BOOKS BY FLETCHER KNEBEL
(coauthored with Charles W. Bailey II)
No High Ground
Seven Days in May
Convention
BOOKS BY FLETCHER KNEBEL
Night of Camp David
The Zinzin Road
Vanished
Trespass
Dark Horse
The Bottom Line
Dave Sulkin Cares!
Crossing in Berlin
Poker Game
Sabotage
Before You Sue: How to Get Justice Without Going to Court
(coauthored with Gerald S. Clay)
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, NOVEMBER 2018
Copyright © 1965 by The Fletcher Knebel Rights LLC
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Harper & Row, Publishers, Incorporated, New York, in 1965.
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.
Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN 9780525567103
Ebook ISBN 9780525567110
Author photograph © Alex Gotfryd
Cover design by Evan Gaffney
Cover photograph of man running © Ilona Wellmann/Millennium Images, UK
www.vintagebooks.com
v5.4
a
To Mary and Jack
Contents
Cover
Also by Fletcher Knebel
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. After Midnight
2. Georgetown
3. The List
4. Aspen
5. Cactus
6. World Center
7. La Belle
8. Sweet Water
9. Secret Service
10. Routine Field
11. Patrick O’Malley
12. Martha
13. Out and Down
14. St. Leonard’s Creek
15. Green Turtle
16. Cactus II
17. Saybrook
18. East Entrance
19. Paul Griscom’s
20. Command and Control
21. Heart of Aspen
About the Author
1.
After Midnight
Jim MacVeagh’s burst of laughter came so unexpectedly, his hand jiggled the stem of the wineglass, and a splash of champagne spotted the linen tablecloth. Sidney Karper, the Secretary of Defense, sitting on his right, grinned in shared appreciation and shook his head.
“Unbeatable, isn’t he, Senator? He just won’t be topped.”
“Nobody can touch him when he’s determined,” agreed MacVeagh. He wiped at his eye with a corner of his napkin and turned back toward the center of the long head table, cluttered with late debris of ashes and crumpled menus amid the sparkle of glassware.
The speaker, President Mark Hollenbach, was mock-solemn again after flashing a responsive smile for the spray of laughter which greeted his first sally. His was the honor chore of the night—the brief reply to the toast to the President of the United States which signaled the closing of another annual Gridiron dinner. The newspaper correspondents had lampooned the Hollenbach administration and its foes in a series of musical skits, some sharp as stilettos but one belabored in its buffoonery, while the Marine Band orchestra in shining scarlet coats played for the 550 diners.
Behind the President hung the emblem of the club which had satirized every White House occupant since Benjamin Harrison. It was a huge, illuminated, rose-festooned gridiron, patterned on the type used by nineteenth-century housewives for roasting over a wood fire. Before Hollenbach sat the elite of America’s delicately interwoven political-industrial society, the men who ran the political parties and the big corporations. These were men whom, for the most part, the President called by their first names. They were mellowed now by the whisky and wines, the terrapin and the filet mignon Chateaubriand, yet they sat watching him attentively in the manner of that always vigilant breed, the President-watchers. Yes, he was on trial, as ever, and the long rows of roses and daffodils, the shimmering silver and wineglasses, the amiable droop of white ties and once stiff shirt bosoms, did not deceive him. It was 11 P.M., and the faces turned toward him beamed like pumpkins on a vine. The men of wealth thought the fare deserved well of them, and even those who had rented their white-tie-and-tails for $15 shared a sense of wellbeing. It was at just such an hour of camaraderie that an average man would lower his guard. But not President Hollenbach. He could never afford to be bested.
“As you know,” he resumed, “one of my closest advisers is renowned for his abstinence.” He paused. Timing was of the essence in a speech of witticisms. “The worst part about being a teetotaler like Joe is that when he gets up in the morning he knows he already feels as good as he’s going to feel all day.”
Another roll of mirth. Mark Hollenbach smiled, and Jim MacVeagh thought he detected a touch of vindication in the smile. The gag was an old one—used years before by Governor George Romney of Michigan—and MacVeagh knew that Hollenbach’s speech man had tried to dissuade him from using it. But Hollenbach ruled that it would sound fresh on the lips of a President. It did. MacVeagh glanced again at Sidney Karper beside him, but the Secretary of Defense was not smiling. Instead, he seemed absorbed in a study of the President. Karper’s huge head, with the prominent beak and the bronze tint of the skin, reminded MacVeagh of a profile of an American Indian. He had to crane his neck to get an unobstructed view of the President past Karper.
“I am delighted to be here this evening,” said President Hollenbach, “and hear the nation’s leading newspapermen tell the truth about me—for a change.” More laughter. Hollenbach kept his face blank this time. “I was especially heartened to see my friends, the Republicans, laughing….They don’t often succumb to attacks of good humor, you know. Of course, tonight, they never quite got around to laughing at themselves. For a Republican to laugh at himself requires a severe psychological upheaval. Still, tonight, they laughed at me—and that’s a start. After all, they have to begin somewhere. I have great faith in this country, and I’m confident that someday, somewhere, somehow, a Republican is going to break out in a big, hearty guffaw, just for the fun of the thing.”
The President paused and took a sip of water. ‘The Republican capacity for solemnity constantly mystifies me. Perhaps the clue lies in what they say to one another. I’ve often wondered what Republicans talk about in the cloisters of their own minority clan. I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and I think I’ve hit on a way to find out. May I advance a suggestion for your consideration?…
“I propose,” he said after a brief hesitation, “that the FBI be empowered to maintain an automatic tap on all telephones in the country. The tremendous advantages for crime detection are, of course, obvious. On the other hand, no decent, law-abiding citizen would have anything to fear, since nothing he said could be of interest to a federal investigative body. But—and here’s the point—with a standing wiretap,
we Democrats could learn what mysterious substance provides the glue for Republicanism, what indeed it is they say to one another that makes them so gloomy.”
There was a ripple of tittering among the diners and a few laughs. Jim MacVeagh, grinning, turned to Sidney Karper.
“He’s really soaring, isn’t he?”
The Defense Secretary did not smile. “Even in fun,” he replied, “that’s a chilling suggestion.”
MacVeagh eyed his seatmate in surprise, and was about to protest, but another presidential thrust brought a wave of laughter that carried MacVeagh back into the current of Hollenbach’s talk.
“…and so,” the President was saying, “let’s agree that life is short enough without waiting around for the day Republicans begin to enjoy themselves. For real humor, for that earthy gusto of the people, we must turn to my own party and to the White House where, I concede, some strange things have been happening.”
On a tide of chuckles, Mark Hollenbach was off on five minutes of pungent commentary on his own administration. His stories were barbed, yet salved in an after-dinner lubricant of self-derogation, and when President Hollenbach sat down, 550 men rose to their feet and applauded him. The rows of white-vested stags locked arms and sang “Auld Lang Syne” in mottled harmony. The 91st annual Gridiron dinner was over.
The Marine Band struck ruffles and flourishes and swung into “Hail to the Chief.” Hollenbach walked down the long head table, bracketed by two Secret Service men. When the President saw Senator MacVeagh, he leaned over and whispered to him.
“Come on over to the house in a few minutes, Jim. I want to talk to you. I’ll buy you a nightcap.”
“Be honored, Mr. President,” said MacVeagh.
Hollenbach quickened his pace and at the door of the broad Statler Hilton mezzanine lobby, he was swallowed by a new brood of Secret Service agents. The buzz of conversation in the banquet hall rose in volume, then fractured into clattering fragments as the diners bunched at the exits on their way to the after-dinner drinking rooms. MacVeagh found his host, columnist Craig Spence, and thanked him for the evening. Spence’s fringe of red hair sat on his otherwise bald head like a tiara of poinciana. He wobbled slightly as he shook hands.
“Come on up to 1240,” said Spence. “It’s open house all night.”
MacVeagh shook his head. “Thanks, Craig, but I need air. You wined and dined me too well.”
The junior senator from Iowa threaded his way through the knots of flushed faces and pearl-studded shirt fronts, lingering here, chatting there, then joining a long line at the hat check counter. At last, he looped his white silk scarf about his neck, got helped into his black topcoat by Grady Cavanaugh, a good-humored Supreme Court justice, and left the hotel by the main 16th Street entrance. A jostling crowd gathered under the bright lights to watch the dignitaries leave. MacVeagh waved and shook his head at the Secretary of Defense, who offered him a ride in a Pentagon limousine. Instead he walked bareheaded into the frosty March night.
As he turned left on 16th Street, heading toward Lafayette Park and the White House, James F. MacVeagh felt on good terms with himself and even relatively at peace with the world. In his chosen profession, politics, he had risen as swiftly and as effortlessly as a kite in a gust, and the glitter of the Gridiron dinner seemed a minor summit for Senator MacVeagh. At age thirty-eight, a first-term senator, he had been placed at the head table and now he was summoned to the White House for a private midnight drink. In Washington terms, he was in, very much in, and while his status did not surprise him, he was buoyed by it. The whisky and wine mingled smoothly in his big frame and the chill wind on his cheeks contrasted with the warmth within. He ran a hand through his tangle of black hair as he passed the imposing headquarters of the AFL-CIO, with its illuminated lobby mural of gilded toilers, and he began to whistle a song from the Gridiron show, “I’ve Got a Feeling I’m Falling.” The lyric had aptly characterized the rapidly descending political fortunes of Vice-President Patrick O’Malley in the wake of revelations about his part in the federal sports arena scandals.
MacVeagh cut through Lafayette Park, where mounds of snow from last week’s storm still had failed to thaw. He noted a tiny sign in a flower bed and bent over to read it in the light of the shrouded moon. “Tulips sleeping here,” it read. MacVeagh made a mental note to use the phrase in a Senate speech. Such souvenirs of imagination in the vast, gray federal bureaucracy merited recognition. He looked up at the central statue of Andrew Jackson and found a chunk of dirty snow oddly clinging to the rump of Jackson’s rearing charger. The statue’s metal was tarnished, so that both Jackson and his mount had turned a bilious green, as though suffering companionably through eternity with the same affliction. Old Andy, how different a president from the urbane and complex man who now lived in the same White House across the street, a house which seemed to embrace the glow from the big portico lantern with friendly arms. Why Jim MacVeagh for a Saturday night visit? He knew the President well, had advised him on midwestern strategy in the campaign, but he was no confidant. Come to think of it, was anybody?
But MacVeagh felt too carefree for fretful speculation. He jaywalked across Pennsylvania Avenue, and nodded to the White House policeman guarding the high iron gates of the west entrance.
“Jim MacVeagh,” he said.
“I know, Senator,” said the guard, standing close and inspecting his face. “We got a call from the house.”
MacVeagh walked up the curving driveway past snow-topped Japanese yews bordering the drive like ermine balloons. The west wing was dark, but the center of the mansion threw a circle of light in which the great elms, preserved from blight by constant spraying, cast shadows of embroidered linen over the snow. A gardener had shaken the snow off the ancient boxwoods in front of the portico and they shone bright green, as with new leaves, in the light of the hanging lantern.
Inside, in the museum-like foyer, MacVeagh was undoing his scarf when a young man with a swarthy face walked toward him. He was grinning, his teeth white as limestone in a rainstorm. MacVeagh recognized him as a member of the White House Secret Service detail.
“Luther Smith, Senator,” he said. “Don’t bother taking your things off. The man went to Camp David and I’ve got orders to bring you along.”
“Camp David!” MacVeagh looked at his wrist watch. 11:50. Camp David, the presidential mountain retreat built by Franklin D. Roosevelt under the original name Shangri-la, was 80 miles away in the Catoctin range of Maryland. That meant two hours over icy roads. “Good Lord, did he say why?”
“No. We don’t ask,” said Smith. “All I know is that he just left and I’ve got orders to take you by your home for a change of clothes and then drive you on up to the lodge.”
“Orders, huh?”
“Orders, sir.” Smith grinned again with his flash of white teeth. MacVeagh liked the man.
“All right. Let’s go.”
A long, purring limousine waited on the curved driveway on the south lawn of the grounds. MacVeagh got in the front seat with Smith and they drove over the Memorial Bridge and out George Washington Parkway to MacVeagh’s home in McLean, Virginia.
The old stone house squatted darkly under its television antenna, like a slumping sentinel with upraised rifle on a wintry border outpost. Only the footprints of the paper boy marred the sheet of snow still refusing to melt a week after the storm.
“Come on in and make some coffee while I change,” said MacVeagh. “My wife and daughter are out in Iowa for a week and I’m batching it.”
“No, thanks, Senator. I’ll stay here and keep this heater going.”
MacVeagh fumbled for his key just beyond the rays of the car’s headlights. If Martha had been with him, the carriage lamps would be on, casting warm amber circles, but with Martha away, he’d forgotten. In the bedroom, MacVeagh unhitched his formal harness, swore twice over the studs and collar button, and put on a fresh
pair of socks. Then he wondered about his attire and went back to the front door in his shorts and undershirt.
“Hey, Luther,” he yelled. The agent pressed a button to lower a front car window.
“What am I supposed to wear?” he called. “I’ve never been to Camp David before, let alone in the middle of the night.”
“Old clothes,” Smith called back. “The man always wears khaki pants and a sweater up there.”
MacVeagh settled for gray slacks, a flannel shirt, and a fleece-lined windbreaker he used for fishing on cold mornings. He thought fleetingly of phoning Martha in Des Moines, decided it was too late, and trotted back to the limousine. Smith motioned him into the back seat.
“You might as well get some shut-eye,” he said. “It’ll be after two when we get there.”
But the whisky and wines swam in MacVeagh. His head felt fluffy, and so they talked for half an hour, chiefly about Smith’s trade of protecting presidents. It was tough with this one, said the agent, because he insisted on changing the drill at the last minute. Tonight, for instance, they had to call three agents out of bed and get them to scout the highways ahead of the President. Oh, well, the pay wasn’t much, but the pension wasn’t bad and you met a lot of interesting people, including the zombies who threatened to set fire to the White House with a blowtorch. Protecting the President became your sole cause, and you’d turn in your own brother if you suspected him of compromising the man’s safety. They were almost to Frederick before MacVeagh fell asleep.
He awoke with a flashlight shining in his face. When it had been lowered and he had rubbed his eyes, he saw a Marine sergeant saluting briskly from the steps of a log guardhouse. The snow lay deep here and the towering firs were silhouetted in the fragile moonlight. A snowplow had cleared the road, leaving ridges almost two feet high on either side. The forest was thick, no wind stirred, and only the crunch of the car’s tires could be heard in the hush of the night hours. Smith stopped the limousine before the largest of a cluster of wooden buildings. A dull green paint, the drab uniform of service bases, attested to the retreat’s maintenance by military crews.
Night of Camp David Page 1
