Daniil was actually a great boss. Tanya gave in.
Today Pat Nixon was taken to Moscow State University, a thirty-two-story yellow stone building with thousands of rooms. It seemed mostly empty.
Mrs. Nixon said: "Where are all the students?"
The rector of the university, speaking through interpreters, said: "It's exam time, they're all studying."
"I'm not getting to meet the Russian people," Mrs. Nixon complained.
Tanya wanted to say: You bet you're not meeting the people--they might tell you the truth.
Mrs. Nixon looked conservative even by Moscow standards. Her hair was piled high and sprayed rigid, like a Viking helmet and almost as hard. She wore clothes that were too young-looking for her and at the same time out of fashion. She had a fixed smile that rarely faltered, even when the press corps following her became unruly.
She was taken into a study room where three students sat at tables. They seemed surprised to see her and clearly did not know who she was. It was evident they did not want to meet her.
Poor Mrs. Nixon probably had no idea that any contact with Westerners was dangerous for ordinary Soviet citizens. They were liable to be arrested afterward and interrogated about what was said and whether the meeting was prearranged. Only the most foolhardy Muscovites wanted to exchange words with foreign visitors.
Tanya composed her article in her head while she followed the visitor around. Mrs. Nixon was clearly impressed by the new modern Moscow State University. The USA does not have a university building of comparable size.
The real story was in the Kremlin, which was why Tanya had been bad-tempered with Daniil. Nixon and Brezhnev were signing treaties that would make the world a safer place. That was the story Tanya wanted to cover.
She knew from reading the foreign press that Nixon's China visit and this Moscow trip had transformed his prospects in the November presidential election. From a January low, his approval rating had soared. He now had a strong chance of getting reelected.
Mrs. Nixon was dressed in a two-piece check suit with a short jacket and discreetly below-the-knee skirt. Her white shoes had a low heel. A chiffon neck scarf completed her outfit. Tanya hated doing fashion. She had covered the Cuban missile crisis, for God's sake--from Cuba!
At last the First Lady was whisked away in a Chrysler LeBaron limousine, and the press pack dispersed.
In the car park Tanya saw a tall man wearing a long, threadbare coat in the spring sunshine. He had unkempt iron-gray hair, and his lined face looked as if it might once have been handsome.
It was Vasili.
She stuffed her fist into her mouth and bit her hand to suppress the scream that bubbled up in her throat.
He saw that she had recognized him, and he smiled, showing gaps where he had lost teeth.
She walked slowly over to where he stood, hands in the pockets of his coat. He had no hat, and he squinted because of the sun.
"They let you out," Tanya said.
"To please the American president," he said. "Thank you, Dick Nixon."
He should have thanked Dimka Dvorkin. But it was probably better not to tell anyone that, not even Vasili.
She looked around warily, but there was no one else in sight.
"Don't worry," said Vasili. "For two weeks this place has been crawling with security police, but they all left five minutes ago."
She could restrain herself no longer, and threw herself into his arms. He patted her back as if to comfort her. She hugged him hard.
"My," he said, "you smell good."
She broke the embrace. She was bursting with a hundred questions and had to restrain her enthusiasm and pick one. "Where are you living?"
"They gave me a Stalin apartment--old, but nice."
Apartments from the Stalin era had bigger rooms and higher ceilings than the more compact flats built in the late fifties and sixties.
She was overflowing with exhilaration. "Shall I visit you there?"
"Not yet. Let's find out how closely they're watching me."
"Do you have work?" It was a favorite trick of the Communists to make sure a man could not get a job, then accuse him of being a social parasite.
"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 retir
ed CIA agent employed full-time by CREEP, the Committee to Reelect 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."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Dave 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 o
rganized?"
"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."