“I’m fine.” His tone suggested he didn’t need any sympathy.
She didn’t blink. “George, I know you’ve heard me say this before, but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry you didn’t go into accounting.” “Me, too.”
“You know,” she said, “they’re all idiots.”
“They think I’m the idiot.”
“I’d like to see any of those people, see Blackstone, especially, come in here and try to deal with the problems you have to handle every day. He’d be a basket case by the end of the first week.” Harry Culver called. Harry was the senior senator from Ohio, who’d encouraged him to go for the White House. Who’d been his mentor when he was just getting started in politics. “Just ride it out, George,” he said. “You’ll be okay. You should be used to stuff like this. As soon as the next scandal hits, it’ll go away.” But it wouldn’t, and he knew it. The world had changed with the advent of electronic communications. Presidents, beginning with FDR, were on the record. Nixon, despite a long career of postpresidential public service, would never get past You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore. Or I am not a crook. Bill Clinton, who’d been a major contributor to global stability, would always be remembered as the guy who didn’t have sex with that woman. Jimmy Carter’s crisis of confidence comments, which had morphed into malaise, would live forever. And George W. Bush could spend the rest of his days rescuing kids out of burning buildings, but he’d never live down Mission Accomplished.
For Cunningham, the Bermuda Triangle remark had already become part of the media landscape. Yes indeed, Ask Mr. Blackstone—Worst of all, he was left with no answers. What actually had happened up there, Mr. President?
He had no idea.
—
When he got back to his office, he summoned Ray. “What do we have on Cohen’s briefcase?” “Nothing yet, George. To be honest, I’m not sure where to begin.” “Whatever was in there, Ray, Nixon apparently fumbled away his presidency trying to get it back.” He almost felt sorry for Nixon. He’d watched the old film clips, read Mason’s biography The Plumbers and the President, and understood why the country had turned against him. The truth, he thought, was that Nixon had simply not been emotionally capable of handling the pressures at the White House. Nixon’s basic problem was that he’d had a thin skin, and that’s a serious handicap on the big stage. Especially when you’re sending people into combat. And, of course, those were the Cold War years, when a misjudgment could have killed everyone on the planet.
The president’s cell sounded, the old horse-race theme, “Bahn Frei.” It usually fired up his circulation. But not this time.
The phone was lying on his desk, while the horses tore around the track. Ray disapproved of that particular ringtone. It sent the wrong message, he’d argued. Left people with the impression that Cunningham wasn’t a serious person. But Cunningham was, of course, the president of the United States, and if he wanted horse races—“Mr. President.” It was Kim. “Admiral Quarles is here.”
The African meltdown was intensifying. Quarles wanted to send in the Marines. The last poll indicated that 58 percent of the country wanted to do just that. It always amazed him how quickly people forget.
“Give me three minutes, Kim. Then tell him to come in.” He turned back to his chief of staff. “Ray, we need to find out what was in that briefcase. Do what you have to.” “How do you suggest we manage that, George?”
“Track down the people who worked in the DNC office at the time of the break-in.” “That was Lawrence O’Brien.”
“I know.”
“He’s no longer with us, sir.”
“Damn it, Ray, don’t you think I know that? But there must be somebody who was there. Somebody who remembers what happened. A secretary, maybe.” “Okay, Mr. President. I’ll do what I can.”
“Make something happen, Ray.”
The admiral arrived with two aides and a complete digital show demonstrating why we had to intervene. People were dying. More massacres were coming. The entire area was falling apart. And there were strategic considerations.
Usually, in military matters, Cunningham maintained a calm demeanor, listened to the arguments, and explained why he was not going to commit U.S. troops. It was a downhill slide. Put those first guys in. That’s the easy part. Then reinforce them. Then watch the other side show remarkable endurance. Fight until the country gets tired of it all. Then pull out and leave those who helped you in said country, your friends and allies, to be killed. The country had done it time and again since the end of World War II. Until it had left the U.S. financially drained and hopelessly divided. Last Days of the Empire, if you believed the title of a current bestseller. “We aren’t playing that game anymore, Admiral,” he said finally, letting his irritation show. “We are staying out.” Quarles was a small, thin man with an eagle’s beak. His scalp was crowned with thick white hair. He had an uncompromising conviction that the U.S. should use its military to stop the assorted killers in power around the globe. He was unwilling to recognize that Cunningham’s first obligation was to the citizens of the United States. “With all due respect, Mr. President,” he said in an angry whisper, “the blood’ll be on our hands.” He meant Cunningham’s hands, of course. And he was right. The president would have blood on his hands whichever course he chose. “Thank you for the briefing, Admiral,” he said. “I trust we won’t see any stories in the media about grumbling among the top brass.” When it was over, and the military contingent was gone, Cunningham switched on the TV and looked at the pictures that were coming in, of towns burned and people brutalized. Usually, it was hard even to find a motive for the killing.
And, of course, rumors of dissension at the Pentagon surfaced that evening.
—
“We can’t just stand by and watch,” said Senator Brig Nelson. Nelson was chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, and a member of the president’s own party. “It’s time we took action,” he continued, speaking on Editor-at-Large. “And do I think the president intends to move against these killers? I don’t like to put words into his mouth, but I’d be shocked if we don’t see something within the next few days.” Lyra sighed. “George, why don’t we watch Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines?” They occasionally spent their evenings with a classic film, when the outside world permitted. They always went for comedy. But it didn’t happen often. Usually, they were committed to a banquet or they were having one of their artist-of-the-month events or there was an emergency meeting of the Haubrich Commission, which was looking into the most recent breakdown of the nation’s infrastructure.
“I don’t think so,” said Cunningham. He was too stirred up at the moment.
Lyra reached over and touched his shoulder, trying to remind him he wasn’t alone. She still looked good. Beautiful eyes and soft brown hair and a killer smile. The media agreed she ranked right in there with Jackie, Laura, and Michelle. But one of the Fox commentators thought she needed to pay more attention to her wardrobe. And one of the women on NBC said she could be a bit more diplomatic. It was true that she tended to say what she thought, a definite drawback in the political world, especially when she noted that the Speaker of the House would probably not be so anxious to jump into a war if anybody in his family was in uniform. (The Speaker also belonged to the president’s party.) And just last week, she’d commented that the people who opposed family planning should learn how to count.
“George,” she said, “don’t you get tired of being attacked by these morons?” “Try not to take it so seriously, love.”
She wanted to get rid of Nelson but couldn’t locate the remote. “If we don’t act now, and decisively,” he was saying in that standard supercilious tone, “we’ll pay a price for it down the road. And eventually we’ll be trying to explain to our grandchildren why we stood aside and did nothing.” “His attitude might be different,” she said, “if he’d ever had to stand out at Dover and watch the bodies come back.” “Lyra, I’ve never had to do that.�
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“And I think it’s smart of you to keep it that way.”
The host raised the issue of Blackstone’s Moon mission. “They’re almost home, Senator. What do you think it all means?” Nelson came close to scratching his head. “I’ll admit, Jules, that I’m baffled. And I’d bet the White House is as puzzled as the rest of us.” He looked out of the screen, playing his customary role as the Sage of Washington. “But I’ll tell you this: We’ll be putting together an investigation to find out exactly what happened and what they were trying to hide.” “Right,” said Lyra. “You know, George, I’d love to see some of these people come in here and make some decisions. Maybe—” The racetrack music started. Lyra rolled her eyes. She didn’t like the ringtone either.
It was Ray. “Mr. President,” he said, “we’ve found somebody.”
“From the DNC?”
“Yes. Her name’s Audrey Conroy. She was a bookkeeper.”
“Beautiful.”
“She’s retired. Lives in Washington State. You want me to send Melvin to talk to her?” Cunningham thought about it. “No,” he said. He was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t thought anybody would still be alive. “We don’t have the time. Call her. You do the interview. Set it up so I can listen.” —While he waited, he did a quick search. Conroy’s stint with the Democratic Party had ended six months after the break-in, when she took a job with the Department of the Interior. About the time Jimmy Carter came to the White House, she met her future husband, a dentist who was vacationing in D.C. A few months later, they married, and she moved to his hometown of Walla Walla. Today, Audrey was a grandmother. Four kids. Seven grandkids.
Lyra was watching him sympathetically. “It’s a wild-goose chase, George. You know that.” “Probably,” he said.
“I hope your biographers don’t find out about it.” Her eyes grew very round. “I can see it now. Chapter 17: Chasing Watergate.” Editor-at-Large had gone to commercial. Lawyers appeared, reassuring the audience they would fight to the end for them.
Then Ray was back. “Mr. President, we have her.”
“Good.” He activated the Skype. Audrey Conroy appeared on the TV. She was seated at a table, looking a bit flustered, an understandable reaction from someone who’d just learned the White House wanted to talk to her. But she gazed directly out of the screen and kept her voice steady.
“Yes, Mr. Chambers. What can I do for you?” She was tall, with clear brown eyes and hair cut short. She wore a light blue blouse, and her expression reflected an amused awareness of her own disquiet. She did not look like a grandmother.
“Ms. Conroy, we’ve been trying to clear up a few details about the DNC operation at the Watergate.” “Really?”
“Yes. During the Nixon years.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was looking out of the screen again. Taking a deep breath. “You’re kidding.” “No, ma’am.”
“There’s another investigation going on?”
“No, no.” The chief of staff was trying too hard to be reassuring. Just ask the damned questions, Ray. “Nothing like that.” “Oh. Good. That’s a relief.”
“Yes. We’re just trying to set the record straight on a couple of details. Does the name Jack Cohen ring a bell?” Her forehead creased. Then she broke into a big smile. “You mean Larry’s old buddy.” “We’re talking about Lawrence O’Brien?”
“Yes. Is that who you mean?”
“Yes. Of course.”
The smile grew even wider. “Jack Cohen. Sure. This is the first I’ve heard his name in a long time.” “How well did you know him?”
She shrugged. “Not that well, really. He’d come into the office once in a while, and he and Larry would sit and talk.” Cunningham could see her reaching back through the years. “He seemed like a nice guy. But he wasn’t the quickest horse in the stable.” “How do you mean?”
“He was an academic type. Loved to talk about Egyptian tombs and stuff like that. I never understood what Larry saw in him. I mean, Larry was down-to-earth, you know what I mean?” “Yes. Sure.”
“Okay. Anyhow, Cohen was always in some other world. But Larry was a little bit like that, too. I mean, he had a good imagination. And he was smart. But Cohen always seemed kind of lost. I remember one time he’d promised Larry tickets to a play at one of the colleges. But he couldn’t find them in his pocket so he started looking through his briefcase. And he came up with tickets but they were to a show downtown. The Thurber Carnival, I think it was. The tickets were ten years old. I remember asking him if something had happened because he hadn’t used them. He shrugged and said how he didn’t remember, it was too long ago.” “Did he find the correct tickets?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time, Mr. Chambers.”
“What else can you tell me about the briefcase? Did he ever leave it at the Watergate office?” She thought about it. “Not exactly,” she said, finally. “But there was an incident. How did you know?” “Just a rumor we’d heard.”
“Well, yes. He did lose it on one occasion.” Her brow creased. “It’s an odd story.” “Why? What happened?”
“Well, Jack Cohen and Larry went to lunch together a lot. Usually in the hotel restaurant at the Watergate. They were down there one day and afterward they came up to the office.” She paused, trying to remember. “I think what happened was, they sat in his office and talked for a while. Later that afternoon, Cohen called, saying he’d left his briefcase somewhere, thought it was probably with us. Would we take a look?
“I don’t really remember the details. I don’t even remember whether I took the call or Jessica did. I don’t think Larry was there at the time it came in. But we looked around. Didn’t see anything. When Larry got back to the office, he looked, too. Cohen came back around closing time and they hunted some more. It sticks in my mind because it was right around the time of the break-in.” “Did it happen that night?” Ray asked. “The break-in?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Mr. Chambers. It might have. Or maybe it was a day or two later.” “Audrey,” said Ray, “did he ever find the briefcase?”
“Oh, yes. It turned out he left it in the hotel restaurant.”
“I assume you returned it to Cohen.”
“As far as I know. Larry would have taken care of that.”
“Audrey, thank you.”
Cunningham had a line into Ray. “Ask her if she has any idea what was in the briefcase.” He relayed the question.
Audrey nodded. “I don’t remember any specifics, but he was a teacher, and I think it had something to do with his classes. But I don’t know. Again, it’s a long time ago. He seemed really flustered. But this guy was always like that. Larry said how he was brilliant, but you couldn’t prove it by me.” —“Ray, how did Blackstone know where to look for the descent modules?” Ray looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“He seems to have known exactly where to go.” It was apparently a question that hadn’t occurred to the chief of staff. “The back side of the Moon has a surface area of about seven million square miles. Blackstone was looking for a couple of pieces of metal that blended with the ground. How could he have possibly known where to find them?” Ray sucked on his upper lip and shook his head. “I have no idea. He must have gotten lucky.” “Sure he did. I think we should ask him.”
“You know how he is, Mr. President. He won’t tell us.”
“I think he will. We’ll have to put up with the gloating, though. I’ll tell you what. Put a call through to Jerry. Tell him I want to talk to him.” —Jerry looked nervous. The smart, friendly, easygoing guy who’d been such an asset on the campaign trail a few years back had gone missing. And Cunningham understood why: He’d gone over to the enemy. It was hard to understand how that could have happened. He knew Jerry had received plenty of job offers. Good ones. Cunningham had arranged a few of them. But Blackstone had undoubtedly outbid everybody. Had taken Jerry for the sole reason that his presence would embarrass the president. What
a son of a bitch he was. And he wasn’t really sure which of the two men he was thinking of at that moment.
“How you been, Jerry?” he asked, keeping the anger out of his voice.
“I’m fine, Mr. President.” He looked off to the side, but Cunningham doubted anyone else was present. Jerry took a deep breath. Then the eyes came back. “What can I do for you, sir?” “Congratulations on the Myshko flight.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass them on.”
“I’m sure you will.” Cunningham was seated on the sofa in his study. “How’s the new job working out?” “I’m enjoying it, Mr. President. It keeps me in the space program.” “Yes. Very good. I was sorry we lost you.”
“I was sorry to go.”
“Well, I guess these things happen.” Jerry’s eyes were locked on him now. He was probably expecting an offer to draw him away from Blackstone. “It looks as if you and he were right all the time.” Jerry managed a nervous smile.
Cunningham made no effort to put him at ease. “Got a question for you, Jerry.” “Yes, sir?”
“How did your boss know where the descent stages would be? How’d he know where to look?” Jerry needed a moment to decide whether he was free to speak. He apparently decided he was. Or maybe he couldn’t resist putting a needle into the president. “It wasn’t really that difficult,” he said.
Cunningham listened while Jerry laid it all out. Rumors of a “Cassandra Project.” Photos from satellites and probes, both Russian and American, that had been doctored. He was about to add something, but he thought better of it and broke off. Held up his hands. “That’s about it, Mr. President.” “The Russians were part of the cover-up?”
“Yes, sir. They must have been.”
“You’re sure about that? Absolutely positive?”
“I’ve seen the photos, sir.”
“That sounds as if you put some of this together.”
Again, the hesitation. “Yes, Mr. President. I guess I did.”
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