Dick Nixon took it personally. He took everything personally. This morning he looked hurt, betrayed, outraged. He believed the world was full of people who had it in for him, and the leaks confirmed his paranoia.
Cam, too, was enraged. When he got the White House job he had hoped to be part of a group that would change America. But everything the Nixon administration tried to do was undermined by liberals in the media and their traitorous "sources" within the government. It was agonizingly frustrating.
"This Jasper Murray," said Nixon.
Cam remembered Jasper. The man had been living at the Williams house in London a decade ago when the Dewar family visited. Now there was a nest of crypto-Communists.
Nixon said: "Is he a Jew?"
Cam felt impatient, and kept his face rigidly expressionless. Nixon had some crackpot ideas, and one was that Jews were natural spies.
Ehrlichman said: "I don't think so."
Cam said: "I met Murray years ago in London. His mother is half Jewish. His father is a British army officer."
"Murray is British?"
"Yes, but we can't use that against him because he served with the U.S. Army in Vietnam. Saw action, has the medals to prove it."
"Well, find a way to stop these leaks. I don't want to be told why it can't be done. I don't want excuses. I want results. I want it done, whatever the cost."
This was the kind of fighting talk Cam liked to hear. He felt bucked.
Ehrlichman said: "Thank you, Mr. President," and they went out.
"Well, that's clear enough!" Cam said eagerly as soon as they were outside the Oval Office.
"We need surveillance on Murray," Ehrlichman said decisively.
"I'll get on it," said Cam.
Ehrlichman headed for his office. Cam left the White House and walked along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Department of Justice.
"Surveillance" meant a lot of things. It was not against the law to "bug" a room by placing a hidden recording device. However, getting into the room secretly to place the bug almost always involved the crime of breaking and entering, or burglary. And wiretapping, recording telephone conversations, was illegal--with exceptions. The Nixon administration believed wiretapping was legal if approved by the attorney general. In the last two years the White House had placed a total of seventeen wiretaps, all approved by the attorney general on grounds of national security and installed by the FBI. Cam was on his way to get authorization for number eighteen.
His memory of Jasper Murray as a youngster was vague, but he vividly recollected the beautiful Evie Williams, who had brutally spurned the advances of fifteen-year-old Cam. When he had told her that he was in love with her she had said: "Don't be ridiculous." And then, when he pressed her for a reason, she had said: "I'm in love with Jasper, you idiot."
He told himself these were silly adolescent dramas. Evie was a movie star now, and a supporter of every Communist cause from civil rights to sex education. In a famous incident on her brother's television show she had kissed Percy Marquand, scandalizing an audience who were not used to seeing whites even touch blacks. And she was certainly no longer in love with Jasper. She had dated pop star Hank Remington for a long time, though they were not together now.
But the memory of her scornful rebuff stung Cam like a burn. And women were still rejecting him. Even Stephanie Maple, who was not beautiful at all, had turned him down on the night of Nixon's victory. Later, when they both came to Washington to work, Stephanie had at last agreed to go to bed with Cam; but she had ended the romance after one night, which in a way was worse.
Cam knew he was tall and awkward, but so was his father, who apparently had never had trouble attracting women. Cam had talked to his mother about this indirectly. "How come you fell for Dad?" he had said. "He's not handsome or anything."
"Oh, but he was so nice," she had said.
Cam had no idea what she was talking about.
He arrived at the Department of Justice and entered the high Great Hall with its art deco aluminum light fixtures. He anticipated no problem with the authorization: the attorney general, John Mitchell, was a Nixon crony, and had been Nixon's campaign manager in 1968.
The elevator's aluminum door opened. Cam got in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
*
In ten years in the Washington bureaucracy, Maria had learned to be watchful. Her office was in the corridor leading to the attorney general's suite of rooms, and she kept her door open, so that she could see who came and went. She was especially alert on the day after the broadcast of the edition of This Day based on her leak. She knew there would be an explosive reaction from the White House, and she was waiting to see what form it would take.
As soon as she saw one of John Ehrlichman's aides go by, she jumped out of her chair.
"The attorney general is in a meeting and can't be disturbed," she said, catching him up. She had seen him before. He was an awkward, gangling white boy, tall and thin, his shoulders like a wire coat hanger for his suit. She knew the type: he would be clever and naive at the same time. She put on her most friendly smile. "Perhaps I can do something for you?"
"It's not the kind of thing that can be discussed with a secretary," he said irritably.
Maria's antennae quivered. She sensed danger. But she pretended to be eager to help. "Then it's a good thing I'm not a secretary," she said. "I'm an attorney. My name is Maria Summers."
He clearly had difficulty with the concept of a black woman lawyer. "Where did you study?" he asked skeptically.
He probably expected her to name an obscure Negro college, so she took pleasure in saying casually: "Chicago Law." But she could not resist asking: "How about you?"
"I'm not a lawyer," he admitted. "I majored in Russian at Berkeley. Cam Dewar."
"I've heard of you. You work for John Ehrlichman. Why don't we talk in my office?"
"I'll wait for the attorney general."
"Is this about that TV show last night?"
Cam glanced around furtively. No one was listening.
"We have to do something about that," Maria said emphatically. "The business of government can't go on with these leaks all the time," she went on, feigning indignation. "It's impossible!"
The young man's attitude warmed. "That's what the president thinks."
"But what are we going to do about it?"
"We need a wiretap on Jasper Murray."
Maria swallowed. Thank God I found out about this, she thought. But she said: "Great--some tough action at last."
"A journalist who admits to receiving confidential information from within the government is clearly a danger to national security."
"Absolutely. Now don't you worry about the paperwork. I'll put an authorization form in front of Mitchell today. He'll be glad to sign it, I know."
"Thank you."
She caught him looking at her chest. Having seen her first as a secretary and then as a Negro, he was now regarding her as a pair of breasts. Young men were so predictable. "This will be what they call a black bag job," she said. The phrase meant illegal breaking and entering. "Joe Hugo is in charge of that for the FBI."
"I'll go and see him now." The headquarters of the Bureau was in the same building. "Thank you for your help, Maria."
"You're welcome, Mr. Dewar."
She watched him retreat down the corridor, then she closed her office door. She picked up the phone and dialed Fawcett Renshaw. "I'd like to leave a message for George Jakes," she said.
*
Joe Hugo was a pale man with prominent blue eyes. He was somewhere in his thirties. Like all FBI agents he wore excruciatingly conservative clothes: a plain gray suit, a white shirt, a nondescript tie, black toe-capped shoes. Cam himself was conventional in his tastes, but his unremarkable brown chalk-stripe suit with wide lapels and flared trousers suddenly seemed radical.
Cam told Hugo he worked for Ehrlichman and said right out: "I need a wiretap on Jasper Murray, the television journalist."
&n
bsp; Joe frowned. "Tap the office of This Day? If that story got out . . ."
"Not his office, his home. The leakers we're talking about most likely sneak out late in the evening and go to a pay phone and call him at home."
"Either way it's a problem. The FBI doesn't do black bag jobs anymore."
"What? Why?"
"Mr. Hoover feels the Bureau is in danger of taking the rap for other people in government."
Cam could not contradict that. If the FBI were caught burglarizing the home of a journalist, naturally the president would deny all knowledge. That was how things worked. J. Edgar Hoover had been breaking the law for years, but now for some reason he had got a bug up his ass about it. There was no telling with Hoover, seventy-seven years old and no saner than he had ever been.
Cam raised his voice. "The president has asked for this wiretap, and the attorney general is happy to authorize it. Are you going to refuse?"
"Relax," said Hugo. "There's always a way to give the president what he needs."
"You mean you'll do it?"
"I mean there's a way." Hugo wrote something on a pad and tore off the sheet. "Call this guy. He used to do these jobs officially. He's retired now, which just means he does them unofficially."
Cam was uncomfortable with the idea of doing things unofficially. What did that mean, he wondered? But he sensed this was not the moment to quibble.
He took the piece of paper. It bore the name "Tim Tedder" and a phone number. "I'll call him today," Cam said.
"From a pay phone," said Hugo.
*
The mayor of Roath, Mississippi, sat in George Jakes's office at Fawcett Renshaw. His name was Robert Denny, but he said: "Call me Denny. Everyone knows Denny. Even my little lady wife calls me Denny." He was the kind of man George had been fighting for a decade: an ugly, fat, foul-mouthed, stupid white racist.
His city was building an airport, with help from the government. But recipients of federal funding had to be equal-opportunity employers. And Maria in the Justice Department had learned that the new airport would have no black staff other than skycaps.
This was typical of the kind of work George got.
Denny was as condescending as a man could be. "We do things a little differently in the South, George," he said.
Don't I fucking know it, George thought; you thugs broke my arm eleven years ago, and it still aches like a bastard on a cold day.
"People in Roath wouldn't have confidence in an airport run by coloreds," Denny went on. "They would fear things might not be done right, you know, from a safety point of view. I'm sure you understand me."
You bet I do, you racist fool.
"Old Renshaw is a good friend of mine."
Renshaw was not a friend of Denny's, George knew. The senior partner had met this client just twice. But Denny was hoping to make George nervous. If you mess up, your boss is going to be real mad at you.
Denny went on: "He tells me that you're the best person in Washington to get the Justice Department off my back."
George said: "Mr. Renshaw is right. I am."
With Denny were two city councilors and three aides, all white. Now they sat back, showing relief. George had reassured them that their problem could be solved.
"Now," George said, "there are two ways we could achieve this. We could go to court and challenge the Justice Department's ruling. They're not that smart over there, and we can find flaws in their methodology, mistakes in their reports, and bias. Litigation is good for my firm, because our fees would be high."
"We can pay," said Denny. The airport was clearly a lucrative project.
"Two snags with litigation," George said. "One, there are always delays--and you want to get your airport built and operating as soon as you can. Two, no lawyer can put his hand on his heart and tell you what the court's decision will be. You never know."
"Not here in Washington, anyhow," said Denny.
Clearly the courts in Roath were more amenable to Denny's wishes.
"Alternatively," George said, "we could negotiate."
"What would that involve?"
"A phased introduction of more black employees at all levels."
"Promise them anything!" said Denny.
"They're not completely stupid, and payments would be tied to compliance."
"What do you think they'll want?"
"The Justice Department doesn't really care, so long as they can say they've made a difference. But they will consult with black organizations in your town." George glanced down at the file on his desk. "This case was brought to the Justice Department by Roath Christians for Equal Rights."
"Fucking Communists," said Denny.
"The Justice Department will probably agree to any compromise that has the approval of that group. It gets them and you out of the department's hair."
Denny reddened. "You better not be telling me I have to negotiate with the goddamn Roath Christians."
"It's the smart way to go if you want a quick solution to your problem."
Denny bristled.
George added: "But you don't have to see them personally. In fact I recommend you don't speak to them at all."
"Then who will negotiate with them?"
"I will," said George. "I'll fly down there tomorrow."
The mayor grinned. "And you being, you know, the color you are, you'll be able to talk them into backing down."
George wanted to strangle the dumb prick. "I don't want you to misunderstand me, Mr. Mayor--Denny, I should say. You will have to make some real changes. My job is to make sure they're as painless as possible. But you're an experienced political leader, and you know the importance of public relations."
"That's the truth."
"If there's any talk of the Roath Christians backing down, it could sabotage the whole deal. Better for you to take the line that you've graciously made some small concessions, much against your will, in order to get your airport built for the good of the town."
"Gotcha," Denny said with a wink.
Without realizing it, Denny had agreed to reverse a decades-old practice and employ more blacks at his airport. This was a small victory, but George relished it. However, Denny would not be happy unless he could tell himself and others that he had pulled a fast one. Best, perhaps, to go along with the delusion.
George winked back.
As the delegation from Tennessee was leaving the office, George's secretary gave him a strange look and a slip of paper.
It was a typed phone message: "There will be a prayer meeting at the Barney Circle Full Gospel Church tomorrow at six."
The secretary's look said this was a strange way for a high-powered Washington lawyer to spend the cocktail hour.
George knew the message was from Maria.
*
Cam did not like Tim Tedder. He wore a safari suit and had a soldier's short haircut. He had no sideburns, at a time when almost everyone wore sideburns. Cam felt Tedder was too gung ho. He clearly relished everything clandestine. Cam wondered what Tedder would have said if asked to kill Jasper Murray rather than just wiretap him.
Tedder had no scruples about breaking the law, but he was used to working with the government, and within twenty-four hours he appeared in Cam's office with a written plan and a budget.
The plan provided for three men to watch Jasper Murray's apartment over two days to determine his routine. Then they would enter at a time they knew to be safe and plant a transmitter in his phone. They would also place a tape recorder nearby, probably on the roof of the building, in a casing marked 50,000 VOLTS--DO NOT TOUCH to discourage investigation. Then they would change the tapes once every twenty-four hours for a month, and Tedder would provide transcripts of all conversations.
The price for all this was five thousand dollars. Cam would get the money from the slush fund operated by the Committee to Reelect the President.
Cam took the proposal to Ehrlichman, sharply conscious that he was crossing a line. He had never done anything criminal in
his life. Now he was about to become a conspirator in a burglary. It was necessary: the leaks had to be stopped, and the president had said: "I don't give a damn how it's done." All the same, Cameron did not feel good about it. He was jumping off a diving board in the dark, and could not see the water below.
John Ehrlichman wrote "E" in the approve box.
Then he added an anxious little note: "If done under your assurance that it is not traceable."
Cam knew what that meant.
If it all went wrong, he was to take the blame.
*
George left his office at five thirty and drove to Barney Circle, a low-rent residential neighborhood east of Capitol Hill. The church was a shack on a lot surrounded by a high chicken-wire fence. Inside, the rows of hard chairs were half full. The worshippers were all black, mostly women. It was a good place for a clandestine meeting: an FBI agent in here would be as conspicuous as a turd on a tablecloth.
One of the women turned around, and George recognized Maria Summers. He sat next to her.
"What is it?" he whispered. "What's the emergency?"
She put her finger to her lips. "Afterward," she said.
He smiled wryly. He would have to sit through an hour of prayers. Well, it would probably do his soul good.
George was delighted to be part of this cloak-and-dagger plot with Maria. His work at Fawcett Renshaw did not satisfy his passion for justice. He was helping to advance the cause of equality for blacks, but piecemeal, and slowly. He was now thirty-six, old enough to know that youthful dreams of a better world are rarely fulfilled, but all the same he thought he ought to be able to do more than get a few extra blacks hired at Roath airport.
A robed pastor entered and began with an extempore prayer that lasted ten or fifteen minutes. Then he invited the congregation to sit in silence and hold their own conversations with God. "We will be glad to hear the voice of any man who feels moved by the Holy Spirit to share his prayers with the rest of us. In accordance with the teaching of the Apostle Paul, women remain silent in the church."
George nudged Maria, knowing she would be bristling at that piece of sanctified sexism.