The Cassandra Project (27 page)

“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time, Mr. Chambers.”

“What else can you tell me about the briefcase? Did he ever leave it at the Watergate office?” She thought about it. “Not exactly,” she said, finally. “But there
was
an incident. How did you know?” “Just a rumor we’d heard.”

“Well, yes. He
did
lose it on one occasion.” Her brow creased. “It’s an odd story.” “Why? What happened?”

“Well, Jack Cohen and Larry went to lunch together a lot. Usually in the hotel restaurant at the Watergate. They were down there one day and afterward they came up to the office.” She paused, trying to remember. “I think what happened was, they sat in his office and talked for a while. Later that afternoon, Cohen called, saying he’d left his briefcase somewhere, thought it was probably with us. Would we take a look?

“I don’t really remember the details. I don’t even remember whether I took the call or Jessica did. I don’t think Larry was there at the time it came in. But we looked around. Didn’t see anything. When Larry got back to the office, he looked, too. Cohen came back around closing time and they hunted some more. It sticks in my mind because it was right around the time of the break-in.” “Did it happen that night?” Ray asked. “The break-in?”

She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Mr. Chambers. It might have. Or maybe it was a day or two later.” “Audrey,” said Ray, “did he ever find the briefcase?”

“Oh, yes. It turned out he left it in the hotel restaurant.”

“I assume you returned it to Cohen.”

“As far as I know. Larry would have taken care of that.”

“Audrey, thank you.”

Cunningham had a line into Ray. “Ask her if she has any idea what was in the briefcase.” He relayed the question.

Audrey nodded. “I don’t remember any specifics, but he was a teacher, and I think it had something to do with his classes. But I don’t know. Again, it’s a long time ago. He seemed really flustered. But this guy was always like that. Larry said how he was brilliant, but you couldn’t prove it by me.” —“Ray, how did Blackstone know where to look for the descent modules?” Ray looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“He seems to have known exactly where to go.” It was apparently a question that hadn’t occurred to the chief of staff. “The back side of the Moon has a surface area of about seven million square miles. Blackstone was looking for a couple of pieces of metal that blended with the ground. How could he have possibly known where to find them?” Ray sucked on his upper lip and shook his head. “I have no idea. He must have gotten lucky.” “Sure he did. I think we should ask him.”

“You know how he is, Mr. President. He won’t tell us.”

“I think he will. We’ll have to put up with the gloating, though. I’ll tell you what. Put a call through to Jerry. Tell him I want to talk to him.” —Jerry looked nervous. The smart, friendly, easygoing guy who’d been such an asset on the campaign trail a few years back had gone missing. And Cunningham understood why: He’d gone over to the enemy. It was hard to understand how that could have happened. He knew Jerry had received plenty of job offers. Good ones. Cunningham had arranged a few of them. But Blackstone had undoubtedly outbid everybody. Had taken Jerry for the sole reason that his presence would embarrass the president. What a son of a bitch he was. And he wasn’t really sure which of the two men he was thinking of at that moment.

“How you been, Jerry?” he asked, keeping the anger out of his voice.

“I’m fine, Mr. President.” He looked off to the side, but Cunningham doubted anyone else was present. Jerry took a deep breath. Then the eyes came back. “What can I do for you, sir?” “Congratulations on the
Myshko
flight.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass them on.”

“I’m sure you will.” Cunningham was seated on the sofa in his study. “How’s the new job working out?” “I’m enjoying it, Mr. President. It keeps me in the space program.” “Yes. Very good. I was sorry we lost you.”

“I was sorry to go.”

“Well, I guess these things happen.” Jerry’s eyes were locked on him now. He was probably expecting an offer to draw him away from Blackstone. “It looks as if you and he were right all the time.” Jerry managed a nervous smile.

Cunningham made no effort to put him at ease. “Got a question for you, Jerry.” “Yes, sir?”

“How did your boss know where the descent stages would be? How’d he know where to look?” Jerry needed a moment to decide whether he was free to speak. He apparently decided he was. Or maybe he couldn’t resist putting a needle into the president. “It wasn’t really that difficult,” he said.

Cunningham listened while Jerry laid it all out. Rumors of a “Cassandra Project.” Photos from satellites and probes, both Russian and American, that had been doctored. He was about to add something, but he thought better of it and broke off. Held up his hands. “That’s about it, Mr. President.” “The Russians were part of the cover-up?”

“Yes, sir. They must have been.”

“You’re sure about that? Absolutely positive?”

“I’ve seen the photos, sir.”

“That sounds as if
you
put some of this together.”

Again, the hesitation. “Yes, Mr. President. I guess I did.”

And Cunningham knew what he’d been about to say. He hadn’t been able to get anyone at NASA to believe him.

The president shook his head. What a bunch of damned idiots they’d been. Or maybe not. The story had simply been too wild to take seriously. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said.

—

Restoring good relations with the Russians had been one of Cunningham’s core goals. And, at least on a personal level, the two countries had come a long way. There were still people in power in Moscow who disliked and thoroughly distrusted the United States. Just as there were angry voices in D.C.

But Dmitri Alexandrov, the Russian president, had been at the White House five months earlier. The meeting had gone well. They’d conducted a joint press conference in which they tried to make the case for getting rid of what remained of Cold War animosity. Alexandrov’s support, against unhappy opposition at home, in joining the coalition to create a world free of nuclear weapons, had been enormously helpful in winning friends in the U.S. The problem was that too many people still thought that the White House, in getting rid of its atomic capabilities, was handing the world over to its rivals.

He checked the time. It was late in Moscow, but Alexandrov was not inclined to retire early. He picked up the red phone and pushed the button. It took a few minutes.

“Yes, George,” said Alexandrov. The call was strictly audio. “You are calling about the Moon shot, no doubt?” Much of his education had taken place in London, and he spoke with an accent that was a mixture of British and Russian.

“How’d you guess, Dmitri?”

“It is all over the newscasts. What else could it be?” He smiled. “I should mention that taking a call on the red phone is not as alarming as it must have been in the old days.” “It’s a better world, my friend.”

“Yes. Thanks to you. So what
did
happen with the Moon flights? I trust there’s no emergency.” “No. Everything is fine.”

“I am glad to hear it. And I am very curious. Your country put two vehicles on the Moon in 1959, prior to Apollo XI, and told no one. Why did that happen? There was such intense competition at the time—” “Dmitri, I was hoping you might be able to tell
me
.”

He laughed. Then realized it was not a joke. “Why would you think that?” “Photos from that era were doctored to hide the landings.”

“So how does that involve us?”

“
Russian
photos, Dmitri. Yours as well as ours.”

“Surely, George, you are joking.”

“I have it on the best authority.”

There was a long silence at the other end. Finally: “If I even try to look into it, I will be laughed at. Nobody would ever take me seriously again.” “I know. I have the same problem. I just thought you should be aware.” —“So let me get this straight, love,” said Lyra. “You think Nixon set up the Watergate break-in because an anthropology professor left his briefcase in the Watergate restaurant?” “Yes.”

“And this is because the briefcase had a connection with two Moon flights that we did in secret?” Cunningham just looked at her.

“And all this happened three years after the flights in question?” “That’s what it looks like,” he said.

“Okay. Can you tell me what this Cohen could possibly have been carrying around that was that valuable?” “I don’t know, Lyra. That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.” “Why do you think there was something in the briefcase?”

“I told you about Irene Akins—”

“The woman who worked in the Nixon White House.”

“Yes. She thought there was a connection with Cohen. And she said something about a set of notes. In a foreign language.” She looked at him. Shook her head. “You said he was a linguist.” Cunningham walked over toward the window. It was a bright, clear evening. The Washington Monument dominated the sky. And a sliver of moon was rising in the east. “Yes, he was,” he said.

“So what’s next, love?”

“Okay. Look, we know they were trying to hide something. Three years later, and they hadn’t destroyed it.” “So—?”

“It was something they wanted to hold on to.”

“So they hid it somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“All right. Where?”

“I can only think of one place.” He looked at her for a long moment, picked up the phone, opened it, and waited. After a moment he spoke into it: “Ray, you think Milt’s free tomorrow?”

Milt Weinstein pulled off Yorba Linda Boulevard into the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum parking lot. A white colonnade overlooked a long, rectangular pool and a beautifully landscaped rose garden, filled with shrubs, annuals, palms, and flowering trees. Birds sang, and a young couple sat contentedly on a bench, holding hands. Others wandered through the grounds. The place looked busy and simultaneously placid.

Weinstein got out of his rental car, followed a walkway into the rose garden, and went through the front doors into a large display room. Tourists were everywhere, taking pictures of a Nixon bust, looking at framed photos from his presidency, posing among bronze figures of world leaders from that long-gone era. He walked slowly among flags and tapestries. Posters provided a history of the thirty-seventh president, from his early days in Yorba Linda and Whittier College, to his election in the midst of the Vietnam War, his breakthrough with China, and the devastating experience of Watergate. And, finally, his years as an elder statesman.

There was a short line at the admissions desk. He waited his turn, then showed his White House ID and asked to see Ms. Morris. Michelle Morris was the director.

The woman at the desk frowned at the ID, then looked at Weinstein. “Is she expecting you, sir?” “Yes,” he said.

“One moment, please.” She picked up a phone, explained that Michelle had a visitor, nodded, paused, and nodded again. “Mr. Weinstein,” he said, “someone will be right out.” Then she looked past him. “Next.” —A tall young man in a museum uniform appeared out of a doorway. “Her office is in back,” he said. “Please come with me.” On the way, he passed the 1969 Lincoln that had provided transportation for President Nixon and glanced into a replica of the East Room of the White House, which was used by the museum for appearances by celebrities, and to accommodate weddings and other special events.

Morris rose from her desk as he entered. “Mr. Weinstein,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but wouldn’t say why. Please have a seat.” She was tall and blond, about fifty, wearing a dark jacket over a white blouse. The jacket had a Nixon Museum patch on its breast pocket. Behind her, visible through a set of curtained windows, was a small one-and-a-half-story cottage. Richard Nixon’s birthplace, built in 1912 by his father, Frank. Somewhere in the immediate area of the house grounds were the graves of the former president and his wife, Pat.

“The museum is very impressive,” Weinstein said.

“Thank you. We’re proud of it.” She flashed an automatic smile. White House or not, I’m busy. Can we please get on with it? “So what brings you—?” “This is going to sound a little off-the-wall, Ms. Morris.” “We’ll help any way we can.”

“Good.” He lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s a possibility a message may have been left here for the president. Left by President Nixon, that is.” The smile widened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I quite understand—” “President Cunningham thinks it might have been deposited here with instructions to turn it over to a future president if one inquires about it.” “Mr. Weinstein,” she said, “you’re not making sense.” Weinstein laughed. “I don’t know what it’s about either, Ms. Morris. But apparently there’s reason to believe such a letter exists.” “If it does,” she said, “it’s the first I’ve heard of it. What’s it about, do you know?” “They told me that it might have something to do with the Moon flights.” She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.” “You’re sure?”

She got up. Ready to move on. “Positive.”

“There’s not some sort of lockbox here?” Weinstein tried a grin. “A hidden vault, possibly?” “No, sir. I’m afraid not. But you can tell your boss that I’ll have one of the interns look around. Just in case.” —He called Chambers from the Rose Garden. “Negative, Ray,” he said.

“Nothing at all?”

“No, sir. She laughed at me.”

“Okay,” said Chambers. “It was worth a try. Come on home.” “Ray, if you don’t mind—”

“What, Milt?”

“What are we actually looking for?”

“Just come home, Milt. And thanks.”

Chambers disconnected, leaving Weinstein staring across the grass at President Nixon’s Sea King helicopter. Marine One. Or Army One, depending on the service branch of whichever pilot had been on duty when the president was traveling. This was the helicopter that Nixon had climbed into on that last desperate day, turning to wave a final good-bye to his presidency. A crowd stood around it, taking pictures of it, sometimes using it as background for family photos. Despite the dark history on display inside—the Watergate break-in, the Saturday Night Massacre, the enemies’ list, the secret tapes, and the rest of it—the general aura of the museum left Weinstein with a sense that the former president had, after all, been an iconic figure. A man for the ages.

He knew better. Weinstein wasn’t old enough to remember Nixon in the White House. He’d been in his teens when he’d learned about the man’s anti-Semitism. That he’d thought Jews were running the country and would ultimately bring it down. Nixon’s presidency had come to a sad conclusion, but it was hard to sympathize.

He turned away from the helicopter and began walking slowly back toward the parking lot.

Weinstein was on Route 55, headed south toward Santa Ana and the John Wayne Airport, when his phone sounded. “Milton?” Morris’s voice. “This is Michelle. I guess I was wrong. I think we might have something.” The formality was gone.

“A letter?”

“No. It’s a small locked box. Instructions attached to it are exactly what you described. They say it’s to be turned over to any president who inquires about it.” “What’s in it?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“Where was it?”

“Back in storage. It wasn’t in the safe.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Milton, there’s probably no point in your coming back here.” “Why not?”

“The instructions say it has to be delivered
personally
. I have to put it into the president’s hands.” “All right. You want me to pick you up? You can fly back with me.” “I’m not exactly ready to go this minute.”

“You’re not going to keep the president waiting, I hope.” “Oh, c’mon. How urgent can it be? It’s been here since the 1990s.” “Only thing I can tell you, Michelle, is that they’re anxious to get their hands on it. When can you be ready to leave?”