what it could be. Well, what the hell. He’d give it his best shot. He went back to The Cherry Tree and recorded the names of the other members of the Anthropology Department. In addition, two students had received their doctorates that year under Cohen’s supervision. He wrote their names down, too. Then he went into the den, got cold beers for himself and Sheila, and sat down to watch In Harm’s Way. He loved John Wayne movies. He’d seen this one five or six times. It never got old.
—
In bed, and again in the morning, he read everything he could find on Cohen, including a few of his academic papers, which were tough going. The guy had never married. He’d won a couple of minor awards. Had once stepped in to prevent an attack by a gang of thugs on a young woman after hours on the campus. (That had cost him a few stitches.)
He looked up the names of outstanding anthropologists of the last half century. Then he googled the 1975 GWU faculty members and the two then-new Ph.D.s. Forty-four years had passed and, surprisingly, one of Cohen’s contemporary professors was still at American University. One of the Ph.D.s had died. The other was at Georgetown. He was able to reach both, identifying himself as a research assistant for a Dr. Frank Markaisi, who was working on a book about anthropological contributions to our understanding of the development of civilization. He was, he told them, especially interested in the work of Jack Cohen. Both remembered Cohen and said yes, of course they’d be happy to cooperate. He set up appointments.
Inga Wilson had been the Ph.D. candidate. She was in her grandmother phase now. “Hard to believe it’s been so long,” she said. They were seated in her office, with a view of the campus. Traffic moved slowly along O Street. “Professor Cohen was a good guy. Worked hard. Knew what he was doing. His students loved him.”
Weinstein asked a couple of his prepared questions, about Cohen’s interest in the development of language, his work on the evolution of religion. Then, offhandedly, he got to the point: “Inga, did you know anything about his White House connections?”
Inga was a bulky woman. Tall, almost as big as Weinstein. And surprisingly muscular for her age. Her features retained almost nothing of the attractive twenty-four-year-old woman in the yearbook picture. “Oh, yes,” she said, “he was a friend of John Ehrlichman’s. Watching what happened to the administration was very hard on him.”
“He was that close to Ehrlichman?”
“Yes. Apparently. He made no secret of the fact that he thought Nixon and his people had been maligned by an unfair press. It was odd.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know. He wasn’t a Democrat. I mean, he was pretty much apolitical. He had friends in both parties.”
“How did you find out about his friendship with Ehrlichman?”
“He arranged to have John come in a couple of times to talk to classes.” She smiled wistfully. “I was shocked when the Watergate scandal erupted. I wouldn’t have believed they could be capable of that. At least, that Ehrlichman could. He seemed like such a decent man.”
“It must have been hard to take.”
“It hit him hard, Milt. Professor Cohen, that is. It seemed, I don’t know, personal, maybe. Yes. It was personal.”
Weinstein salted the conversation with more prepared questions, not wanting to seem unduly interested in the White House connections. But when Inga began looking at her watch, he asked whether she had a class coming up.
“In ten minutes,” she said.
“Okay, Inga. Let me get out of your way then.” He got up. Collected his briefcase. “One final thing. Were his interests limited primarily to his field?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He was as much a Renaissance man as anybody I’ve ever known. He was interested in everything. Politics, the sciences, philosophy.”
“Then he must have been caught up in the Moon landings?”
“I didn’t know him then. But I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”
—
The professor who’d remained at GWU was a stodgy, hypercritical guy with a bushy mustache and a tendency to squint. Weinstein took him to dinner that night at a small restaurant near the campus. His name was Leonard Butcher, and he needed no encouragement to go on and on about the old da
ys. Mostly he dedicated himself to pointing out how inept everybody else on the planet was. Humans, he said, were too stupid to survive the rise of technology. “We almost killed ourselves with the nukes,” he said. “We survived that. But it’ll be something else. Just a matter of time.” At which point he stopped and asked Weinstein to repeat his name before launching into another diatribe.
The problem was that he barely remembered Jack Cohen. He’d once offered to help Cohen with a paper he was working on, a treatise on the development of Greek mythology, but Cohen had persisted in finding his own way and, as a result, the paper had gone unnoticed in the journals. Of course. “He was older than I was, so he tended to think I couldn’t be of any assistance.”
He’d also offered Cohen advice on handling his classes. Don’t alienate the students. Don’t preach. It’s all show business. It surprised Weinstein, because Butcher obviously knew what he was talking about. Whether he practiced it or not, of course, there was no way to know.
Butcher had noticed nothing unusual about Cohen. He’d had no social dealings with him. “Professor Cohen took it upon himself to encourage me. Told me I’d make a mark for myself.” He sat back with a satisfied smile. He had indeed, it suggested, done that.
“Why did he leave the university?”
Butcher shrugged. “Don’t know. I assume he had a better position elsewhere. Why else does one ever leave?” He flagged down a waitress and ordered some dessert.
Weinstein was about to explain that he had to go. That he had a plane to catch. But Butcher broke in: “What’s your connection with Frank Markaisi, Milt? He’s a pretty big name in the field.”
Ah, yes. The admirable and fictitious Professor Markaisi. “I’m an independent contractor. He hires me once in a while for assignments like this one.”
“Well, you tell him I’d be happy to cooperate if he wants any more information.” He pulled out his wallet and held out a business card. Weinstein took it, paid the bill, and said good night.
—
He reported back to Ray Chambers that evening.
The Cassandra Project Page 22
