The Last President - Michael Kurland

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wasn’t Ober, and it wasn’t Chandler. “No,” Kit said.

      “This is the President speaking,” the voice said.

      “Yes, sir.” Kit took his feet down from the desk. “I wasn’t expecting—”

      “You recognize my voice?” A flat, emotionless question.

      “Yes, sir.” Kit did, now.

      “I am your Commander-in-Chief,” the President said.

      “Yes, sir.” Not technically accurate, since the CIA wasn’t part of the military, but the President was certainly Kit’s ultimate boss.

      “I give you my personal assurance, as President, that what Charles Ober has told you in regard to these five men is accurate, and that it is a matter of national security to get them the hell out of that jail. You got that?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Yeah. And as President, as your Commander-in-Chief, I give you a direct order to see that those five men are released. And for God’s sake, don’t let any of those media bastards hear anything about this. Right?”

      “Right. Yes, sir.”

      “Now, you’ve got the ball—run with it! Your President’s depending on you.” There was a click and the phone went dead.

      Kit spent a minute staring into space. He had no option except to believe Ober’s—and the President’s—word that national security was involved. If only it weren’t the Democratic National Committee. If word of this did get out, and it was discovered that CIA had claimed the burglars as their own, it would be embarrassing for the Company. And Kit’s superiors would see that all the embarrassment came down onto his own shoulders.

      Clearly, if Kit was going to do this at all, he’d better do it right. He’d have to speak to everyone involved: the arresting officers, the duty sergeant, and anyone else who had dealt with the five John Does, and impress on them the value of having a short memory.

      Veber came into the office. “You look thoughtful,” he said.

      Kit nodded. “I just spoke to my boss.”

      * * * *

      THE OVAL OFFICE, June 18, 1972 ( 5:24-6:17 p.m.)

      MEETING: The President, Vandermeer, and Ober.

      AUTHORIZED TRANSCRIPTION FROM THE EXECUTIVE ARCHIVES

      Following a discussion of election campaign strategy, Billy Vandermeer raises the matter of the flap at the Watergate complex.

      V. It is late but I hope, sir, we can turn briefly to that little problem area that came up yesterday. The matter that Charlie had to wake you up for.

      P. Yeah. Must have been four in the morning. But I have no complaints. You handled it fine, Charlie.

      O. Thank you, sir.

      V. Ed St. Yves, too. He has a good head on his shoulders. He got it all buttoned up and under control right away. This could have been damn serious.

      P. We put it on the line, didn’t we? I mean, with me on the phone. We let it all hang out. A great defensive play. Blam, right on the receiver with no yardage gained. But we sold it, didn’t we?

      O. Yes. The five were released with nobody taking a second look. And that CIA liaison guy came through for us. The kid could have kicked this whole thing right up to his bosses at Langley. Instead, he accepted your direct authority as Commander-in-Chief.

      P. Right. Good guy.

      V. But you know damn well that he’s going to cover his ass. He’s probably typing his report out right now—in triplicate.

      V. Sure, but a botched bag job like yesterday is just the ammo he needs to move to eliminate SIU. We don’t want to give the Director a handle. And we might want a dependable pipeline into the Agency. So I suggest we use what we’re given.

      P. Okay. What’s the game plan?

      V. We transfer Christopher Young to the White House Staff—immediately. He’s proved his loyalty to the presidency. We reward him now. Make him White House Liaison to the Intelligence Community: CIA, Defense Intelligence, like that. That way he’s rewarded and CIA’s signaled off. Besides, Young is the perfect tripwire if—or maybe I should say when—CIA takes to snooping around the White House.

      P. Great! Don’t you agree, Charlie?

      O. That might play.

      * * * *

      The clock by Kit’s bed said four-fifteen when he woke up. For a second he had that curious sense of disorientation that attacks people with erratic sleep schedules: he didn’t know whether it was four-fifteen in the morning or afternoon. Lifting his blinds, he stared out at the gray Washington sky. Afternoon. That made it Sunday. That meant he hadn’t slept through his date with Miriam. He had a full fifteen minutes to pick her up at her apartment in Georgetown. Cursing the selective deafness that enabled him to sleep through every alarm in every clock ever made, he rolled out of bed and staggered into the shower.

      He was only half an hour late. Miriam was on the steps of her red brick building waiting for him, trying not to look annoyed, the wind playing games with her long brown hair.

      “The traffic—” he said.

      “Bullshit!” she replied, not looking at him.

      “Okay, I overslept. It just feels so damn silly saying ‘I overslept’ at five in the evening.” He pulled her toward him to kiss her. After a moment’s stubborn resistance, she yielded and returned the kiss with sudden warmth.

      “I am very fond of you, you know. If you’d grow your hair longer, I’d run my fingers through it. And if you’d get a normal job and work normal hours, you’d be able to keep your social engagements.”

      “I like my job,” he told her. “Excitement, danger, romance, far-off places, angry women.… Are we going to Aaron’s?”

      “Right,” she said. “My car or yours, as the actress said to the bishop?”

      “Yours,” Kit said. He gave Miriam a last hug and they started, hand in hand, for her parking space. “And you drive. It’s not fit work for a man. I almost killed myself twice getting over here.”

      “Sleep-driving is a special skill,” Miriam agreed, unlocking the passenger-side door of her Volkswagen and starting around. Kit watched Miriam as she climbed in beside him, and once again he wondered at the providence that had brought her into his life. They had met at one of Aaron B. Adams’ small dinner parties three years before. Professor Adams had seated his newest assistant professor, Ms. Miriam Kassel, campus liberal, next to Christopher Young, Jr., CIA, apolitical conservative, and then sat back to watch. They disagreed on just about everything political, and somehow they were unable to talk about anything but politics. Kit’s worst moment had come when, in exasperation, he had admitted that actually he just didn’t care much one way or the other about politics. Miriam had exploded and told him that not caring was a worse moral crime than being wrong.

      But somehow Kit and Miriam had found, without discussing it, that there was something pulling them together that made all the arguments about politics worthwhile, that made the times when they didn’t argue sweeter and fuller and more beautiful than either of them had known before.

      “That strange buzzing in your ears,” Miriam said sweetly, “won’t stop unless you buckle your seat belt. Not that I’m trying to influence your actions.”

      “Oh. Sorry.” Kit buckled the belt. “You know, actually, I have a very good job. It keeps me here near you. I could have been assigned to Saigon or Phnom Penh or one of those other resort areas where the natives

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