The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  And Cunningham knew what he’d been about to say. He hadn’t been able to get anyone at NASA to believe him.

  The president shook his head. What a bunch of damned idiots they’d been. Or maybe not. The story had simply been too wild to take seriously. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said.

  —

  Restoring good relations with the Russians had been one of Cunningham’s core goals. And, at least on a personal level, the two countries had come a long way. There were still people in power in Moscow who disliked and thoroughly distrusted the United States. Just as there were angry voices in D.C.

  But Dmitri Alexandrov, the Russian president, had been at the White House five months earlier. The meeting had gone well. They’d conducted a joint press conference in which they tried to make the case for getting rid of what remained of Cold War animosity. Alexandrov’s support, against unhappy opposition at home, in joining the coalition to create a world free of nuclear weapons, had been enormously helpful in winning friends in the U.S. The problem was that too many people still thought that the White House, in getting rid of its atomic capabilities, was handing the world over to its rivals.

  He checked the time. It was late in Moscow, but Alexandrov was not inclined to retire early. He picked up the red phone and pushed the button. It took a few minutes.

  “Yes, George,” said Alexandrov. The call was strictly audio. “You are calling about the Moon shot, no doubt?” Much of his education had taken place in London, and he spoke with an accent that was a mixture of British and Russian.

  “How’d you guess, Dmitri?”

  “It is all over the newscasts. What else could it be?” He smiled. “I should mention that taking a call on the red phone is not as alarming as it must have been in the old days.” “It’s a better world, my friend.”

  “Yes. Thanks to you. So what did happen with the Moon flights? I trust there’s no emergency.” “No. Everything is fine.”

  “I am glad to hear it. And I am very curious. Your country put two vehicles on the Moon in 1959, prior to Apollo XI, and told no one. Why did that happen? There was such intense competition at the time—” “Dmitri, I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  He laughed. Then realized it was not a joke. “Why would you think that?” “Photos from that era were doctored to hide the landings.”

  “So how does that involve us?”

  “Russian photos, Dmitri. Yours as well as ours.”

  “Surely, George, you are joking.”

  “I have it on the best authority.”

  There was a long silence at the other end. Finally: “If I even try to look into it, I will be laughed at. Nobody would ever take me seriously again.” “I know. I have the same problem. I just thought you should be aware.” —“So let me get this straight, love,” said Lyra. “You think Nixon set up the Watergate break-in because an anthropology professor left his briefcase in the Watergate restaurant?” “Yes.”

  “And this is because the briefcase had a connection with two Moon flights that we did in secret?” Cunningham just looked at her.

  “And all this happened three years after the flights in question?” “That’s what it looks like,” he said.

  “Okay. Can you tell me what this Cohen could possibly have been carrying around that was that valuable?” “I don’t know, Lyra. That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.” “Why do you think there was something in the briefcase?”

  “I told you about Irene Akins—”

  “The woman who worked in the Nixon White House.”

  “Yes. She thought there was a connection with Cohen. And she said something about a set of notes. In a foreign language.” She looked at him. Shook her head. “You said he was a linguist.” Cunningham walked over toward the window. It was a bright, clear evening. The Washington Monument dominated the sky. And a sliver of moon was rising in the east. “Yes, he was,” he said.

  “So what’s next, love?”

  “Okay. Look, we know they were trying to hide something. Three years later, and they hadn’t destroyed it.” “So—?”

  “It was something they wanted to hold on to.”

  “So they hid it somewhere.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Where?”

  “I can only think of one place.” He looked at her for a long moment, picked up the phone, opened it, and waited. After a moment he spoke into it: “Ray, you think Milt’s free tomorrow?”

  35

  Milt Weinstein pulled off Yorba Linda Boulevard into the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum parking lot. A white colonnade overlooked a long, rectangular pool and a beautifully landscaped rose garden, filled with shrubs, annuals, palms, and flowering trees. Birds sang, and a young couple sat contentedly on a bench, holding hands. Others wandered through the grounds. The place looked busy and simultaneously placid.

  Weinstein got out of his rental car, followed a walkway into the rose garden, and went through the front doors into a large display room. Tourists were everywhere, taking pictures of a Nixon bust, looking at framed photos from his presidency, posing among bronze figures of world leaders from that long-gone era. He walked slowly among flags and tapestries. Posters provided a history of the thirty-seventh president, from his early days in Yorba Linda and Whittier College, to his election in the midst of the Vietnam War, his breakthrough with China, and the devastating experience of Watergate. And, finally, his years as an elder statesman.

  There was a short line at the admissions desk. He waited his turn, then showed his White House ID and asked to see Ms. Morris. Michelle Morris was the director.

  The woman at the desk frowned at the ID, then looked at Weinstein. “Is she expecting you, sir?” “Yes,” he said.

  “One moment, please.” She picked up a phone, explained that Michelle had a visitor, nodded, paused, and nodded again. “Mr. Weinstein,” he said, “someone will be right out.” Then she looked past him. “Next.” —A tall young man in a museum uniform appeared out of a doorway. “Her office is in back,” he said. “Please come with me.” On the way, he passed the 1969 Lincoln that had provided transportation for President Nixon and glanced into a replica of the East Room of the White House, which was used by the museum for appearances by celebrities, and to accommodate weddings and other special events.

  Morris rose from her desk as he entered. “Mr. Weinstein,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but wouldn’t say why. Please have a seat.” She was tall and blond, about fifty, wearing a dark jacket over a white blouse. The jacket had a Nixon Museum patch on its breast pocket. Behind her, visible through a set of curtained windows, was a small one-and-a-half-story cottage. Richard Nixon’s birthplace, built in 1912 by his father, Frank. Somewhere in the immediate area of the house grounds were the graves of the former president and his wife, Pat.

  “The museum is very impressive,” Weinstein said.

  “Thank you. We’re proud of it.” She flashed an automatic smile. White House or not, I’m busy. Can we please get on with it? “So what brings you—?” “This is going to sound a little off-the-wall, Ms. Morris.” “We’ll help any way we can.”

  “Good.” He lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s a possibility a message may have been left here for the president. Left by President Nixon, that is.” The smile widened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I quite understand—” “President Cunningham thinks it might have been deposited here with instructions to turn it over to a future president if one inquires about it.” “Mr. Weinstein,” she said, “you’re not making sense.” Weinstein laughed. “I don’t know what it’s about either, Ms. Morris. But apparently there’s reason to believe such a letter exists.” “If it does,” she said, “it’s the first I’ve heard of it. What’s it about, do you know?” “They told me that it might have something to do with the Moon flights.” She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.” “You’re sure?”

  She got up. Ready to move on
. “Positive.”

  “There’s not some sort of lockbox here?” Weinstein tried a grin. “A hidden vault, possibly?” “No, sir. I’m afraid not. But you can tell your boss that I’ll have one of the interns look around. Just in case.” —He called Chambers from the Rose Garden. “Negative, Ray,” he said.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No, sir. She laughed at me.”

  “Okay,” said Chambers. “It was worth a try. Come on home.” “Ray, if you don’t mind—”

  “What, Milt?”

  “What are we actually looking for?”

  “Just come home, Milt. And thanks.”

  Chambers disconnected, leaving Weinstein staring across the grass at President Nixon’s Sea King helicopter. Marine One. Or Army One, depending on the service branch of whichever pilot had been on duty when the president was traveling. This was the helicopter that Nixon had climbed into on that last desperate day, turning to wave a final good-bye to his presidency. A crowd stood around it, taking pictures of it, sometimes using it as background for family photos. Despite the dark history on display inside—the Watergate break-in, the Saturday Night Massacre, the enemies’ list, the secret tapes, and the rest of it—the general aura of the museum left Weinstein with a sense that the former president had, after all, been an iconic figure. A man for the ages.

  He knew better. Weinstein wasn’t old enough to remember Nixon in the White House. He’d been in his teens when he’d learned about the man’s anti-Semitism. That he’d thought Jews were running the country and would ultimately bring it down. Nixon’s presidency had come to a sad conclusion, but it was hard to sympathize.

  He turned away from the helicopter and began walking slowly back toward the parking lot.

  Weinstein was on Route 55, headed south toward Santa Ana and the John Wayne Airport, when his phone sounded. “Milton?” Morris’s voice. “This is Michelle. I guess I was wrong. I think we might have something.” The formality was gone.

  “A letter?”

  “No. It’s a small locked box. Instructions attached to it are exactly what you described. They say it’s to be turned over to any president who inquires about it.” “What’s in it?”

  “I haven’t opened it.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Back in storage. It wasn’t in the safe.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  “Milton, there’s probably no point in your coming back here.” “Why not?”

  “The instructions say it has to be delivered personally. I have to put it into the president’s hands.” “All right. You want me to pick you up? You can fly back with me.” “I’m not exactly ready to go this minute.”

  “You’re not going to keep the president waiting, I hope.” “Oh, c’mon. How urgent can it be? It’s been here since the 1990s.” “Only thing I can tell you, Michelle, is that they’re anxious to get their hands on it. When can you be ready to leave?”

  36

  “She’s with you now?” asked Ray.

  “Yes, sir. We’re on our way to the airport.”

  “She has the box, of course?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ray gave the president a thumbs-up. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. The president nodded. “Have her open it.” “Tell her to open it,” said Ray, tying his phone into the speaker so the president could listen.

  Weinstein was gone for a minute. Then: “She said President Nixon left instructions it should be opened only by the president.” Cunningham sighed and spoke into the mike. “Milt, put her on.” Michelle responded: “Mr. President? Is that really you?”

  “Of course it is, Ms. Morris. Would you tell us what’s in the package, please?” “Sir, I know it sounds like you, but I really can’t be certain. I’m sorry. President Nixon wrote specific instructions that no one except the president should be privy to the contents.” “Strange phrasing,” said Cunningham.

  Ray grinned. “Presidents talk like that sometimes.”

  Cunningham raised a hand. “Okay, Michelle. Is it okay if I call you that? Don’t open it. Milton will bring you here.” “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  She apparently handed the phone back to Weinstein. “You want me to bring her right in tonight?” Ray took over: “Yes, Milt. Come directly here when you get in.” “Yes, sir. We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”

  Ray disconnected and looked disapprovingly at the president. “What’s wrong?” asked Cunningham.

  He shrugged. “That was a mistake, George.”

  “What? That we didn’t insist she open the package in the car?” “Yes. Why wait six or seven hours until they get back here? We’re getting hammered by the media, and we need some answers.” “Relax, Ray. First off, I’m not sure she would have acceded. In any case, no answer that we come up with is going to satisfy the media. We’re just going to have to take the heat. At least for the time being. My primary concern right now is that we don’t compromise anything. If Nixon thought nobody should see it except the president, we should trust his judgment. At least until we know what this is about.” “But Nixon was a paranoid. I’d expect him to be overly secretive about something like this.” “Something like what?”

  Ray put his hands to his skull and squeezed. “I don’t know.” “Okay. Then just go along with me, okay?”

  “Okay, George. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  “No need for you to stay on, Ray. They won’t be here until after midnight.” “I think I’ll hang around. I doubt I’m going to sleep again until we get this settled.” —Lyra was parked in front of the TV, watching the NBC news anchor report on the Moon mission. “—will be entering Earth orbit in another hour,” she said. “NBC will be providing full coverage tonight, and we’ll be there when the Myshko sets down. We hope you’ll stay with us.” They went back to their regular programming, one of the evening panel shows. Angela Baker, an attractive blonde who usually supported the administration, was speaking with a guest, one of the network’s “political contributors.” Cunningham was never sure precisely what that meant.

  Lyra looked up as he came into the room, walked over, and slid down beside her. “Not the best day at the office, I take it?” she asked.

  He was about to ask why she’d drawn that conclusion when some statistics appeared on-screen: CUNNINGHAM APPROVAL RATE DIPS TO 41%

  “That’s down sixteen points,” Angela was saying, “just in the last twelve days.” “He’s gone off a cliff,” said the political contributor.

  “Actually, love,” said Cunningham, “we might have gotten a break finally.” “I mean,” the contributor continued, “the president either didn’t know, or he did.” “Where do they get these guys from?” asked Lyra.

  “If he didn’t know, he looks out of touch. If he did, then he’s been lying to the American people. Either way—” “Do you think he knew, Andy?”

  Lyra touched his arm. “You’re all over the Internet, George, and you’re on every channel.” “No, I don’t think he had a clue,” said Andy. “Look, we’re talking about the biggest bureaucracy in the world here. Things get lost. But that won’t help him—” Lyra killed the sound. “So what was the break you got?”

  “It looks as if Dick Nixon might have left us a message after all.” “Really? Are you serious?”

  “The director of the Nixon Museum is on her way here now with a locked box of some sort.” She smiled up at him. The tension was obviously wearing on her. Things had been going so well until this Moon thing had shown up. All she wanted was to get the world back the way it had been. Lyra had been dazzled at the prospect of living in the White House. Of being First Lady. Had it not been for her, Cunningham probably wouldn’t have pursued it. He didn’t have what the pundits liked to call the fire in the belly. He’d have been just as happy living on a mountaintop somewhere, living the casual life, reading, fishing, playing bridge on weekends.

  But she’d insisted the country needed him. And she was right. When he’d assumed office, the United St
ates had still been spread around the world, wasting resources trying to maintain an imperial status for reasons no one understood. President after president came into office, and nothing ever changed. The troops stayed in Germany. And Japan. And several dozen other stations around the world. And then Cunningham had arrived, and everything changed.

  He’d resolved major disputes as governor of Ohio, and had gone on the CBS Round Table one evening, where he’d said that the country would not see prosperous times again until it took down the empire. “We’re still positioned as if World War II hasn’t quite ended,” he told the host. “That needs to change.” Next thing he knew, he was riding a tide that carried him all the way to the White House.

  It had been a good run, culminating in the elimination of the world’s nuclear arsenal. Ray hadn’t approved of the antinuclear initiative. Nor had the party. In fact, neither party liked it. And opposing politicians used the issue to win back twenty seats in the House during the off-year elections. What happens, they asked, if one rogue nation succeeds in hiding a few H-bombs?

  The answer, to Cunningham, was simple enough. The vast military the U.S. had at its disposal didn’t need nukes to take down anyone on the planet. But it had been an emotional issue, a scary one, and as his advisors had expected, the fearmongers had won out. When people get seriously frightened, don’t expect them to pay much attention to logic.

  “She’s flying in?” asked Lyra.

  “Yes.” He checked his watch. “She’ll probably be here about two.” “Two this morning?”

  “Yes. Sorry about that.”

  “George, couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Probably.” He leaned toward her. Stroked her hair. “Lyra, I need to find out what this is about.” “Okay. I’ll have Al make something up for her.” A door opened in back. He could hear his sons talking. And the TV screen was suddenly showing a smug Bucky Blackstone. He reached for the remote, but Lyra restored the sound.

  “—will be our guest,” Angela was saying, “Sunday morning on Meet the Press.” “He’s doing pretty well,” Lyra said. She switched over to the Newshawk website, where three million people had posted thumbs up for Bucky.