The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  They were all gone now, all pathetic or forgotten figures, unable even to command a good table at a second-rate Washington restaurant. Carter had seen himself as a peacemaking messiah. He’d ended up a pariah at his own party’s next national convention. Reagan had wrapped himself in the golden aura of a mythic American hero, yet within hours of leaving office, he had put on a silly hat for the benefit of television cameras in Los Angeles and instantly revealed himself the amiable dolt he’d been all along. Moody’s president, like Bush before him, was still struggling with the crushing federal debt that had been Reagan’s only real legacy.

  Moody’s president would be gone one day, leaving nothing behind but this visionary global treaty, if they were lucky enough to get it ratified and its provisions codified in American law, if they could avoid its becoming as tragically meaningless as Woodrow Wilson’s Versailles Treaty.

  What then? Who then?

  “President Moody.” He sometimes repeated the words to himself, indulging in the fantasy of the boy from the hollows rising to host kings and queens in great splendor. But fantasy it was, and probably always would be. The vice presidency, laughable worm of a role, was in prospect now, but all Robert Moody really held in his hands was this hard-won claim for inclusion in the history books as the president’s chief diplomat, a place at the head of the cabinet table, which sooner or later he’d have to give up to another.

  He had a couple of heroes. Few schoolchildren had ever heard of either of them. Moody had no real wish to become like them, though he admired them greatly. One was Charles Loeb, who’d served as Teddy Roosevelt’s private secretary. A very intelligent fellow, but unassuming, self-effacing, totally his boss’s man, like thousands of men and women laboring in the federal bureaucracy this very day. Loeb had been TR’s principal confidant and adviser and the real author of some of his boldest reforms, especially the trust-busting assaults upon some of the nation’s greediest robber baron empires. When Roosevelt had been off on his grand tours and lengthy sojourns in the wild, Loeb could always be found at a nearby telegraph, quietly running the United States of America. Yet, for all his contributions, Loeb had remained in obscurity, a footnote for Roosevelt’s biographers. Better known was his irascible son William, who won fame for the outrageous irresponsibility of the editorials he wrote as publisher of New Hampshire’s Manchester Union-Leader.

  Moody’s other hero was Dean Rusk, a onetime poor boy like himself who’d risen to serve at the right hand of the high and mighty at the grand conclusion of World War II. His had been the sanest voice raised in the councils that had conducted the disastrously long crusade in Vietnam. Ultimately, it had been a colossal failure, but Rusk had believed in its essential good purpose as strongly as Moody had leading his men against North Vietnamese machine gunners in the central highlands.

  Rusk’s entire career had been one of unselfish, dedicated, sacrificial, and uncomplaining public service, yet he’d ended up without much more respect or gratitude than Bert Lance or Ed Meese had been accorded—a weary, embittered, forgotten professor at some obscure Georgia college, writing memoirs few would read. Had he contemplated such an eventual fate the day he’d been sworn in as secretary of state?

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Moody turned to see two overweight, middle-aged women standing on the other side of the fence, one of them holding an Instamatic camera.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the woman repeated. “Would you mind moving to the side a little? We’d like to take a picture.”

  Moody grinned. “Sure,” he said. “I was just about to go.”

  He started up the lawn. There was a National Security Council meeting in a few minutes. Hostilities had broken out for real in tiny, distant Belize, and the marine force he’d sent there and reinforced was definitely in harm’s way. It would be a tricky business getting the United States out of this one without some nasty bloodshed and embarrassment. Rusk had gotten Lyndon Johnson out of the Dominican Republic in 1965. Who now remembered that?

  Approaching the South Portico, Moody stopped to look up at the mansion, recalling the many times he had stood with the president on the Truman Balcony, hovering near with some official paper or listening patiently as the president lectured him on some point of international principle. He had a photograph of the two of them like that, hanging framed in his office. The president had no such picture, only traditional silver-framed photographs of family and friends.

  Moody lingered a moment longer, thinking of his last day in the Maryland statehouse before he’d come to Washington, surrounded by so many friends and followers and well-wishers. If he had contented himself with a term or two as governor of his home if not native state, it would have been a satisfactory culmination of a political career—far more satisfactory than most. He’d have remained a respected figure anywhere he went, addressed honorably as “Governor” the rest of his days.

  Now, it was far too late for that.

  After the NSC meeting came the cabinet meeting. After that, Wally Sadinauskas followed Moody back to his office. The president had a series of appointments with several ambassadors that Moody wanted to sit in on, so he was probably a little curt, not inviting the energy secretary to a seat, keeping him standing on the carpet.

  “What’s up, Wally?”

  “Senator Sorenson wants to meet with you, with both of us.”

  Moody went to his desk and glanced at his schedule. “Can’t today. Why didn’t he call for an appointment?”

  “He doesn’t want to make it an official meeting. Nothing on any logbook. He says it’s important. Can you do it tonight?”

  Deena had made no plans for the evening, but there were a number of diplomatic drop-bys Moody didn’t want to neglect. He intended to make it very clear how serious he was about becoming secretary of state.

  “Important how?”

  “It’s about the treaty.”

  “Shit. What does he want, another fucking highway?”

  “He doesn’t want anything, except for the three of us to talk. There’s some trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Aw, come on, Wally. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to find it. Trust me.”

  “All right. Seven o’clock. We’ll make it at the Kennedy Center.”

  “The Kennedy Center?”

  The huge performing arts complex next to the Watergate had a big underground garage where one could arrive without anyone noticing. Its many elevators were equally discreet. At that hour, it would be busy with tourists and early theatergoers—not anyone from officialdom. Moody had used it for several very private meetings in the past, usually with women.

  “The rooftop restaurant,” Moody said. “I’ll get a table in the back.”

  The junior senator from Wisconsin seemed more than nervous when he sat down with Moody and Sadinauskas; he looked scared. His hair was even mussed, lying in sweaty lanks across his forehead. He ordered a brandy manhattan, a very serious drink.

  “Wally says we have a problem,” Moody said. “I thought you and I had taken care of all our problems.”

  Sorenson took a deep breath, and then a sip of his cocktail. “There’s a lot of heavy money and muscle being applied against the treaty. Some of it’s coming my way.”

  “And you want a little something from me for moral encouragement?”

  “No. I want you to know what’s going on. You’ve been straight with me. I want to keep it that way.”

  “Well, Senator, there’s been heavy money and muscle working against us from the very beginning. This doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.”

  “It’s being directed from Senator Reidy’s office.”

  Moody sat back, squinting against the direct rays of early evening sunlight. “What the hell are you talking about? Reidy just showed me a nose count giving us seventy-five votes. I’ve seen surveys from the Republican National Committee giving us more, and those guys are against us.”

  “That’s on the ratification vote,” Sore
nson said. “That’s a breeze. We’re all going to vote for that. Get our support for motherhood down on the record. But you let Reidy split the package up, remember? Ratification now. Implementing legislation later. That’s where the lie-down is supposed to come. When you try to enact all this stuff into law. The bad guys carpet bomb the thing with all kinds of killer amendments, and we’re supposed to sit back and let it happen. No skin off our teeth, right? We’ve already voted to rid the world of pollution.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Reidy’s got a list of buyees. It’s a long list.”

  “You’d be surprised to see who’s on it,” Sadinauskas said.

  “I’m on it,” Sorenson said. “I don’t know why. What’s bothering the hell out of me is that I’m being treated as a foregone conclusion, as though I’m already delivered. They’re not trying to twist my arm with all this; they’re acting as though my arm was already broken, and what they’re offering me is just payoff.”

  “And what’re they offering you?”

  “It’s all legal, in my case, anyway. PAC money. I’ve never seen so much PAC money. Industry groups. Labor unions. Law firms. The leadership is supposed to protect us from this kind of pressure. Normally, nobody would even try it. Reidy’s not only permitting it, he’s encouraging it. He’s made it clear it’s expected of them.”

  Sadinauskas leaned close. “Bob, Reidy’s using the implementation legislation as a fetcher bill.”

  Anyone who had ever served in a state legislature knew what one of those was—a measure so painful and so odious it would draw money and favors like flies to raw meat, a measure introduced for no other purpose. In the end, such bills always died, but not before they’d done their remunerative work.

  “This isn’t the Maryland House of Delegates, or the Illinois legislature,” Moody said. “This is the United States Senate. The big time. Things aren’t done that way.”

  What was he talking about? A number of almighty U.S. senators had been accused of taking a fall in the Keating savings and loan scandal. House Speaker James Wright hadn’t been run out of office for jaywalking.

  “Like I say, it’s mostly legal,” Sorenson said. “PACs. There are a lot of logs rolling around, though. And I think some under-the-table stuff here and there. Not to speak of under the covers. I’m told they’ve brought in some top-dollar call girls from New York, should anyone be in the mood for a little consultation during the amendment process. Whatever anyone’s brave enough to take, it’s theirs for the asking.”

  “How do you know all this?” Moody asked, his arms folded.

  “Ours is a collegial body. And, like I told you, for some reason, I’m on the list.”

  “More to the point, Senator, why are you telling me this?”

  “I want to be straight with you.”

  “Be even straighter. What’s your motivation here? What do you want from me?”

  Sorenson finished his drink. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I already have it, Mr. Moody. I hope.” He gestured at the room. “My wife is really looking forward to going on the Kennedy Center board. Being part of this year’s Kennedy Center Honors means more to her than my getting reelected. She wants to meet Lauren Bacall and Katharine Hepburn and Jack Lemmon. All those people. Really. She’s ordered a ball gown from a designer in New York, and her appointment hasn’t even been voted on yet.” His eyes sought Moody’s. Complete candor. “I don’t want to do anything—not the slightest little thing—to screw it up.”

  Sorenson was holding something back. He was still nervous, even scared. Moody waited, letting him hang there for a moment, then leaned in close himself.

  “Is this all you came here to tell me?”

  Sorenson looked down at the tabletop. “No. Some of the biggest money on this is coming from somebody you thought was on your side. I didn’t believe it when I heard it, but I talked to the man himself.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Your friend Bernie Bloch.”

  Moody felt his face redden with his anger. He fought to control himself, wondering what he must look like. A fool. A cuckold. A mark in a con game. A few weeks before, he would have had Sorenson thrown out of the place for even suggesting such a thing. But he was learning better, wasn’t he? The most infuriating thing about this revelation was that it really didn’t come as a surprise.

  “You’re very, very sure about this, Senator?”

  “Yes sir. Absolutely. I know how tight he’s supposed to be with the White House. It threw me for a hell of a loop at first. I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be; if I had read the signals wrong. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

  He must be afraid Moody was going to shoot the messenger.

  “I appreciate it,” Moody said. He put his hand on Sorenson’s shoulder. “I’ll handle this. Don’t talk to anyone else about it. Just go about your business and when the time comes, vote your conscience, if you know what I mean.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “All right, Senator. Thanks for coming by. You probably want to get home to your wife.” He looked to Sandinauskas. “Can you spare me a couple more minutes, Wally?”

  They went out onto the broad terrace that ran along the outer edge of the roof, pausing at a spot that looked west up the river toward the setting sun. The twin spires of Georgetown University’s Dahlgren Chapel caught the gleam along their leading edges. A large motor yacht chugged along on the deepening blue of the water.

  “So I’m the last fucking rattlesnake to wake up,” Moody said.

  “What?”

  “A West Virginia expression. So tell me, Wally. Do I have this figured right? Reidy’s going to kill the treaty by letting all the influence peddlers in town walk right in and stamp it out?”

  “It’ll get the job done.”

  “And when the president screams, Reidy can just stand there and point to the special interests. Blame the White House for a failure of leadership?”

  “I can hear his words now.”

  “But what the hell for? The treaty’s no big deal for him, no life or death issue in his state. He didn’t even take a position on it in the campaign. What’s his big fucking problem?”

  “He loves to win and hates to lose, Bobby. This is a man who is still denying decent Senate Office Building space to guys who crossed him over some penny-ante bill ten years ago. You kicked the shit out of him in the primaries. You kept him from being president. He’s a hater, Bobby, and he hates you and the president. He’s just been waiting for the right shot. He’s going to make you lose. Lose very, very big.”

  Moody watched the sky changing colors. The high trees on Roosevelt Island made him think of home.

  “We can still stop this, Wally. Thanks to your friend Sorenson. If we go public, we can stop it cold. I can get the president to have ratification pulled off the calendar. We can combine it with the implementing legislation again and make the bastards vote the whole package all at once, up or down. And if we get it out to the newsies that there’s all this money down against the treaty, damn few ‘buyees’ will dare vote no.”

  “True enough, Bobby, except for one thing. You’d be kissing your own ass goodbye. Bernie Bloch is your friend. You’re as tied up with him as anybody holding public office in the country today. If he turns up as one of the bad guys, how is it going to look for you? Do I have to remind you that your name is before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for appointment as secretary of state?”

  For the rest of the evening, Moody tried to reach Bloch, calling all his private numbers and even his boat moored in Baltimore Harbor. His calls were all answered by servants or recording machines or not at all. Moody couldn’t understand it. For nearly thirty years, he had always been able to reach out to Bernie, and Bloch to him, no matter where or when or what. Bloch had even left numbers for him to call when he was off on weekend shack jobs in Atlantic City or the Bahamas. Now, nothing.

  Moody’s anger had not subsided. It continued to roil, li
ke a pot of water left on simmer, a pot that would begin to scorch and burn once the water had all bubbled away.

  Reidy was going to lose this one. Moody intended to stop him cold. But it had to start with Bernie.

  Moody was in his living room, his air conditioning on but his sliding balcony doors open to the night, staring out the window at the lights of Rosslyn across the river. Deena, nervous and fidgety, sat with him, refusing to go to bed;

  “Why do you need to talk to him so bad?” she asked.

  “An emergency. A big, fat, very important emergency.”

  “But what’s it about?”

  He glowered at her. He had told her in the beginning that there would be many, many things he’d have to keep from her—that on these occasions it would be so obvious to her that she shouldn’t even ask. But she continued to pester him.

  “Does this have to do with the government? With your job?”

  “Yes. And that’s absolutely all you have to know.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “No.”

  She continued to sit with him, not very still. She had changed into a light silk bathrobe, and was apparently not wearing much underneath. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, flashing thigh.

  “Deena,” he said, finally. “I want you to be honest with me. Do you know some way to reach Bernie? Some way I don’t?”

  His wife squirmed a little in her chair. The legs changed again, left over right.

  “I think I do.”

  “You think you do.”

  “Don’t get this wrong, Bobby. He and I have just been talking a lot lately. He’s been a help to me. I’ve been going all to pieces over this new job you’re going to get. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to handle it. Frankly, Bobby, I’ve been scared to death. I talk to Bernie sometimes. He helps me. A shoulder to cry on.”

  “You never said a word to me.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. I don’t want to hold you back in any way.”