‘ - subtle blackmail,’ Keefe went on, ‘but still blackmail, the vilest kind possible. This has been directed primarily at state legislators who have been wavering, who have not
made up their minds about the 35th. The attack has been aimed at legislators who - well, who are vulnerable.’
‘Vulnerable?’
‘Whose private lives have not been an open book. Legislators who might have something in their pasts that they don’t want made public. Most have been afraid to object or protest. But Assemblyman Yurkovich and Assemblyman Tobias - while they thought it unwise to denounce the FBI-‘
‘Because the blackmail was too low-key,’ Yurkovich interrupted. ‘It wasn’t obvious. Our complaints could be turned aside, even refuted.’
Keefe agreed. ‘Yes. Anyway, my two colleagues, since they couldn’t effectively protest publicly, were prepared to come here and protest to you personally. At first they worried that you might be part of the plot. But Senator Hilliard convinced me - even before you did - and I convinced them, that you were honest and trustworthy and perhaps too new to your job to know what’s going on behind your back.’ Keefe paused. ‘I hope this estimate of you is correct.’
Collins found a cigarette and brought it to his lips. He was not surprised to find that his hand was trembling. ‘Honest and trustworthy, yes. But what’s going on behind my back? Go on, tell me more.’
Yurkovich spoke up. ‘Let me tell you what happened to me. Mr Collins, I was once an alcoholic. Until eight years ago. I finally had myself confined in a sanitarium for treatment. I licked it. I’ve been straight ever since. It’s been known to no one except my immediate family. A week ago, two FBI agents - one named Parkhill, the other Naughton -visited me in my office in Sacramento. They said that they needed my help on an investigation they were conducting. It was a difficult investigation. Such inquiries into the breaking of Federal laws would be made easier once the 35th was passed. But for now they had to do it the slow way. They required information on a certain sanitarium, a drunk tank, where, they had learned, a California legislator had once been confined for five months. Perhaps I could tell them more about the proprietors of this sanitarium.’
Yurkovich ceased his recital briefly, wagging his head in
renewed disbelief. ‘It was diabolical the way they let me know. My absolute secret was in their hands. I was sickened.’ For the moment, Collins was sickened, too. ‘What did you say to them?’
‘What could I say? I acknowledged I’d been a patient in the sanitarium. I went along with their pretense that they were investigating the owners of a national chain of sanitariums who were also involved in illegal drugs. I told them what I had heard and seen while I’d been confined. When it was over, they thanked me. I asked them if all their information would remain secret. One said, “You may be called upon to give public courtroom testimony.” I told them I couldn’t do that. The agent said, “Well, that’s not in our hands. You might speak to the Director, if you wish. He might come to some understanding with you.” Then they went away. And I had the message. The 35th is good for the country. Vote for the 35th and the Director won’t let your hospitalization be made public. Fail to cooperate and it will be made public’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Collins. ‘I struggled to get where I am,’ said Yurkovich simply. ‘I like where I am. I come from a conservative district. I was elected by a constituency that trusts only sober officials. I have no choice. I’ll have to vote for the 35th.’
‘You’re sure their investigation wasn’t legitimate?’ said Collins. ‘Isn’t it possible you may have misconstrued their remarks?’
‘Unlikely, but possible. You judge for yourself. As for me, I’m taking no chances.’
The rotund man seated beside Yurkovich on the sofa lifted an arm. ‘Neither am I,’ said Assemblyman Tobias.
‘You mean the same thing happened to you?’ asked Collins.
‘Almost the same,’ said Tobias. ‘It was a day later. Only the FBI didn’t come to me. They went to - Well, I have a lady friend, and they called on her.’ He sighed. ‘I’m a solid married man with kids. That’s the way it looks on the surface. Actually, my wife and I were through long ago. But for the kids’ sake we stayed married, and after the kids were gone we continued to maintain a front. It gave her a social
life. It kept me in my Government life. For most of those years, I’ve had a woman on the side, a separate residence. No one on earth knew about it except the three of us. Then, last week, the FBI called on my woman friend. One agent’s name was Lindenmeyer, I remember. They were very gentlemanly with her, once they realized how frightened she was. They tried to get her to relax. For a while they talked about other things, not personal things. They even talked about the 35th Amendment - oh, very casually. Finally, they got down to business. I was on a committee concerned with Government contracts. They were investigating someone on the committee who was under suspicion. Routinely, they were checking other members of the committee. They wanted to know if I ever discussed Government contracts with her. She tried to say she didn’t know me very well. They merely ignored her protests. They had the facts. They knew how many days a week I spent with her for how many years. When they left, they said if it came to it - yes, they emphasized “if it came to it” - they might have to subpoena her.’
Collins let out his breath slowly. I can’t believe it.’
‘I believe it,’ said Tobias. ‘I can’t prove this was done with design, to make me change my vote. But I’ve got to protect my wife and the woman. And myself too, I guess. So I’m changing my vote. I despise the 35th. But I’m going to declare Aye loud and clear when it’s my turn to vote. There, now you know it all, Mr Collins.’
Collins let it sink in. He felt even more sickened. ‘Has this happened to any other legislators?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tobias. ‘It’s certainly nothing we want to talk to each other about. We each have our private fives, and we want to keep them private.’
Collins regarded his host. ‘What about you, Mr Keefe?’
‘Nobody’s visited me, because they know where I stand, and they know I’d kick them out. I have a private life, too, and I suppose they could dredge up something. But I wouldn’t give a damn. I don’t have as much at stake as my friends. I’d rather be exposed in any way than give into those bastards, whoever they are.’
‘Who do you think they are?’ asked Collins.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t know either,’ said Collins. ‘It’s not my office, you can be sure. If this is a deliberate campaign, it could have been ordered by anyone from the President to the FBI Director to someone under them.’
‘Can you do anything about it?’ Keefe wanted to know.
Collins stood up. ‘I’m not sure. Again, we have no hard evidence that these visits were intended as intimidation. They may have been actual inquiries with a sound basis for investigation. Or - they may have been a form of blackmail.’
‘How are you going to find out which?’ Keefe asked.
‘By investigating the investigators,’ Collins said.
*
Back in the Beverly Hills Hotel, at the reception desk, Chris Collins picked up a telephone message along with his bungalow key from the clerk.
He unfolded the message. The call had come an hour ago. It read:
The supervisor at Tule Lake told you the facility was no secret, that it had been written about in print. We all spent hours researching it this evening. Project Sanguine has been mentioned in print. But the Navy’s supposed facility at Tule Lake has never once been mentioned in print. Not one word has ever been published about it. Thought you would want to know. Josh Collins.
He had almost forgotten. There was his promise to his son that he would prove the Tule Lake facility was not a future internment camp. There was that to be done. There was also the manipulation of California crime statistics to look into. There was the whole coincidental business of FBI agents’ probing Californi
a state legislators. Above all, overriding all the others, there was The R Document.
First things first.
He walked around the reception desk, recalling that the pay phone booths were near the entrance to the Polo Lounge. He found them, and they were vacant.
Closing himself in the nearest booth, he dialed directly
long distance to the Deputy Attorney General, Ed Schrader, at home. He knew that he would awaken him - it was almost three in the morning in Virginia - but he wanted to know the facts as soon as possible. Tomorrow, he would be too busy.
A sleepy voice answered the phone. ‘Hello? Don’t say it’s the wrong number -‘
‘It’s the right number, Ed. This is Chris. Listen, there’s something I want you to find out for me the earliest tomorrow morning, or this morning. Got a pencil?’
He explained that the United States Navy had a land-based submarine communication system called ELF or Project Sanguine. One of its major facilities was currently under construction, nearing completion in Northern California.
‘Find out what you can about it. I’m not leaving for the television show until about twelve fifteen, so I should be in my suite holding meetings until then. Ring me up as soon as you have some information. Now turn over and go back to sleep.’
Leaving the phone booth, he met his bodyguard in the lobby, led him along the twisting walks bordered with foliage to his bungalow, bade him good night, and went inside.
He was tired to the marrow of his bones.
Briefly, he rattled around the bungalow living room, removing his suit coat and tie, trying to get some perspective on the events of the day - especially the meeting with Keefe, Yurkovich, and Tobias. Their charges against some party, unknown, in the FBI, or someone higher up, had been grave. He tried to assess the veracity of the three legislators. He could discover no motive for any one of them to lie to him. What purpose would there be in their inventing these stories? To what end? He could find no answer. Therefore, they must be telling the truth. Yet he knew that he could not act on what they had told him, could not report this to the President or to Tynan or Adcock, without personal verification. He wasn’t sure where to begin. He would wait until morning, when his mind was clearer.
Taking off his shirt, he walked into the darkened bedroom and went on into the bathroom, turning on the light. He undressed, washed, brushed his teeth, studied the dark
circles under his eyes, then reached for his pajamas. His pajamas weren’t hanging on the back of the door, and he realized the hotel maid had probably laid them out on the pillow of his double bed.
Turning off the bathroom light, he groped his way naked toward the bed, where a strip of illumination from a crack in the living-room door fell on his pajamas. Eager to pull them on, and to drop into bed and into sleep, he had reached down - when suddenly something warm and fleshy touched his right thigh.
He emitted a startled gasp, his hand darting down to find another hand moving up his thigh.
His heart was pounding crazily.
‘What in the hell -‘ he blurted.
‘Come to bed, darling,’ he heard a feminine voice purr.
He was too busy fumbling for the lamp, desperately trying to find the switch, to remove the woman’s hand that had curled around his penis.
In a moment, the dim light threw a half circle of yellow on the bed, and there she was wriggling closer to his side of the bed, smiling up at him, her outstretched hand between his legs, fondling him. He was petrified, too incredulous to speak or act. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with flowing auburn hair, pouty red lips, large shimmering breasts, a flat belly, and a long triangle of pubic hair.
‘Hello,’ she said in a low small-girl’s voice. ‘I’m Kitty. I thought you’d never get back.’
‘Who in the hell are you?’ he burst out. His hand darted down and grabbed hers, forcing it to release his penis. ‘You’ve made a mistake. You’re in the wrong -‘
‘This is the bungalow number I was given. I was told to wait for Mr Collins.’
Then it wasn’t a mistake. What juvenile old acquaintance would pull a crackpot gag like this on him?
‘Who told you to come here?’ he demanded.
‘I’m a present from a friend of yours.’
‘What friend?’
‘He never gave his name. They never do. But he paid in cash. Two hundred dollars. I’m expensive.’ She smiled for
the first time. ‘He said this was to be a surprise, that you’d like it. I promise you that you will, Mr Collins. Now, come here like a good boy -‘
‘How - how did you get in?’
‘A few of the employees know me. I tip well.’ She studied him. ‘Aren’t you cute? I like tall men. But you talk too much. Now come on to bed with Kitty. I promise you a good time. I’m staying all night.’
‘The hell you are!’ he almost shouted, grabbing her wrist as she began to reach between his legs again. He wrenched her arm away from him. ‘Now get out, right now - get out. I don’t want you or anybody else. Someone was just trying a practical joke, a childish joke-‘
‘I was paid -‘
‘Get out!’ He had her by both arms and yanked her to a sitting position. ‘Get dressed and leave here immediately.’
‘Nobody’s ever treated me like this.’
‘Well, I am.’ He snatched up his pajamas. ‘By the time I’m out of the bathroom, I expect you to be dressed and gone.’
He went into the bathroom and angrily yanked on his pajama trousers and buttoned the pajama top.
When he emerged, she had just finished fastening her blouse, and now she stepped into her navy blue skirt.
‘Hurry up,’ he said.
She zipped the skirt. ‘Your friend said you might act like this at first, but not to take it seriously.’ She cocked her head at him, smiled again, and started toward him. ‘You are kidding, aren’t you?’
He took her arm roughly and spun her toward the door. ‘Get moving.’
‘Let go, you’re hurting me.’
He eased his hold on her, but pushed her into the living room and propelled her hastily to the front door.
At the door, breathing heavily, he relented slightly. ‘I’m sorry somebody used you this way,’ he said. ‘It was wrong, and I’m sorry. Good night’
She tried to pull herself together and leave with some
dignity. ‘No loss,’ she said. ‘You probably couldn’t get it up anyway.’
He yanked open the door, and as she passed in front of him to go, he saw a shadowy figure pop up from behind the hedge below the bungalow. It was a man lifting a camera.
Acting on instinct, Collins ducked behind the door just as the strobe flash went off. He fell against the door, slamming it shut; lay against it, panting, knowing the photographer had caught Kitty but missed him.
After a while, he turned the lock on the door. Shaken, he stumbled toward the console to mix a drink.
Uncertain as he was about everything that had happened this day, he was positive about what had happened this night. This had not been a stupid practical joke perpetrated by some old college or social friend. It had been far more diabolical. Somebody had tried to set him up, compromise him.
But who? And why? Proponents of the 35th Amendment? Unbelievable, since so far he had been publicly on their side. Unless they wanted to be sure he remained on their side. Enemies of the 35th? Equally unbelievable to think that men like Keef e or Pierce would go to this length to try to force him to switch.
Crazy, he thought. Then, still shaken, he made another drink, to bring daylight closer, when all things made more sense.
*
Daylight had, indeed, brought definition to the murky things that had filled his mind during his restless sleep.
The morning had brought some illumination.
The late and long breakfast with the two United States Attorneys had dispatched a variety of routine Justice Department matters. A meeting with a delegation of three lawyers from the Americ
an Bar Association had been mostly social. An interview with a young lady reporter from the Los Angeles Times had been largely an exercise in trying to avoid too strong a commitment to the 35th Amendment, speaking about long-range reforms that were necessary in
America’s justice system, and probing to learn a journalist’s views on the escalation of crime in Southern California.
Finally, Collins had been alone with the telephone.
He had intended to call the eight police chiefs who had complained to Assemblyman Keefe that the FBI had been doctoring crime statistics upward in California. He had spoken to only three, and then called no more. Once convinced they were talking to the Attorney General, all three had become guarded in answering his questions. While one admitted ‘a slight discrepancy’ between the figures he had reported to the FBI and those that had been released, he blamed it on ‘probable computer error’, and all three had refused to acknowledge that they had complained to Keefe about exaggerations in the FBI statistics. Each had said, in a different way, that Assemblyman Keefe had misunderstood him.
Either the police chiefs had protested to Keefe but had had second thoughts about going on record against the FBI with the Attorney General, or Keefe had misunderstood them. In any case, this telephone inquiry had been inconclusive.
Then Collins had been struck by another approach. Last night, with the legislators, he had jotted down the names of the FBI Special Agents who had interviewed Yurkovich and Tobias. He sought and found the slip with the agents’ names: Parkhill, Naughton, Lindenmeyer.
Collins had wondered if he should try to trace them through the Bureau’s field offices in California or by calling Adcock or Tynan directly. He decided to be more circumspect. After a while, he put in a direct call to Marion, his secretary.
‘Marion, I want a query made of the FBI. It’s not to come from me. Just a run-of-the-mill check from anyone in the Office of Legal Counsel. To someone on a lower level in the Bureau. Got your pencil? Okay. Have them ask if two of the FBI’s Special Agents in California, one named Parkhill, the other Naughton, interviewed State Assemblyman Yurkovich last week.’ He spelled out the last name for her. ‘Then have them ask if a Special Agent Lindenmeyer interviewed - ‘ He realized he did not have the name of Assemblyman Tobias’ lady friend. ‘- uh, interviewed anyone in Sacramento during an investigation of a State Assembly committee on which State Assemblyman Tobias sits. I’m in the hotel. Get right back to me.’
(1976) The R Document Page 13
