“Strictly speaking, no. They were found by a former FIS officer, acting independently.”
“Will you state his name?”
“If instructed to do so, Mr. Olmedo. It is not customary to disclose the identity of American intelligence officers in open sessions of the Congress.”
Hammett said, “Is the name relevant to the President’s defense, Mr. Olmedo?” Olmedo replied, “It is, Mr. Chief Justice.” Hammett said, “Very well. The witness is so instructed.”
“The devices were discovered by Horace Hubbard.”
Olmedo said, “That is the same Horace Hubbard whose name is mentioned in connection with the alleged irregularities in the tabulation of votes in New York, Michigan, and California elections of last November?”
“Yes.”
“And he was an officer of the FIS?”
“For many years, yes. But he retired before these events took place.”
“Did Horace Hubbard report his discovery of the bombs to you soon after it was made?”
“No. He told his brother, Julian Hubbard, the chief of staff in the White House, and Julian Hubbard told me.”
“Why did he not report to you directly?”
“There was no reason for him to do so. He no longer worked for FIS.”
“Thank you, Mr. Director,” Olmedo said. “That clarifies the point for the record. Now let us turn to another aspect of your testimony. You have attested that the words published in Mr. Ross Macalaster’s syndicated newspaper column and purporting to have been transcribed from a tape recording of that conversation are accurate to the best of your memory and belief. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The President has submitted into evidence a tape recording, which I will call the Macalaster tape, that purports to be a copy of the one used by Mr. Macalaster as the basis of his writings. A copy was made available to you. Have you listened to it?”
“Yes.”
“You listened to the whole tape?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a complete transcription of the conversation?”
Philindros coughed. “It appears that it is not.”
“Is that a reference to the expert testimony the Senate has just heard?”
“Yes.”
“I will ask you for your own opinion. Do you agree with the experts’ statement that parts of the conversation are missing? In short, words that were spoken on that night at Live Oaks by you and by President Lockwood, and perhaps by Mr. Julian Hubbard, have been omitted from the Macalaster tape? Is that the fact?”
Philindros took a sip of water. “I am relying on memory. But it seems so to me.”
“Can you recall the unrecorded words?”
“Not verbatim.”
“As best you can, then,” Olmedo said. “I will ask you this: Did the President suggest to you that he personally fly over to see Ibn Awad in the hope of persuading him not to pass the weapons on to the Eye of Gaza?”
“Yes,” Philindros said.
“And how did you reply to that?”
“I advised against it for security reasons.”
“Why?”
“Ibn Awad was mentally unstable and unpredictable. I thought it possible the President would be taken hostage.”
“Did President Lockwood also suggest making a public statement, a broadcast to the world, revealing all that the United States government knew about the plot?”
“He did.”
“And what was your advice in regard to that idea?”
“I thought it might provoke an action to explode the devices ahead of schedule, before we could do anything to prevent it.”
“By the phrase ‘before we could do anything about it’ I take it you mean ‘before we could kill Ibn Awad.’ ”
“Neutralize him,” Philindros said. “Gain control of the nuclear weapons. Prevent the loss of life that would have been involved in the explosion of nuclear bombs in a population center.”
“Did the President want to neutralize Ibn Awad as you recommended?”
“I don’t know what was in the President’s mind. I made no recommendation on the issue. He was presented with a set of options supported by the best available intelligence. Assassination was the option he chose.”
“He made this choice spontaneously?”
“ ‘Spontaneously’? It was a presidential decision. I can’t characterize the mood of his decision, Mr. Olmedo. Nor did I presume to read the President’s mind at the time. It was his choice to make. He made it on the basis of the best information and analysis available.”
“Forgive me for pressing this point,” Olmedo said. “But with what degree of volition did he make this choice?”
“With the degree of volition necessary, since he did in fact make the decision,” Philindros replied. “I don’t understand your point, Mr. Olmedo. By law only the President could make the choice, and he made it.”
“Let us try to clarify the point together, Mr. Director. I will give you three words that might describe the way in which the President made the choice you say he made, and ask you to choose the one that best describes the visible signs of his behavior as best you remember them.”
Hammett interrupted, his voice seeming loud in contrast to Philindros’s parched undertone. “Really, Mr. Olmedo,” he said. “Word games? You are leading the witness in a most extraordinary way even by the tolerant standards of this proceeding.”
“It is no game and I do have a purpose, Mr. Chief Justice. This is a vital element of the President’s case.”
Hammett looked dubious, but he said, “Very well. Continue.”
Olmedo said, “First word, Mr. Director. To the best of your recollection of his facial expression, his body language, his tone of voice—”
“We were outside,” Philindros said. “It was night. It was difficult to see his face.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, would you say that the President was enthusiastic?”
“I would not use that word.”
“Was he resigned?”
“I cannot say.”
“Was he reluctant?”
“Yes. Clearly.”
“So reluctant that he would not give the order until you asked him to do so?”
“Mr. Olmedo, I repeat: I was not privy to his thoughts.”
“But you did demand that he give you, as you have testified and as the tape records, ‘a clear, spoken order’?”
“I had to ask him that, yes.”
“You had to ask him. Why?”
“Because only he could say yes or no to an operation of this gravity.”
“So you put the question to him because he would not come right out with it. Is that what happened?”
“I say again, I put the question.”
Olmedo said, “I ask you this, Mr. Director: In how loud a voice?”
After two days of testimony by the barely audible Philindros, the question was electrifying. The Senate stirred, the gallery murmured. Hammett struck a blow with his gavel.
Philindros said, “The President answered my question in the affirmative, Mr. Olmedo. That suggested to me that he had heard and understood it.”
“Did it really?” Olmedo said. “How did you know? Did he look you in the eye and give the order?” Philindros did not reply. Olmedo said, “Yes or no, if you please, sir.”
“He did not look me in the eye.”
“He did not look you in the eye. Was the President even facing you when you asked the question?”
“No. He had turned his back a moment before.”
“Remaining where he had been in relation to yourself? That is to say, he did not step away from you?”
“He stepped away.”
“How far away?”
“Two or three steps.”
“Did you follow him?”
“No.”
“Did you raise your voice?”
“No.”
“So you spoke to him in your normal voice, the one we are hearing now, and asked what m
ay, with no exaggeration, be called the fatal question, out of doors, at night, when lips cannot be read nor facial expressions detected, over a distance of about three paces. Is that your testimony?”
“Yes.”
“And the President replied from this distance with his back still turned?”
“Yes.”
“You heard what he said?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
“You did not repeat your question?”
“No. He had already answered it.”
Olmedo paused. “And you were absolutely confident that he had heard and understood your question?”
Philindros’s whole career had been based on discovering truths and reporting them to those legally entitled to know them. In this case, as Laval had pointed out in regard to his own less august committee, the Senate was backed by the unlimited authority of the Constitution in its right to know everything. Philindros lifted his head slightly and replied, “No, I was not absolutely confident that he had heard me.”
“There was a doubt in your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you not ask the question again?”
Philindros did not reply.
Olmedo said, “I can see that this is difficult for you, Mr. Director. Let us suppose he had not answered. Suppose he had said neither yes nor no. What then?”
“Then there would have been no authority to proceed.”
“Not even on the basis of silent assent?”
Philindros reacted strongly to this question. Hammett saw it, the cameras saw it, the Senate saw it. “No.”
Olmedo said, “Especially not on that basis, Mr. Director? Is that what you are saying? If you cannot be sure what was in President Lockwood’s mind, you certainly know what was in your own. And isn’t it true, sir, that Presidents in the past have authorized, even ordered, intelligence services of the United States to carry out assassinations with a wink of the eye and a nod of the head, and then gotten themselves off the hook and put the blame on that same intelligence service when things went awry and the deed became shameful public knowledge?”
“Yes,” Philindros replied. “That has happened in the past.”
“How often?”
“Every time the White House ever ordered an operation of this kind.”
“ ‘Every time,’ you say. Mr. Director, was it not your intention to protect the FIS against such a contingency and to make sure that no such thing happened on this occasion?”
Philindros replied, “That was in my mind.”
“And isn’t that why you didn’t ask that fatal question a second time—because you already had it on record, had it on tape, in fact? You had what you wanted, you had all you needed, the means to protect the FIS and make sure the blame fell where it belonged, on the President of the United States, if the truth ever came out?”
Hammett said, “Mr. Olmedo, you are taking great liberties.”
“Great issues are at stake, Mr. Chief Justice,” Olmedo said. “Will the witness reply to the question?”
“Very well, answer the question, Mr. Director,” Hammett said. “But a little more decorum, if you please, Counselor.”
Again Philindros cleared his throat. “That is correct as far as it goes, Mr. Olmedo.”
“Even if you weren’t absolutely sure he had in fact ordered you to do what you did, that is, take the life of a foreign head of state.”
“I had reason to believe that I was doing what the President wanted done.”
Olmedo drew back his head. “Did you indeed?” he said. “Please tell the Senate why you held that belief.”
“The plan had been discussed in advance with the President’s chief of staff—”
“That would be Mr. Julian Hubbard?”
“Yes. He assured me that the President’s approval was a formality. After the conversation I asked him to confirm the President’s decision. He did so.”
“Was all of that recorded on tape or chip as well?”
Philindros paused to take a breath. “I have no reason to think that it was not,” he said.
“I see,” Olmedo said. “But let us forget Mr. Julian Hubbard for the moment and turn back to the President himself. What did Bedford Forrest Lockwood himself say to you about the assassination of Ibn Awad after the deed was done? Did he say, ‘Good work, Jack!’?”
“No.”
“Or did he say something like ‘In the name of God, what have you done?’ And banish you from his presence for the rest of his term?”
“Is that a question?” Philindros asked.
“Is that your answer, Mr. Director?”
Hammett said, “I think that’s quite enough, Mr. Olmedo.”
“You do, Mr. Chief Justice?” Olmedo said. “You do, sir? Then I will risk your displeasure by asking the witness one more question. Mr. Director, is it true, as you have testified, that President Lockwood refused to see you ever again after you had done what you say you had reason to believe he wanted done—namely, cold-blooded murder. Is that true, sir?”
“We had no further personal contact after the Ibn Awad operation until last October,” Philindros said.
“Thank you, Mr. Director,” Olmedo said. “I have no further questions for this witness at this time.”
Hammett looked up at the gallery for the first time since the cross-examination began. Attenborough was back, gruesome and watchful, his skin the color of a shrunken head.
15
Palmer St. Clair 3d was a man of regular habits. Every day after his morning run he shaved and showered and, while watching the last segment of Newsdawn with Patrick Graham, drank a healthshake made from a secret formula containing yogurt, bran, honey, and wheat germ. On this particular morning, the show was especially engaging because its primary subject, Archimedes Hammett, had given St. Clair the recipe for the shake, and of course it was always pleasant to see a Shelleyan getting on in the world. Graham was an Old Blue too, though not of the sort St. Clair would have been likely to know in college days.
As soon as Newsdawn broke for its final commercial, St. Clair got dressed, drove to the railroad station, and took the train into Manhattan. He liked to get to the station a little early so as to position himself on the platform to get aboard first and claim the front window seat, which had a little more leg room than the ones behind it. While waiting on the platform he always read the book, movie, theater, and music reviews in The Wall Street Journal, but never ventured into the swamp of right-wing biases that was its opinions page. On the train he studied the rest of the Journal, marking articles for his secretary to clip and file, and started on the news pages of The New York Times, leaving its mind-stretching editorials, with whose judgments he seldom disagreed, for reading on the subway ride from Grand Central Station to Wall Street. St. Clair never talked to anybody on the journey into the city. In fact he never looked at anybody in any public conveyance or public place, but this was such an ingrained habit that he was not really aware of it himself.
This being true, he did not notice John L. S. McGraw standing close beside him on the station platform, or following him into the train, or taking the seat beside him. Nor did he hear McGraw speaking to him in a broad New York accent until the man got his attention by poking him sharply in the arm with a rigid forefinger. St. Clair wheeled and saw a perfect stranger with a battered, freckled Irish mug. He was dressed all in brown—cinnamon “tweed” jacket, tan trousers, terra-cotta shirt, autumn-leaf necktie. The poke in the arm had been so painful that St. Clair half-expected to see a gun in the fellow’s hand, but instead he was holding out his hairy hand, offering to shake. He spoke a common name—his own, St. Clair supposed, but he did not catch it. Obviously he was some sort of nut. St. Clair stared at him in distaste.
The man smiled. Crooked teeth. With the usual mispronunciation he said, “Are you Palmer St. Clair the thoid?” St. Clair did not respond. He thrust his Journal under his arm and reached for the briefcase at his feet. The man bent over when St. Clair did, choreograph
ing the movement so that their faces were only inches apart. “Don’t go just yet,” McGraw said. He was holding a calling card in his hand, close to St. Clair’s reading glasses. Scrawled across the back in Greek letters was the Shelleyan bona fides, . “In the name of the Poet?” This character? This was impossible; it was somebody’s idea of a practical joke.
Still bent over, St. Clair gave McGraw a frozen stare. “I am astonished,” he said.
“No,” McGraw replied. “You are surprised. Palmer, I want you to get off the train with me at the next stop.”
“You do?” St. Clair said. “I don’t know who put you up to this, but I don’t think it’s funny. And the only thing I’m going to do for you if you don’t get away from me now is have you arrested and taken off this train for a psychiatric examination.”
“Fine, we can all use a little professional help. Palmer, there’s a federal agent right outside the door on the platform between this car and the next one, and another one at the other end.”
The train was beginning to brake as it approached the station. McGraw said, “I have something else for you.” He handed St. Clair a subpoena to appear that afternoon at twelve-thirty to testify before the United States Senate in the trial of President Bedford Forrest Lockwood for high crimes and misdemeanors.
“Testify? In the impeachment trial?” St. Clair said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The train pulled into the station. The door at the end of the car slid open and a large black man stood in it, swaying with the motion of the train. He wore a large, shiny badge pinned to the breast pocket of his wrinkled blue blazer. The blazer was unbuttoned and St. Clair could see a holstered revolver beneath it.
“Who are you?” St. Clair said to McGraw. “You don’t even have credentials.”
“No,” McGraw said. He pointed at the man with the badge. “But he does. And he has the power of arrest. Please follow me, Palmer.”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“We’ve done that for you, Palmer. He’ll be waiting for you in Washington.”
The train stopped. The conductor called out the station. St. Clair had never even noticed that there was such a place as this on the line between Stamford and Manhattan. He looked over his shoulder, thinking to escape that way. But another massive person wearing a badge on his coat appeared beside their seat. This one was Hispanic. St. Clair felt that he had been stricken by paralysis. McGraw handed him his briefcase.
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