Edge of Eternity (100 page)

“Yes . . .”

“This is your destiny.” He was serious. “You were meant to be a national politician. Anything less would be a waste of your talents. A criminal waste. I mean it.”

She was surprised by his intensity. “Thank you,” she said.

She felt both elated and dazed as she drove home. A new future had suddenly opened up. She had thought about national politics, but had feared it would be too difficult, as a woman and as the wife of a disabled husband. But now that the prospect was more than a fantasy she felt eager.

On the other hand, what would Bernd do?

She parked the car and hurried into their apartment. Bernd was at the kitchen table in his wheelchair, marking school essays with a sharp red pencil. He was undressed and wearing a bathrobe, which he could manage to put on himself. The most difficult garment, for him, was a pair of trousers.

She told him immediately about Claus's proposition. “Before you speak, let me say one more thing,” she said. “If you don't want me to do this, I won't. No argument, no regrets, no recriminations. We're a partnership, and that means neither of us has the right to change our life unilaterally.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But let's talk about the details.”

“The Bundestag sits from Monday to Friday about twenty weeks of the year, and attendance is compulsory.”

“So you'd spend about eighty nights away in an average year. I can cope with that, especially if we get a nurse to come in and help me in the mornings.”

“Would you mind?”

“Of course. But no doubt your nights at home would be all the sweeter.”

“Bernd, you're so good.”

“You have to do this,” he said. “It's your destiny.”

She gave a little laugh. “That's what Claus said.”

“I'm not surprised.”

Her husband and her ex-lover both thought that this was what she should do. She thought so too. She felt apprehensive: she believed she could do it, but it would be a challenge. National politics was tougher and nastier than local government. The press could be vicious.

Her mother would be proud, she thought. Carla ought to have been a leader, and probably would have been if she had not got trapped in the prison of East Germany. She would be thrilled that her daughter was fulfilling her defeated aspiration.

They talked it over for the next three evenings, then, on the fourth, Dave Williams arrived.

They were not expecting him. Rebecca was astonished to see him on the doorstep, wearing a brown suede coat and carrying a small suitcase with a Hamburg airport tag. “You could have called!” she said in English.

“I lost your number,” he replied in German.

She kissed his cheek. “What a wonderful surprise!” She had liked Dave back in the days when Plum Nellie was playing on the Reeperbahn, and the boys had come to this apartment for their only square meal of the week. Dave had been good for Walli, whose talent had flowered in the partnership.

Dave came into the kitchen, set down his suitcase, and shook hands with Bernd. “Have you just flown in from London?” Bernd asked.

“From San Francisco. I've been traveling twenty-four hours.” They spoke their usual mixture of English and German.

Rebecca put coffee on. As she got over her surprise, it occurred to her that Dave must have some special reason for this visit, and she felt anxious. Dave was explaining to Bernd about his recording studio, but Rebecca interrupted him. “Why are you here, Dave? Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” said Dave. “It's Walli.”

Rebecca's heart missed a beat. “What's the matter? Tell me! He's not dead . . .”

“No, he's alive. But he's a heroin addict.”

“Oh, no.” Rebecca sat down heavily. “Oh, no.” She buried her face in her hands.

“There's more,” said Dave. “Beep is leaving him. She's pregnant, and she doesn't want to raise a child in the drug scene.”

“Oh, my poor little brother.”

Bernd said: “What is Beep going to do?”

“She's moving into Daisy Farm with me.”

“Oh.” Rebecca saw that Dave looked embarrassed. He had resumed his romance with Beep, she guessed. That could only make things worse for her brother. “What can we do about Walli?”

“He needs to give up heroin, obviously.”

“Do you think he can?”

“With the right kind of help. There are programs, in the States and here in Europe, that combine therapy with a chemical substitute, usually methadone. But Walli lives in Haight-Ashbury. There's a dealer on every corner, and if he doesn't go out and score, one of them will knock on his door. It's just too easy for him to lapse.”

“So he has to move?”

“I think he has to move here.”

“Oh, my goodness.”

“Living with you, I think he could kick the habit.”

Rebecca looked at Bernd.

“I'm concerned about you,” Bernd said to her. “You have a job and a political career. I'm fond of Walli, not least because you love him. But I don't want you to sacrifice your life to him.”

“It's not forever,” Dave put in quickly. “But if you could keep him clean and sober for a year . . .”

Rebecca was still looking at Bernd. “I won't sacrifice my life. But I might have to put it on hold for a year.”

“If you turn down a Bundestag seat now, the offer might never be renewed.”

“I know.”

Dave said to Rebecca: “I want you to come with me back to San Francisco and persuade Walli.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow would be good. I've already made flight reservations.”

“Tomorrow!”

But there was really no choice, Rebecca thought. Walli's life was at stake. Nothing compared with that. She would put him first; of course she would. She hardly needed to think about it.

All the same, she felt sad about turning down the thrilling prospect that had been so briefly held out to her.

Dave said: “What did you say, a moment ago, about the Bundestag?”

“Nothing,” Rebecca said. “Just something else I was thinking of doing. But I'll come with you to San Francisco. Of course I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Rebecca stood up. “I'll pack a bag,” she said.

J
asper Murray was depressed. President Nixon—liar, cheat, and crook—was reelected by a huge majority. He won forty-nine states. George McGovern, one of the most unsuccessful candidates in American history, got only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia.

Worse, as new revelations about Watergate scandalized the liberal intelligentsia, Nixon's popularity remained strong. Five months after the election, in April 1973, the president's approval rating stood at 60–33.

“What do we have to do?” Jasper said frustratedly to anyone who would listen. The media, led by
The
Washington Post,
revealed one presidential crime after another as Nixon scrambled desperately to cover up his involvement in a break-in. One of the Watergate burglars had written a letter, which the judge read out in court, complaining that the defendants had been subjected to political pressure to plead guilty and remain silent. If this was true, it meant the president was trying to pervert the course of justice. But voters seemed not to care.

Jasper was in the White House briefing room on Tuesday, April 17, when the tide turned.

The room had a slightly raised stage at one end. A lectern stood in front of a backdrop curtain that was colored a television-friendly shade of blue-gray. There were never enough chairs, and some reporters sat on the tan carpet while cameramen jostled for space.

The White House had announced that the president would make a brief statement but take no questions. The reporters had assembled at three o'clock. It was now half past four and nothing had happened.

Nixon appeared at four forty-two. Jasper noticed that his hands seemed to be shaking. Nixon announced the resolution of a dispute between the White House and Sam Ervin, chair of the Senate committee
that was investigating Watergate. White House staff would now be allowed to testify to the Ervin Committee, although they might refuse to answer any question. It was not much of a concession, Jasper thought. But surely an innocent president would not even be having this argument.

Then Nixon said: “No individual holding, in the past or present, a position of major importance in the administration should be given immunity from prosecution.”

Jasper frowned. What did this mean? Someone must have been demanding immunity, someone close to Nixon. Now Nixon was publicly refusing it. He was hanging someone out to dry. But who?

“I condemn any attempts to cover up, no matter who is involved,” said the president, who had tried to shut down the FBI investigation; and then he left the room.

Press secretary Ron Ziegler mounted the podium to a storm of questions. Jasper did not ask any. He was intrigued by the statement about immunity.

Ziegler now said that the announcement just made by the president was the “operative” statement. Jasper immediately recognized that as a weasel word, deliberately vague, intended to obscure the truth rather than to clarify it. The other journalists in the room saw it too.

It was Johnny Apple of
The
New York Times
who asked whether that implied all previous statements were inoperative.

“Yes,” said Ziegler.

The press corps were furious. This meant they had been lied to. For years they had been faithfully reporting Nixon's statements, giving them the credence due to the leader of the nation. They had been taken for fools.

They would never trust him again.

Jasper went back to the office of
This Day,
still wondering who had been the real target of Nixon's statement about immunity.

He got the answer two days later. He picked up the phone to hear a woman say, in a trembling voice, that she was secretary to White House counsel John Dean, and she was calling senior reporters in Washington to read a statement from him.

This in itself was bizarre. If the president's legal adviser wanted to say something to the press, he should have done so through Ron Ziegler. Clearly there was a rift.

“‘Some may hope or think that I will become a scapegoat in the Watergate case,'” the secretary read. “‘Anyone who believes that does not know me . . .'”

Ah, thought Jasper, the first rat abandons the sinking ship.

•   •   •

Maria was amazed by Nixon. He had no dignity. As more and more people realized what a fraud he was, he did not resign, but stayed in the White House, blustering and obfuscating and threatening and lying, lying, lying.

At the end of April, John Ehrlichman and Bob Haldeman resigned together. Both had been close to Nixon. Because of their German names they had been dubbed “the Berlin Wall” by those who felt shut out by them. They had organized criminal activities such as burglary and perjury for the president: could anyone possibly believe that they had done those things against his will and without telling him? The idea was laughable.

Next day, the Senate voted unanimously for a special prosecutor to be appointed, independent of the tainted Justice Department, to investigate whether the president should be charged with crimes.

Ten days later, Nixon's approval rating fell to 44–45—the first time he had ever scored negative.

The special prosecutor went to work fast. He began to hire a team of lawyers. Maria knew one of them, a former Justice Department official called Antonia Capel. Antonia lived in Georgetown, not far from Maria's apartment, and one evening Maria rang her doorbell.

Antonia opened the door and looked surprised.

“Don't say my name,” said Maria.

Antonia was puzzled, but she was quick-witted. “Okay,” she said.

“Could we talk?”

“Of course—come in.”

“Would you meet me at the coffee shop along the block?”

Antonia looked bewildered but said: “Sure. I'll ask my husband to bathe the kids . . . um, give me fifteen minutes?”

“You bet.”

When Antonia arrived at the coffee shop she said: “Is my apartment bugged?”

“I don't know, but it might be, now that you're working for the special prosecutor.”

“Wow.”

“Here's the thing,” said Maria. “I don't work for Dick Nixon. My loyalty is to the Justice Department and to the American people.”

“Okay . . .”

“I don't have anything particular to tell you right now, but I want you to know that if there is any way I can help the special prosecutor, I will.”

Antonia was smart enough to know that she was being offered a spy inside Justice. “That could be really important,” she said. “But how will we stay in contact without giving the game away?”

“Call me from a pay phone. Don't give your name. Say anything about a cup of coffee. I'll meet you here the same day. Is this a good time?”

“Perfect.”

“How are things going?”

“We're just getting started. We're looking for the right lawyers to join the team.”

“On that subject, I have a suggestion: George Jakes.”

“I think I've met him. Remind me who he is.”

“He worked for Bobby Kennedy for seven years, first at Justice when Bobby was attorney general, then in the Senate. After Bobby was killed, George went to work at Fawcett Renshaw.”

“He sounds ideal. I'll give him a call.”

Maria stood up. “Let's leave separately. Reduces the chance of our being seen together.”

“Isn't it terrible that we have to act so furtively when we're doing the right thing?”

“I know.”

“Thank you for coming to see me, Maria. I really appreciate it.”

“Good-bye,” said Maria. “Don't tell your boss my name.”

•   •   •

Cameron Dewar had a television set in his office. When the Ervin Committee hearings were being broadcast from the Senate, Cam's TV was on continuously—as was just about every other set in downtown Washington.

On the afternoon of Monday, July 16, Cam was working on a report for his new boss, Al Haig, who had replaced Bob Haldeman as White House chief of staff. Cam was not paying close attention to the televised testimony of Alexander Butterfield, a midlevel White House figure who had organized the president's daily schedule during Nixon's first term, then left to run the Federal Aviation Administration.

A committee lawyer called Fred Thompson was questioning Butterfield. “Were you aware of the installation of any listening devices in the Oval Office of the president?”

Cam looked up. That was unexpected. Listening devices—commonly called bugs—in the Oval Office? Surely not.

Butterfield was silent for a long time. The committee room went quiet. Cam whispered: “Jesus.”

At last Butterfield said: “I was aware of listening devices, yes, sir.”

Cam stood up. “Fuck, no!” he shouted.

On TV, Thompson said: “When were those devices placed in the Oval Office?”

Butterfield hesitated, sighed, swallowed, and said: “Approximately the summer of 1970.”

“Christ almighty!” Cam yelled to his empty room. “How could this happen? How could the president be so stupid?”

Thompson said: “Tell us a little bit about how those devices worked—how they were activated, for example.”

Cam yelled: “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

Butterfield went into a long explanation of the system, and eventually revealed that it was voice-activated.

Cam sat down again. This was a catastrophe. Nixon had secretly recorded everything that went on in the Oval Office. He had talked about burglaries and bribes and blackmail, all the time knowing that his incriminating words were being taped. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Cam said out loud.

Cam could guess what would happen next. Both the Ervin Committee and the special prosecutor would demand to hear the tapes. Almost certainly, they would succeed in forcing the president to hand them over: they were key evidence in several criminal investigations. Then the whole world would know the truth.

Nixon might succeed in keeping the tapes to himself, or perhaps
destroying them; but that was almost as bad. For if he were innocent, the tapes would vindicate him, so why should he hide them? Destroying them would be seen as an admission of guilt—as well as one more in a lengthening list of crimes for which he could be prosecuted.

Nixon's presidency was over.

He would probably cling on. Cam knew him well by now. Nixon did not know when he was beaten—he never had. Once upon a time this had been a strength. Now it might lead him to suffer weeks, perhaps months of diminishing credibility and growing humiliation before he finally gave in.

Cam was not going to be part of that.

He picked up the phone and called Tim Tedder. They met an hour later at the Electric Diner, an old-fashioned luncheonette. “You're not worried about being seen with me?” said Tedder.

“It doesn't matter anymore. I'm leaving the White House.”

“Why?”

“Haven't you been watching TV?”

“Not today.”

“There's a voice-activated recording system in the Oval Office. It's taped everything that has been said in that room for the past three years. This is the end. Nixon is finished.”

“Wait a minute. All the time he was arranging this stuff, he was bugging
himself
?”

“Yes.”

“Incriminating himself.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of idiot does that?”

“I thought he was smart. I guess he had us all fooled. He sure had me fooled.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That's why I called you. I'm making a new start in life. I want a new job.”

“You want to work for my security firm? I'm the only employee—”

“No, no. Listen. I'm twenty-seven. I have five years' experience in the White House. I speak Russian.”

“So you want to work for . . . ?”

“The CIA. I'm well qualified.”

“You are. You'd have to go through their basic training.”

“No problem. Part of my new start.”

“I'm happy to call my friends there, put in a good word.”

“I appreciate that. And there's one other thing.”

“What?”

“I don't want to make a big deal of this, but I do know where the bodies are buried. The CIA has broken some rules in this whole Watergate affair. I know all about the CIA's involvement.”

“I know.”

“That last thing I want to do is blackmail anyone. You know where my loyalties lie. But you might hint to your friends in the Agency that, naturally, I wouldn't spill the beans on my employer.”

“I get it.”

“So, what do you think?”

“I think you're a shoo-in.”

•   •   •

George was happy and proud to be on the special prosecutor's team. He felt he was part of the group leading American politics, as he had been when working for Bobby Kennedy. His only problem was that he did not know how he could ever go back to the kind of penny-ante cases he had been working at Fawcett Renshaw.

It took five months, but in the end Nixon was forced to hand over to the special prosecutor three raw tapes from the Oval Office recording system.

George Jakes was in the office with the rest of the team when they listened to the tape from June 23, 1972, less than a week after the Watergate burglary.

He heard the voice of Bob Haldeman. “The FBI is not under control because Gray doesn't exactly know how to control it.”

The recording was echoey but Haldeman's cultured baritone was fairly clear.

Someone said: “Why would the president need to have the FBI under control?” It was a rhetorical question, George thought. The only reason was to stop the Bureau investigating the president's own crimes.

On the tape, Haldeman went on: “Their investigation is now leading into some productive areas because they have been able to trace the money.”

George recalled that the Watergate burglars had had a lot of cash in new bills with sequential numbers. That meant that sooner or later the FBI would be able to find out who had given them the money.