Palace Council (46 page)

PART VI

Washington/Ithaca/Hanover
1973–1974

CHAPTER
63

A Poolside Chat

(I)

E
DDIE
W
ESLEY OPENED HIS EYES
from a dream of peaceful eternal darkness to the reality of hard angry whiteness. Flashlights were shining through the windows of the sedan. Marine guards peered in. The sign on the gate read
NAVAL SUPPORT FACILITY THURMONT
. Eddie yawned and looked at his watch. Almost eleven at night. The gate shuddered aside. The car rolled past a watchtower and thick foliage and several low cottages, harshly illuminated for security's sake. Hickory and oak trees danced in the night wind. At the reception building, the driver opened Eddie's door. After the artificial warmth of the limousine, the chilly late-April air staggered him. At least now he was wide awake. A nervous flunky welcomed him to Camp David. The driver was nervous. The Secret Service people were nervous. Eddie began to grow nervous, too, even though he was not sure why. The flunky let him freshen up, then led him along a path over a small hill. The guards near the porch of Aspen Lodge did not interfere. The door was opened from within. A desk stood empty. The flunky knocked and opened the inner door, not waiting for an answer. “Mr. Wesley,” he announced. Standing aside to let Eddie pass, he murmured, “It's been a terrible night. Try to cheer him up.” But Eddie had already spotted the shaken, shrunken figure by the picture window, gazing out on the bucolic Maryland countryside as if for the last time. Eddie, unbidden, stood beside him, and looked, too. He had forgotten how mountainous Maryland was, once you escaped the swampy lowlands where, in its wisdom, the founding generation had decided to establish the capital of the new nation.

“You sent for me, sir?”

The President stood, still as a waxwork. And, indeed, his skin had taken on an oddly shiny pallor, like plastic. “They're resigned,” Nixon finally blurted, not turning. “Haldeman and Ehrlichman.”

And high time, thought Eddie. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“You heard? It leaked?”

“Rumors on the news, sir.”

“That's all they do on the news. Rumors.”

And a few facts you wish were rumors. But Eddie did not say this aloud. “Yes, sir.”

“Dean's gone, too.” His soft hands clenched and unclenched. “And good riddance.” But the flash of anger lasted only an instant. The President sagged. The room was large, and seemed, with the heavy drapes open to the night and the interior lights off, larger still. “It's all over, Eddie.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“We had such hopes. Such dreams. We were going to change everything.”

To Eddie's horror, tears began rolling down the broken face. He tried to remember the ruthless Red-baiter of the forties and fifties, the architect of the “Southern strategy” that had so skillfully exploited white anger over school desegregation in putting together a Republican electoral coalition. He saw instead the shy, friendless man who had stood in the early-morning haze, trying to persuade astonished student protesters that he was, deep down, a good guy. But he was not. He had been right, Eddie realized, in that essay back in '62. Nixon was the essential American. What he valued more than honor, integrity, all the virtues Wesley Senior used to preach about, was finishing first.

Eddie said, “I'm sorry, sir. But, you know—”

“Never mind. Never mind. Let me tell you why you're here.” He glanced around the room, focusing on the shadows. “I'm under pressure,” he began, then stopped. “There are things,” he said, and stopped again. “He's been to see me,” the President said, finally, shaking his head as if it was common knowledge between them, this
he.
“Could get rough. Why I sent for you alone instead of Aurie. How's she doing?”

“Ah, great, sir. Just great.”

“Hear the two of you are quite the couple.”

“Maybe so, Mr. President. I don't know. She sends her regards.”

Nixon nodded, stalking around the room. He had lost the thread. “We did Russia. We did China. We did arms limitation. We tried to get the energy thing under control. All right, fine. Mistakes were made. There were problems.” Whether he was referring to the energy price controls or the Watergate coverup was unclear, but the passive voice was classic Nixon. Without warning, he grabbed Eddie's arm. “We were going to do so much for your people, Eddie. There wasn't time. You understand.”

“You mentioned being under pressure—”

“Right. Right.” He was back at the window. “Whatever our differences, I've always been able to count on you. I want you to know I'm grateful for that, Eddie. Grateful.”

Eddie, breathtaken, said nothing.

“I prayed last night,” Nixon confided. “Do you pray, Eddie?”

Again taken by surprise, Eddie groped for an inoffensive reply. “Ah, not often, sir.”

“You should, Eddie. Do you know what I prayed?” He had released his grip and was wandering around in front of the picture window, framed by the mountain darkness. “I prayed that I wouldn't have to wake up this morning.” He spread clumsy fingers against the glass, not turning from the vista. “Can't do business this way. I need to think about future Presidents. Or do you think I should resign, too?”

Eddie, not wanting to be a witness to this unraveling, tried to keep the conversation light. “Well, Mr. President, that depends on whether you want to go down in history as the man who gave us President Agnew.”

A bark of laughter. “President Agnew. Sounds funny, doesn't it?” The humor faded. “Anyway, he has problems of his own. He can't be President.”

“Then you might have to stay.”

“But can I? That's the question. Can I still govern? He says I betrayed the voters' trust,” said Nixon, roaming again. “I didn't. I was betrayed. I was a victim, Eddie. I had bad people around me. Bad advice.” A sudden swivel like a dance move. “If I resign, it sets a precedent. Do you see that, Eddie? A man makes mistakes—small ones—they add up, but still—”

He stopped, and shrugged, and smiled shyly.

Eddie spoke carefully. “I'm sorry, Mr. President. I'm not sure who it is you're talking about. The man who wants you to resign.”

“Need some air,” said Nixon.

(II)

T
HE
P
RESIDENT OPENED
the back door. Behind the cottage was a wooden deck, and, nearby, a heated pool. A Secret Service agent stood nearby, and, at the tree line, a pair of Marines patrolled with a guard dog. Eddie followed Nixon out. “See all this? I hate this part. The security. Not one second of privacy. And, Eddie, let me tell you something. You can try to cover up. You can try to save your plan. Do whatever you want. Try to keep the secret. But there's always somebody out there who knows the truth. Buy off one, there's always another.”

Outside of the lodge, the President seemed to gain fluency. Eddie wondered if Nixon was worried about eavesdropping. Surely the United States of America possessed the technical means to prevent its own leader from being bugged against his will.

“Beautiful up here,” Nixon said. He stood on the concrete deck near the kidney-shaped pool. Wisps of vapor gathered just above the heated surface. He put one flabby hand on the metal rail leading to the ladder, and, leaning over, pointed at the water. “They say it's not a bad way to go. Drowning. A moment of panic, then you get this kind of peace.”

Eddie looked around at the Secret Service man, who stared unblinking back at him. Could he hear the President's mad speculations from over there by the house?

“I suspect it's quite terrible,” said Eddie, insinuating himself between the President and the pool, and remembering Hong Kong. Beside the lodge, newly blossoming flowers suffered silently in the cold.

“Can't be worse than dying on the battlefield.” A pause. The eyes slid toward Eddie, then away. “I was in the big one. A lot of good people died, but I wasn't a hero. I was just there when the bombs were falling.” He walked away from the pool, toward a path into the trees. A pair of agents fell in behind. Another agent materialized in front, as if leading the way. Up here in the mountains, the night was achingly cold, but the cauldron of boiling emotion that constituted Nixon, like the similar simmer deep inside Eddie, generated all the warmth he needed. The President leaned toward his guest until their heads almost touched. He dropped his voice. “Things I did long ago. Not fair. Trying to help. Your people, Eddie. Tried to help your people, and now—”

A shake of the heavy, dipping head. “Sent a message,” said Nixon. “Your friend. I agreed to see him because—well, I had to agree. No choice. Can't negotiate with people like this. Can't buy them off. They don't seem to want anything. Most people have a price, but not when—” He broke off. His hearing was remarkable: around the bend came a pair of very quiet Marine sentries. They snapped off salutes, which the President, vaguely, returned.

“You're right,” he resumed once the guards had drifted into the distance. “Have to stick it out. Can't let Agnew be President. Man's going to be indicted. Secret, but it's true. Listen. This is the presidency. Have to stick it out for the sake of the presidency. Can't quit. We were going to do great things, Eddie. Great things. Still can.” Back to the beginning. They had reached a wooden bridge spanning a sluggish creek. Nixon leaned on the railing, pouchy eyes entranced by the dark water. Maybe he was wondering again how it would feel to drown.

“Mr. President,” said Eddie, finally, “what was it you wanted?”

“Ever find your sister?”

“Junie? No.”

Nixon shook his head. “Too bad. Too bad.”

“Yes, sir, I—”

“Maybe if you'd found her I'd know—” He started again: “Thing is, Eddie, I never really thought anybody would—” Third try: “You do these things when you're young. Follies of youth. It was supposed to be a secret. But they never let you forget, do they?”

Eddie stared at the President of the United States. “The meeting in 1952. You were there.” He had not believed it. Even sitting with Aurelia in Ithaca, the two of them speculating wildly, he had thought the possibility absurd. But now here was absurdity come to life, and staring him in the face. “You were at Burton Mount's house in 1952, and now somebody is using your presence to force you out of office.”

Nixon said nothing. He seemed faded and old.

“That's why you wanted me up here tonight. To ask if I'd found Junie yet. To give you ammunition to fire back. And that's the reason you kept encouraging me and Aurelia to get together. She thinks it's because you're a romantic. But you were just hoping, if Aurie and I joined forces, we'd have an easier time tracking down my sister.” Eddie felt himself physically backing away. “The answer is no. I don't know where she is. And even if I did—Mr. President, you can't think I would help you. Not with this. I'm sorry. It's not possible.”

The President nodded. “I'm on a schedule now. Very practical. I need to interfere in the investigation five or six months from now, and make things worse and worse until I'm forced out next summer.” Suddenly he straightened. The old Nixon, confident and sly. “Unless you find your sister before then.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I just told you—”

“Know what you have to say. Understand, believe me.” A wink. “Well, you don't have to worry, Eddie. The microphones are only inside the lodge.”

“Microphones? Are you saying—”

The President was clapping him on the shoulder and pumping his hand. “The best thing about landing in trouble,” Nixon said, “is that you find out who your real friends are.”

Five minutes later, Eddie was back in the anteroom.

“Good meeting?” asked the anxious aide who had escorted him in. “Did you cheer him up?”

But Eddie was lost in thought. Nixon, without meaning to, had given him the clue.

Follies of youth,
the President had said.
It was supposed to be a secret.
Eddie was all but kicking himself for not seeing it before.
You find out who your real friends are.

He knew where to find his sister.

CHAPTER
64

Argument in an Office

(I)

S
UDDENLY THERE WAS LITTLE TIME.
For that reason, Eddie decided to slow down. He had the Secret Service driver drop him back home, for the benefit of anybody who might have been watching. He wanted the world to know that he had done nothing after Camp David. No calls, no visitors, no panic. But the world had other plans, because as soon as he hung up his jacket he saw the envelope with his name on it, lying on the table in the hallway.

Eddie looked around. The house seemed undisturbed. The front door had not been forced. Nevertheless, he went to the kitchen for a large knife before checking the sliders to the yard. They, too, were locked. He made a quick search of the upstairs and saw nobody. Yet the envelope was, unquestionably, here. He opened it and found a photocopy of Philmont Castle's testament.

The testament stolen by George Collier.

He did not pause to wonder where it came from. He flipped through to the last couple of pages, noted the names of the attendees. A couple surprised him. Most were dead. There was no Hilliman, just as Gary had insisted, but among the few still living was, indeed, Richard Nixon.

I'm on a schedule now. Very practical.

Eddie took his own car. He tried to put Junie out of his mind. He dared not dream of approaching her; not until he was sure that everything was over, and nobody was looking any more. He had to concentrate on tonight. He drove to a 7-Eleven and used the pay phone before anybody had the chance to come in after him, then bought a cup of coffee and got back behind the wheel. Then he drove over to the Georgetown campus. He parked the car at his building, let himself in, and checked the door twice to make sure it was firmly locked behind him. In the duplicating room, he made two copies of the testament and sealed all three in envelopes. He put Gary's private post-office-box number on one envelope and mixed it with the outgoing mail, scribbling the name of a faculty colleague in the upper left-hand corner, just in case somebody dogging his steps thought of looking here. The second he addressed to his banker, with instructions to store it unopened in the vault until Eddie came in to move it to his safe-deposit box. This one, too, he marked as though it had been mailed by somebody else. The third one—the copy he had found on the table—he slipped into his jacket pocket. He refused to wonder who had left it there; besides, he thought he knew.

When he was done, he stepped into the hall, and that was where Benjamin Mellor crashed the butt of a gun into the back of his head.

Eddie went down fast, and Mellor hit him again, then rolled him over and sat on his stomach, the gun pointing at his face. He was still wearing the hippie attire, but the glasses were gone, and his eyes were wild and frightened.

“Where is it?” the professor demanded.

“Where is what?” said Eddie, bucking. “What are you doing? Get off of me!”

“Don't think I won't shoot you, Mr. Wesley. You have the testament. It's obvious, the way you're acting tonight. You have it, and I want it.”

Eddie shook his head. “You're wrong,” he said gently. “I don't have the testament. Now, please. Get off of me.”

“Come on, Mr. Wesley. Nixon's presidency is going to pieces. You were at Camp David tonight. It has to be you. You're setting it up. Now, give me the testament, and I'll leave you alone. It'll guarantee my safety and—well, you know the rest.”

“I don't have it,” said Eddie again. He tried shoving Mellor off, but the skinny man had the strength of mortal desperation. Eddie's eyes darted, searching for a weapon. The fire extinguisher was too far away. There were letter openers in the office he had just left, but they might as well be a mile off.

“You're lying,” Mellor snarled. He slammed Eddie's head into the floor. “It's not as much fun, being on the receiving side, is it?” He did it a second time, and, for a woozy instant, Eddie was back in the Hong Kong warehouse. “You're an arrogant prick. You were arrogant in Cambridge, you were arrogant in Saigon, and you're arrogant now. Did you believe you could outthink me? Are you really that stupid? Well, it's over now. Give me the testament, Mr. Wesley. I'm not going to ask again.”

Eddie considered. One chance. “Okay,” he said. He inclined his head. “It's over there. In my office.”

Surprisingly agile, the professor leaped to his feet. He backed away. “Stand up, Mr. Wesley. Slowly. Keep clear of me.”

“Don't you want the key?”

“You unlock the door.”

Eddie did. He stepped inside, and Mellor had no choice but to follow, or risk being locked out. Eddie leaned over his desk. His captor waited. In the lower drawer was a coffee maker. Nearly prone on the desktop, Eddie reached in, grabbed it, then rolled over and swung it hard at the professor.

And struck only his shoulder.

Mellor reeled back, then straightened, the gun pointing at Eddie's midsection. Before Eddie could scramble off the desk, he heard two quick shots.

No pain.

Eddie stood up. He had not been hit, but the law professor was a bloody gurgling heap on the floor, and George Collier was standing in the doorway.

(II)

“W
HAT
—” said Eddie. “What—”

“I'll clean up the mess. You have work to do.”

“I don't understand.”

“You have the testament, don't you?” He pointed to Eddie's jacket pocket. “Well, do what you have to do, then. But do me a favor first.” He pulled out the copies Eddie had left in the mail room. “Burn these.”

“But why are you—”

The assassin waved him silent. “Not everything has a neat explanation, Mr. Wesley. Do you think because I do what I do I don't care about my country? Who winds up running things? If so, you're mistaken. But we don't have time for a debate. There's a dead man on the floor of your office. You don't know how to remove the traces of what happened here. I do. Now, let me do my job. You go away and do yours.” He was behind the desk, pulling down the volume where Mellor's bullet had lodged. “Don't look at me that way, Mr. Wesley. Remember our conversation in Saigon, when you asked me about what happened to Mr. Mellor's lady friend. The job I do has its nasty days. It's as simple as that.” But he seemed to be trying to persuade himself. “And, yes, I know, I told Mrs. Garland years ago that some people are not worth protecting, but you can't assume that just because they ask me—never mind. You have business elsewhere. I suggest that you get to it.”

“We should call an ambulance,” Eddie managed. “The police.”

“You really need to get moving, Mr. Wesley.”

In the hallway, legs still buttery from his near-miss, Eddie paused. “I don't know what you're up to, Collier. I do know you didn't shoot Mellor for my sake. I know I'm only alive because you're under orders. You would kill me without hesitation if you were ordered to. You and I are still enemies.”

Kneeling beside the body, the assassin did not even look up. “And I wouldn't have it any other way, Mr. Wesley. So, for your sake, let us hope that our paths never cross again.”