The Rake (15 page)

Washington, September 1991

At three-fifteen Reuben put down the telephone. Was there anything else Bill Rode should do?

“No. I'm remembering now. It was kind of a lark. Fraternity stunt. The…page you looked at—loose-leaf, or part of a bound volume?”

“Bound volume, sir.”

“Any fuss about seeing it?”

“No. But the priest said somebody was there just a couple of weeks ago looking for the same thing.”

“
A couple of weeks ago!
…What do you mean, looking for the same thing?”

“The guy was looking for Leborcier.”

“He said it was a guy?”

“Hm, no, he didn't, Senator. He just said
somebody
. Anything else you want me to do, sir?”

“No. Beyond keeping your mouth shut. You know, Bill, what people can do. It was nothing. I'll call the guy who was head of the fraternity back then. He'll probably know where the girl is. Forget it, come on back. But—”

“Yes, boss?”

“I'm thinking. Do you have a cell phone with you?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then give me the number, and stay where you are until I call you back. I've got to sort some things out.”

Forget it!

Reuben Castle needed a lawyer. A Canadian lawyer. Shee-yit!

The lawyer would need to be told certain things. Well, lawyers were meant to keep secrets—but he wanted not just
any
lawyer.

He thought hard.

Should he call Eric? Eric would have no trouble finding a lawyer in Winnipeg, a hundred miles way. But then Eric would be in on the whole story, the whole thing. But maybe he's already in on it? He asks me if I married Henri. And if so, when did I divorce her. Jesus Christ. No. Better not call Monsanto till I have everything looked into that I want to look into. Who the hell—

Of course! The U.S. ambassador. Reuben got his name and phone number from Harry, his young staff researcher. He put in a call.

A half hour later he had three names. Three Winnipeg attorneys, all of them “distinguished.”

He thought for a moment, thought of the implications in the situation….
Reuben—
he sometimes addressed himself by name in his thoughts, when pondering vexed questions
—Reuben, this is a big one. You'd better handle it yourself.
He called Harry back in. Harry did travel research as well as other research. “Harry, I
need to fly to Winnipeg. Tell me how to do that. Day after tomorrow.”

He then started down the list of lawyers.

Number one was away.

Reuben began to give the operator the next name on the ambassador's list but suddenly took thought.

Three distinguished lawyers.

That wasn't exactly what he was looking for, come to think of it.

Reuben, what you want is a hard-ass lawyer.

Rode would find the right man. Reuben called Rode on his cell phone. “Bill, I'm looking for a tough lawyer in Winnipeg, one who has the reputation—you know. For getting things done. Call somebody at the newspaper. Find out who is the lawyer that people…that people in serious trouble get in touch with when they want…well, you know, difficult things to get done.”

“I know what you mean, Senator. There's always at least one of those in every major city. I'll get back to you.”

An hour later Reuben was put though to Henry Griswold. Meanwhile Harry had come in bringing a sheet with flight numbers and times.

Reuben nodded, and Harry left the room. “Mr. Griswold? I'm United States Senator Reuben Castle and I need to consult with an attorney about the Manitoba marriage law. Is that something you are familiar with?”

“Certainly. Is it a question I can handle over the phone?”

“Well, I'd rather discuss it with you in person. I can be in
Winnipeg tomorrow at”—he looked down at Harry's sheet—“two-thirty. I mean, at the airport at two-thirty. Two-thirty plus whatever time it takes a taxi—…No, I appreciate that, but I wouldn't want to put you out of the way. I would rather meet you in a hotel room than in your office. What's
the
hotel in Winnipeg?…The Fairmont? Good. What you can do for me is book me a room there. This is personal; I am not going on government business. We'll think then of four o'clock?”

He started to phone Jim Stannard, North Dakota's sole congressman. They had an agreement, not often invoked but sometimes very useful. By prearrangement, Stannard, an old personal friend, would call Reuben asking him to do Jim “a huge favor” and substitute for him as a “speaker”…“eulogist”…“debater” in Atlanta…San Antonio…Salt Lake City—or Winnipeg, this time around. That disposed of the Priscilla problem and often, even, of the problem of Susan, though it was usually just plain easier to proceed with life on the understanding that Susan Oakeshott knew everything, including the names of the ladies with whom Jim Stannard arranged emergency meetings.

But he didn't want Susan to know about this…engagement. All he would tell her was that he was taking a couple of days off to do some duck hunting near Winnipeg with an old buddy from North Dakota.

Washington, September 1991

By now Harold Kaltenbach didn't care if he was spotted in the company of Reuben Castle. The hand of Kaltenbach was already visible to all the major Democratic players who could see, if not in the dark, then in very little light: the Kaltenbach group was lining up behind Castle for President.

Accordingly, this next engagement to confer with Castle was made not in some remote corner of South Carolina, or on a boat, but at Kaltenbach's suite at the Jefferson Hotel. It was September, the morning of a day quite beautiful, with that cool taste of fall ahead, but not yet overpowering the southern balminess of the District of Columbia.

Riding in the elevator with Reuben, Susan Oakeshott wondered whether Hal Kaltenbach ever noticed the weather. Perhaps if he was snowed in in Omaha. What would such a man, so purposive in all matters, do when such a thing happened? Well, she reasoned, he would retreat to whatever shelter he had emerged from and do his work on the telephone.

Susan had brought along, as instructed to do, her appointment book, and also the thick notebook in which she kept the names, telephone numbers, and addresses—plus other rele
vant details—of all those who had crossed paths with Reuben Castle.

Kaltenbach was dressed in a blue gabardine suit, a soft white shirt, and a blue-and-yellow tie with, as always, the tiepin “1950.” That was the year the University of Nebraska won the conference title. All-American Harold Kaltenbach III was the running back.

There was coffee in the handsome suite's well-stocked bar. Kaltenbach sat behind a mahogany coffee table. Reuben and Susan shared a large sofa, a long low table in reach of them both.

Harold chatted for a few minutes about the rapidly changing scene in Iraq. The United States' failure to apprehend Saddam Hussein and its failure to support the freedom movement of the Kurds were seeds of a considerable political offensive against the Republican establishment. “We need to put it just right, find the right language. We mustn't sound like we're regretting the whole Gulf operation. This is an opportunity for you.”

Reuben looked up. “What it is is failed leadership. Can't we call it that?”

“Sure we can call it that. The listener has to be left thinking, ‘It was a good idea, we did it well going in, but now we've screwed up—because we don't have the right people there to make the decisions.'

“That's the general idea. Work on the language, Reuben.”

Kaltenbach turned then to concrete questions. “The main thing we're here to settle is when to make the announcement that you're running for president, and where to make it.”

“It has to be in Fargo, doesn't it, Hal?”

“That would be nice, and it would be traditional, but we shouldn't think of it as an iron rule. Going back, Reagan announced in Washington, though Los Angeles would have been more the homeboy place to do it. George McGovern is the most relevant precedent where you are concerned, and he announced from Sioux Falls. Jimmy Carter announced from Atlanta. Jerry Ford was in the White House, and obviously announced from there. Nixon announced from California. Johnson was in the White House in 1964, but when he announced in 1960, he did it in Texas. JFK announced in Washington.

“Television makes the venue somehow arbitrary. You could announce from a submarine. Ha-ha. What it comes down to is whether you have more to gain from your odd-state connection or more to lose by drawing attention to it. We're in this for ‘Reuben Castle, the Young Hope for America'—not ‘Reuben Castle, the Big Name in North Dakota.' On the other hand, there is a certain singularity in relating the candidacy to North Dakota. It gives a sense of the unity of the republic. You see what I mean, don't you, Susan?”

“Yes indeed. But the senator's attachment to his home state is pretty well recognized. After all, he was, for four years, North Dakota's sole representative in the House.”

Reuben spoke up. “Hal, enough. I will announce from Washington.”

“I was thinking you'd make that decision. Now, on when to do it. Let's go for next month, October. That puts us three months ahead of the Iowa caucuses. And it's a good time of year to pick up money. I've got
that
campaign planned. We'll want to shoot for $35 million to go through New Hampshire. If we win there,
we'll go for the heavy stuff, and we'll get it. Susan, what've you got in the senator's schedule that we care about for October?”

“There's a trip to Israel, third week.”

“Don't mess with that.”

“And a few speeches. Miami, Notre Dame, Seattle. How about October 15?” She ticked the date and handed the calendar over to Reuben for approval. He stretched out his legs, leaned back on the sofa, and scrutinized the book.

“Sounds okay. I hope between now and then Saddam Hussein doesn't retire to a monastery, and the stock market doesn't go haywire-up.”

“All right,” Kaltenbach said, “October 15. Next item I've got to raise is Priscilla. I saw some complaints last winter about her…behavior…in Tallahassee.”

Reuben froze. Then broke into a smile. “Oh, that's right—she talked about entering the contest for the Orange Bowl.”

“The what?”

“The Orange Bowl.”

Harold Kaltenbach was formal about all matters that touched on football. “Are you saying she thought the Orange Bowl was a beauty contest?”

“I think she gave a couple of people that impression.”

Susan said nothing. She too was inclined to smile. But this would not be right, not with Harold Kaltenbach, All-American 1950. They had touched now the only other subject he took as seriously as presidential politics.

“The thing is,” Kaltenbach said, looking Reuben straight in the eye, “we can't run the risk that she becomes a comic figure. She'll have to be front and center on October 15. But she'll obviously be okay at eleven
A.M.
—”

“Maybe we should announce at ten
A.M.
?”

Harold Kaltenbach frowned. He thought it right to remove jollity from
this
discussion. His voice was now even.
Deadly even.
Susan's amusement, set down in her special shorthand, was entirely private.

“We'll be setting up critical dates in New Hampshire and Iowa. Some will be breakfast meetings. She can go to those.”

Reuben wondered whether he should tell Harold that Priscilla hadn't gotten up for breakfast in ten years. He decided against it. He'd just…put that problem off. Along with other problems.

Winnipeg, Manitoba, September 1991

Henry Griswold knocked on the door of the hotel suite. He was bearded and imposing, gray-haired, formal in deportment.

Reuben quickly got down to business. It helped that the room was fusty Victorian. The curtains were full and ancient, the table was massive, and the sunlight was dimmed by the thick glass. Reuben cleared his throat. “Mr. Griswold, I wish that the business between us should remain entirely confidential. As you know, I am in politics, and have attained some prominence. For reasons I do not have to expand upon, what I am here to discuss with you is personal and is to remain personal. Is there any problem with that?”

“None whatever, Senator.” Griswold's voice had just enough animation to denote to Reuben that he was not speaking to a stuffed dummy. Griswold bent his head just a degree or two. Middle-class Canadian deference—it crossed Reuben's mind—to a live United States senator.

“On the matter of fees, in this envelope you will find $5,000. That is a deposit on your consultancy. I will get to you anything in excess of that which I eventually owe you.”

“How am I to be in touch with you?” In Griswold's hand a leather pad materialized, a gold pencil attached.

“You have my private telephone number. If you wish to send a letter by post, here is how to do it.” He gave Jim Stannard's address. “Just put ‘For Reuben' on the envelope.”

Griswold nodded and pocketed the envelope Reuben handed him. “How shall I make out a receipt?”

“Don't bother. I don't feel I need to protect myself. At that level.”

“So, what can I do for you, Senator?”

“Here is a summary of the relevant events. I was a student at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks. In October 1969, I learned that my girlfriend was pregnant. We discussed various options but did not come to a conclusion. Then in November she asked me to drive with her to her hometown, which is the village of Letellier, south from here about—”

“I know the town. As a child my wife attended the convent school there.”

That news was not happily greeted. Reuben was not in search of orthodoxy from his lawyer.

“It turned out that her destination was the rectory of the Catholic church there. She introduced me to the priest who had baptized her twenty-one years before.”

“This priest, is he alive?”

“I don't know. He was already elderly in 1969. Anyway, after reminiscing with him for a few minutes, my lady—she is called, was called, Henrietta Leborcier”—he waited while Griswold wrote on his notepad—“told the priest that she wished him to proceed to marry us. I remember protesting, in some way or other, but she was very determined and most anxious that her child—”

“Your child?”

“Yes, our child—should at birth have both a mother and a father.” He paused.

Griswold sat in his armchair, motionless.

“I simply have no memory of other details—I was pretty much overwhelmed by the whole thing. I do remember that we knelt for the priest's blessing after exchanging vows, and then there was the church ledger, which she signed, and I signed—I think. I must have.”

“On your return to your university, did you discuss your marriage?”

“No. We agreed that we would not speak of it to
anybody
. My closest friend knew about the pregnancy, but not—or so at least I believe—about the marriage, or pseudo-marriage.

“Anyway, Henrietta and I agreed that she would, at the end of the term, leave for Paris, where her father was a university professor. I would proceed to graduation at Grand Forks.”

“And then?”

“I came to my senses in the spring, and got word to her that I did not wish to continue our liaison.”

“And the child?”

“I was penniless, Mr. Griswold. Her father had a university position and, I thought, savings.”

“Did you ever hear from her again?”

“No. Not from that day to this.”

“You proceeded with your life and your career?”

“Yes. I went to Vietnam as a soldier. I was discharged in 1972 and went to law school at the University of Illinois. I did not finish. I had come to the attention of the North Dakota Democratic Party, and I was quickly drawn into politics.”

“You married?”

“Yes. In 1975. I was by then actively involved in politics, and the next year I was elected to Congress, as the sole member from North Dakota in the House of Representatives. North Dakota, like Wyoming and Montana and a couple of other states, gets two senators but only a single congressman.

“When I married, our wedding was amply noticed in the press, in part because I was already being spoken of as a congressional candidate, in part because my wife had been Miss America two years earlier.”

“Who else knew of your liaison with Ms. Leborcier?”

“There were several classmates who knew us to be together a great deal at college. One of them, as I say, was an especially intimate friend. He and I are estranged, because he took offense at my breaking it off with…Henrietta. He is now a successful attorney in Grand Forks.”

“Name?”

“Eric Monsanto.”

“I know the name.”

“But even he—on this I am not absolutely certain. We had been in the habit of sharing our secrets but I didn't want to tell even him of the marriage—alleged marriage.”

“But he knew of the pregnancy?”

“Yes. It happened, so to speak, under his auspices. He and his girlfriend, and Henrietta and I, spent the night at his father's duck blind on Devil's Lake. And it was Monsanto who passed on the news to Henrietta that I had decided to end the…courtship. I have no reason to believe that she ever told him that—in her opinion—we had actually been married.”

“You wish to know how that…marriage, or whatever one calls it, appears in Manitoba records?”

“Yes. Here is what, using my own resources, I have established. The church registry at Saint Anne's in Letellier records that on November 18 Henrietta and I were ‘married.'”

Griswold made another note.

Reuben went on. “One point occurs to me, having to do with the civil authorities. I remember when I was
really
married, to Priscilla. We needed to apply for a marriage license a few days ahead of time. I certainly didn't do that with Henrietta. Surely any marriage performed by a priest without a valid marriage license from the Province of Manitoba would have been illegal, and therefore null?”

Griswold made a note: “So the first thing to find out is whether, at the Vital Statistics Agency in Winnipeg, there is any record of a marriage license having been issued, in November 1969, to…Leborcier and Castle.”

“Yes.”

Griswold looked up from his notepad. “If it does…if such a document exists…other than to advise you that it exists, what more would you seek, Senator?”

“Its destruction, Mr. Griswold.”

Reuben had thought this out. Perhaps Griswold would simply leave the room.

But he didn't.

Bill Rode had done good work.