Edge of Eternity (99 page)

“I'm at the Agriculture Ministry. I write pamphlets for peasants explaining new farming techniques. Don't pity me: it's important work, and I'm good at it.”

“And your health?”

“I'm fat!” He opened his coat to show her.

She laughed happily. He was not fat, but perhaps he was not as thin as he had been. “You're wearing the sweater I sent you. I'm amazed it reached you.” It was the one Anna Murray had bought in Vienna. Tanya
would now have to explain all that to him. She did not know where to start.

“I've hardly taken this off for four years. I don't need it, in Moscow in May, but it's hard to get used to the idea that the weather is not always freezing.”

“I can get you another sweater.”

“You must be making big money!”

“No, I'm not,” she said with a wide smile. “But you are.”

He frowned, puzzled. “How come?”

“Let's go to a bar,” she said, taking his arm. “I've got such a lot to tell you.”

•   •   •

The front page of
The
Washington Post
carried an odd story on the morning of Sunday, June 18. To most readers it was a bit baffling. To a handful it was utterly unnerving.

5 Held in Plot to Bug Democrats' Office Here

By Alfred E. Lewis
Washington Post Staff Writer

Five men, one of whom said he is a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, were arrested at 2:30
A.M
. yesterday in what authorities described as an elaborate plot to bug the offices of the Democratic National Committee here.

Three of the men were native-born Cubans and another was said to have trained Cuban exiles for guerrilla activity after the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion.

They were surprised at gunpoint by three plain-clothes officers of the metropolitan police department in a sixth floor office at the plush Watergate, 2600 Virginia Ave., NW, where the Democratic National Committee occupies the entire floor.

There was no immediate explanation as to why the five suspects would want to bug the Democratic National Committee offices or whether or not they were working for any other individuals or organizations.

Cameron Dewar read the story and said: “Oh, shit.”

He pushed away his cornflakes, too tense now to eat. He knew exactly what this was about, and it presented a terrible threat to President Nixon. If people knew or believed that the law-and-order president had ordered a burglary, it could even derail his reelection.

Cam scanned the paragraphs until he came to the names of the accused men. He feared that Tim Tedder would be among them. To Cam's relief, Tedder was not mentioned.

But most of the men named were Tedder's friends and associates.

Tedder and a group of former FBI and CIA agents formed the White House Special Investigations Unit. They had a high-security office on the ground floor of the Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House. Taped to their door was a piece of paper marked:
PLUMBERS.
It was a joke: their job was to stop leaks.

Cam had not known they planned to bug the Democrats' offices. However, he was not surprised: it was quite a good idea, and might lead to information about sources of leaks.

But the stupid idiots were not supposed to get themselves arrested by the Washington fucking police.

The president was in the Bahamas, due back tomorrow.

Cam called the Plumbers' office. Tim Tedder answered. “What are you doing?” Cam said.

“Weeding files.”

In the background, Cam heard the whine of a shredder. “Good,” he said.

Then he got dressed and went to the White House.

At first it seemed that none of the burglars had any direct connection with the president, and throughout Sunday Cam thought the scandal might be managed. Then it turned out that one of them had given a false name. “Edward Martin” was in fact James McCord, a retired CIA agent employed full-time by CREEP, the Committee to Re-elect the President.

“That does it,” Cam said. He felt crushed and devastated. This was terrible.

Monday's
Washington Post
carried the information about McCord in a story bylined Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein.

Still Cam hoped the president's involvement might be covered up.

Then the FBI stepped in. The Bureau began to investigate the five burglars. In the old days, Cam thought regretfully, J. Edgar Hoover would have done no such thing; but Hoover was dead. Nixon had installed a crony, Patrick Gray, as acting director, but Gray did not know the Bureau and was struggling to control it. The upshot was that the FBI was beginning to act like a law enforcement agency.

The burglars had been found in possession of large amounts of cash, new bills with sequential numbers. This meant that sooner or later the FBI would be able to trace the money and find out who had given it to them.

Cam already knew. This money, like the payments for all the administration's undercover projects, came from the CREEP slush fund.

The FBI inquiry had to be shut down.

•   •   •

When Cam Dewar walked into Maria Summers's office at the Department of Justice, she suffered a moment of fear. Had she been found out? Had the White House somehow discovered that she was Jasper Murray's source of inside information? She was standing at her file cabinet, and for a moment her legs felt so weak she feared she might fall.

But Cam was friendly, and she calmed down. He smiled, took a seat, and gave her the adolescent up-and-down look that indicated he found her attractive.

Keep on dreaming, white boy, she thought.

What was he up to now? She sat at her desk, took off her glasses, and gave him a warm smile. “Hi, Mr. Dewar,” she said. “How did that wiretap work out?”

“In the end it didn't give us much information,” Cam said. “We think Murray may have a secure phone somewhere else that he uses for confidential calls.”

Thank God, she thought. “That's too bad,” she said.

“We appreciate your help, all the same.”

“You're very kind. Is there something else I can do for you?”

“Yes. The president wants the attorney general to order the FBI to stop investigating the Watergate burglary.”

Maria tried to conceal her shock as her mind reeled with the implications. So it
was
a White House caper. She was amazed. No president other than Nixon would have been so arrogant and stupid.

Once again, she would find out the most if she pretended to be supportive. “Okay,” she said, “let's think about this. Kleindienst isn't Mitchell, you know.” John Mitchell had resigned as attorney general in order to run CREEP. His replacement, Richard Kleindienst, was another Nixon crony, but not as biddable. “Kleindienst will want a reason,” Maria said.

“We can give him one. The FBI investigation may lead to confidential matters of foreign policy. In particular, it may reveal damaging information about CIA involvement in President Kennedy's Bay of Pigs invasion.”

That was typical of Tricky Dick, Maria thought with disgust. Everyone would pretend they were protecting American interests when in reality they were saving the president's sorry ass. “So it's a matter of national security.”

“Yes.”

“Good. That will justify the attorney general in ordering the FBI to back off.” But Maria did not want it to be so easy for the White House. “However, Kleindienst may want concrete assurance.”

“We can provide that. The CIA is prepared to make a formal request. Walters will do it.” General Vernon Walters was deputy director of the CIA.

“If the request is formal, I think we can go ahead and do exactly what the president wants.”

“Thank you, Maria.” The boy stood up. “You've been very helpful, again.”

“You're welcome, Mr. Dewar.”

Cam left the room.

Maria stared thoughtfully at the chair he had vacated. The president must have authorized this burglary, or at least turned a blind eye to it. That was the only possible reason for Cam Dewar to be working so hard on a cover-up. If someone in the administration had okayed the burglary
in defiance of Nixon's wishes, that person would by now have been named and shamed and fired. Nixon was not squeamish about getting rid of embarrassing colleagues. The only person he cared to protect was himself.

Was she going to let him get away with it?

Like hell she was.

She picked up the phone and said: “Call Fawcett Renshaw, please.”

D
ave Williams was nervous. It was almost five years since Plum Nellie had played to a live audience. Now they were about to face sixty thousand fans at Candlestick Park in San Francisco.

Performing in a studio was not the same at all. The tape recorder was forgiving: if you played a bum note or your voice cracked or you forgot the lyrics, you could just erase the error and try again.

Anything that went wrong here tonight would be heard by everyone in the stadium and never corrected.

Dave told himself not to be silly. He had done this a hundred times. He recalled playing with the Guardsmen in pubs in the East End of London, when he had known only a handful of chords. Looking back, he marveled at his youthful audacity. He remembered the night Geoffrey had passed out, dead drunk, at the Dive in Hamburg, and Walli had come onstage and played lead guitar throughout the set with no rehearsal. Happy-go-lucky days.

Dave now had nine years' experience. That was longer than the entire career of many pop stars. All the same, as the fans streamed in, buying beer and T-shirts and hot dogs, all trusting Dave to ensure they would have a great evening, he felt shaky.

A young woman from the music company that distributed Nellie Records came into his dressing room to ask if there was anything he needed. She wore loon pants and a crop top, showing off a perfect figure. “No, thanks, darling,” he said. All the dressing rooms had a small bar with beer and liquor, soft drinks and ice, and a carton of cigarettes.

“If you want a little something to relax you, I have supplies,” she said.

He shook his head. He did not want drugs right now. He might smoke a joint afterward.

She persisted. “Or if I can, you know, do anything . . .”

She was offering him sex. She was as gorgeous as a slim California blonde could be, which was very beautiful indeed, but he was not in the mood.

He had not been in the mood since the last time he saw Beep.

“Maybe after the show,” he said. If I get drunk enough, he thought. “I appreciate the offer, but right now I want you to get lost,” he said firmly.

She was not offended. “Let me know if you change your mind!” she said cheerfully, and she went out.

Tonight's gig was a benefit for George McGovern. His election campaign had succeeded in bringing young people back into politics. In Europe he would have been middle-of-the-road, Dave knew, but here he was considered left-wing. His tough criticism of the Vietnam War delighted liberals, and he spoke with authority because of his combat experience in World War II.

Dave's sister, Evie, came to his dressing room to wish him luck. She was dressed to avoid recognition, with her hair pinned up under a tweed cap, sunglasses, and a biker jacket. “I'm going back to England,” she said.

That surprised him. “I know you've had some bad press since that Hanoi photo, but . . .”

She shook her head. “It's worse than bad press. I'm hated today as passionately as I was loved a year ago. It's the phenomenon Oscar Wilde noticed: one turns to the other with bewildering suddenness.”

“I thought you might ride it out.”

“So did I, for a while. But I haven't been offered a decent part in six months. I could play the plucky girl in a spaghetti western, a stripper in an off-Broadway improvisation, or any part I like in the Australian tour of
Jesus Christ Superstar.
”

“I'm sorry—I had no idea.”

“It wasn't exactly spontaneous.”

“What do you mean?”

“A couple of journalists told me they got calls from the White House.”

“This was organized?”

“I think so. Look, I was a popular celebrity who attacked Nixon at every opportunity. It's not surprising that he stuck the knife in me when I was foolish enough to give him a chance. It isn't even unfair: I'm doing my best to put
him
out of a job.”

“That's pretty big of you.”

“And it might not even be Nixon. Who do we know who works at the White House?”

“Beep's brother?” Dave was incredulous. “Cam did this to you?”

“He fell for me, all those years ago in London, and I turned him down kind of roughly.”

“And he's held a grudge all these years?”

“I could never prove it.”

“The bastard!”

“So, I've put my swanky Hollywood home on the market, sold my convertible, and packed up my collection of modern art.”

“What will you do?”

“Lady Macbeth, for a start.”

“You'll be terrifying. Where?”

“Stratford-upon-Avon. I'm joining the Royal Shakespeare Company.”

“One door closes and another opens.”

“I'm so happy to be doing Shakespeare again. It's ten years since I played Ophelia at school.”

“In the nude.”

Evie smiled ruefully. “What a little show-off I was.”

“You were also a good actor, even then.”

She stood up. “I'll leave you to get ready. Enjoy yourself tonight, little brother. I'll be in the audience, bopping.”

“When are you leaving for England?”

“I'm on a plane tomorrow.”

“Let me know when
Macbeth
opens. I'll come and see you.”

“That would be nice.”

Dave walked out with Evie. The stage had been built on a temporary scaffold at one end of the pitch. Behind the stage, a crowd of roadies, sound men, record company people, and privileged journalists milled on the grass. The dressing rooms were tents pitched in a roped-off area.

Buzz and Lew had arrived, but there was no sign of Walli. Dave was
relying on Beep to get Walli here on time. He wondered anxiously where they were.

Soon after Evie left, Beep's parents came backstage. Dave was again on good terms with Bella and Woody. He decided not to tell them what Evie had said about Cam stirring up the press against her. Lifelong Democrats, they were already annoyed that their son was working for Nixon.

Dave wanted to know what Woody thought of McGovern's chances. “George McGovern has a problem,” Woody said. “In order to defeat Hubert Humphrey and get the nomination, he had to break the power of the old Democratic Party barons, the city mayors and the state governors and the union bosses.”

Dave had not followed this closely. “How did he manage that?”

“After the mess of Chicago 1968 the party rewrote the rules, and McGovern chaired the commission that did that.”

“Why's that a problem?”

“Because the old power brokers won't work for him. Some detest him so much that they started a movement called Democrats for Nixon.”

“Young people like him.”

“We have to hope that will be enough.”

At last Beep arrived with Walli. The Dewar parents went off to Walli's dressing room. Dave put on his stage outfit, a red one-piece jumpsuit and engineer boots. He did some exercises to warm up his voice. While he was singing scales, Beep came in.

She gave him a sunny smile and kissed his cheek. As always, she lit up the room just by walking in. I should never have let her go, Dave thought. What kind of an idiot am I?

“How is Walli?” he said worriedly.

“He's had a hit of dope, just enough to get him through the gig. He'll shoot up when he comes offstage. He's all right to play.”

“Thank God.”

She was wearing satin hot pants and a sequined bra top. She had put on a little weight since the recording sessions, Dave saw: her bust seemed bigger and she even had a cute tummy bulge. He offered her a drink. She asked for a Coke. “Help yourself to a cigarette,” he said.

“I quit.”

“That's why you've put on weight.”

“No, it's not.”

“That wasn't a put-down. You look fabulous.”

“I'm leaving Walli.”

That shocked him. He turned from the bar and stared at her. “Wow,” he said. “Does he know yet?”

“I'm going to tell him after tonight's show.”

“That's a relief. But what about all that stuff you told me about being a less selfish person and saving Walli's life?”

“I have a more important life to save.”

“Your own?”

“My baby's.”

“Christ.” Dave sat down. “You're pregnant.”

“Three months.”

“That's why your shape has changed.”

“And smoking makes me puke. I don't even use pot anymore.”

The dressing-room PA crackled, and a voice said: “Five minutes to showtime, everybody. All stage technicians should now be in performance positions.”

Dave said: “If you're pregnant, why are you leaving Walli?”

“I'm not bringing up a child in that environment. It's one thing to sacrifice myself, something else to do it to a kid. This child is going to have a normal life.”

“Where will you go?”

“I'm moving back in with my mom and dad.” She shook her head in a gesture of wonder. “It's incredible. For ten years I've done everything I could to piss them off, but when I needed their help they just said yes. Fucking amazing.”

The PA said: “One minute, everybody. The band are kindly invited to move to the wings whenever they're ready.”

Dave was struck by a thought. “Three months . . .”

“I don't know whose baby it is,” Beep said. “I conceived while you were making the album. I was on the pill, but sometimes I used to forget to take it, especially if I was stoned.”

“But you told me that Walli and you seldom had sex.”

“Seldom isn't never. I'd say there's a ten percent chance it's Walli's baby.”

“So ninety percent mine.”

Lew looked into Dave's tent. “Here we go,” he said.

“I'm coming,” Dave said.

Lew went, and Dave said to Beep: “Live with me.”

She stared at him. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it's not your baby?”

“I'm sure I'll love your baby. I love you. Hell, I love Walli. Live with me, please.”

“Oh, God,” she said, and she started to cry. “I was hoping and praying you'd say this.”

“Does that mean you will?”

“Of course. It's what I'm longing for.”

Dave felt as if the sun had risen. “Well, then, that's what we'll do,” he said.

“What are we going to do about Walli? I don't want him to die.”

“I have an idea about that,” Dave said. “I'll tell you after the show.”

“Go onstage, they're waiting for you.”

“I know.” He kissed her mouth softly. She put her arms around him and hugged him. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too, and I was crazy to ever let you go.”

“Don't do it again.”

“Never.”

Dave went out. He ran across the grass and up the steps to where the rest of the band were waiting in the wings. Then he was struck by a thought. “I forgot something,” he said.

Buzz said irritably: “What? The guitars are onstage.”

Dave did not answer. He ran back to his dressing room. Beep was still there, sitting down, wiping her eyes.

Dave said: “Shall we get married?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Good.”

He ran back to the scaffold.

“Everyone okay?” he said.

Everyone was okay.

Dave led the band onto the stage.

•   •   •

Claus Krohn asked Rebecca to have a drink after a meeting of the Hamburg parliament.

She was taken aback. It was four years since she had ended their love affair. For the past twelve months, she knew, Claus had been seeing an attractive woman who was the membership officer of a trade union. Claus meanwhile was an increasingly powerful figure in the Free Democratic Party, to which Rebecca also belonged. Claus and his girlfriend were a good match. In fact, Rebecca had heard they were planning to get married.

So she gave him a discouraging look.

“Not at the Yacht Bar,” Claus added hastily. “Somewhere less furtive.”

She laughed, reassured.

They went to a bar in the town center not far from the city hall. For old times' sake, Rebecca asked for a glass of Sekt. “I'll come right to the point,” Claus said as soon as they had their drinks. “We want you to stand for election to the national parliament.”

“Oh!” she said. “I would have been less surprised if you'd made a pass at me.”

He smiled. “Don't be surprised. You're intelligent and attractive, you speak well, and people like you. You're respected by men of all parties here in Hamburg. You have almost a decade of experience in politics. You'd be an asset.”

“But it's so sudden.”

“Elections always seem sudden.”

The chancellor, Willy Brandt, had engineered a snap election, to be held in eight weeks' time. If Rebecca agreed, she could be a member of parliament before Christmas.

When she got over the surprise, Rebecca felt eager. Her passionate desire was for the reunification of Germany, so that she and thousands more Germans could be reunited with their families. She would never achieve that in local politics—but as a member of the national parliament she might have some influence.

Her party, the FDP, was in a coalition government with the Social Democrats led by Willy Brandt. Rebecca agreed with Brandt's “Ostpolitik,” trying to have contact with the East despite the Wall. She believed this was the quickest way to undermine the East German regime.

“I'll have to talk to my husband,” she said.

“I knew you'd say that. Women always do.”

“It will mean leaving him alone a lot.”

“This happens to all spouses of members of parliament.”

“But my husband is special.”

“Indeed.”

“I'll talk to him this evening.” Rebecca stood up.

Claus stood too. “On a personal note . . .”

“What?”

“We know each other quite well.”