The Last President. Michael Kurland

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      “My name is Young,” Kit said, refraining from adding that he hadn’t said.

      “Well, Mr. Young, you’ve put your finger on it exactly. National security is the issue. The men in that cell are members—I trust in your complete discretion—of a special White House national security unit which undertakes special, highly sensitive problems.”

      “Like bugging the Democratic National Committee?”

      “Exactly!” Ober said, sounding pleased that Kit had brought it up. “Who would you have do that? The FBI? Your people? No—you must stay above anything that could in any way be construed as political. But when we received word that the DNC was, unknowingly, being influenced by money and agents of the People’s Republic of Cuba, that had to be checked. Now, I can assure you that it would be in the best interest of your country if the investigation of the break-in were to end here. This is not an attempt to get these men off—any of them would gladly serve prison time in the interest of his country—but we cannot allow the ongoing investigation to be compromised.”

      Kit slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do. Look, Mr. Ober, I’m sure that what you’re telling me is true, but I have no authority to take action on behalf of these men. You get hold of my superior and have him call me and authorize this action, and I’ll use my best influence and see what I can do.”

      “Your superior! How the hell—Wait a minute! Will you hold?” Without waiting for Kit’s assurance, Ober put the phone on hold, leaving Kit listening to that curious hollow sound of miles of phone wire connected only to itself.

      Kit leaned back in the chair with the phone cradled against his shoulder and put his feet up on the desk. For a few minutes he stared at the ceiling, trying to make some sense of the great Rorschach of cracked and blotched green paint. Then, realizing that this was slowly putting him to sleep, he turned to read the notices on the bulletin board.

      “Hello?”

      Kit sat up, almost dropping the phone. He grabbed for it with both hands and restored it to his ear. This was someone new. “Hello.”

      “You recognize my voice?”

      It wasn’t Ober, and it wasn’t Chandler. “No,” Kit said.

      “This is the President speaking,” the voice said.

      “Yes, sir.” Kit took his feet down from the desk. “I wasn’t expecting—”

      “You recognize my voice?” A flat, emotionless question.

      “Yes, sir.” Kit did, now.

      “I am your Commander-in-Chief,” the President said.

      “Yes, sir.” Not technically accurate, since the CIA wasn’t part of the military, but the President was certainly Kit’s ultimate boss.

      “I give you my personal assurance, as President, that what Charles Ober has told you in regard to these five men is accurate, and that it is a matter of national security to get them the hell out of that jail. You got that?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Yeah. And as President, as your Commander-in-Chief, I give you a direct order to see that those five men are released. And for God’s sake, don’t let any of those media bastards hear anything about this. Right?”

      “Right. Yes, sir.”

      “Now, you’ve got the ball—run with it! Your President’s depending on you.” There was a click and the phone went dead.

      Kit spent a minute staring into space. He had no option except to believe Ober’s—and the President’s—word that national security was involved. If only it weren’t the Democratic National Committee. If word of this did get out, and it was discovered that CIA had claimed the burglars as their own, it would be embarrassing for the Company. And Kit’s superiors would see that all the embarrassment came down onto his own shoulders.

      Clearly, if Kit was going to do this at all, he’d better do it right. He’d have to speak to everyone involved: the arresting officers, the duty sergeant, and anyone else who had dealt with the five John Does, and impress on them the value of having a short memory.

      Veber came into the office. “You look thoughtful,” he said.

      Kit nodded. “I just spoke to my boss.”

      * * * *

      THE OVAL OFFICE, June 18, 1972 ( 5:24-6:17 p.m.)

      MEETING: The President, Vandermeer, and Ober.

      AUTHORIZED TRANSCRIPTION FROM THE EXECUTIVE ARCHIVES

      Following a discussion of election campaign strategy, Billy Vandermeer raises the matter of the flap at the Watergate complex.

      V. It is late but I hope, sir, we can turn briefly to that little problem area that came up yesterday. The matter that Charlie had to wake you up for.

      P. Yeah. Must have been four in the morning. But I have no complaints. You handled it fine, Charlie.

      O. Thank you, sir.

      V. Ed St. Yves, too. He has a good head on his shoulders. He got it all buttoned up and under control right away. This could have been damn serious.

      P. We put it on the line, didn’t we? I mean, with me on the phone. We let it all hang out. A great defensive play. Blam, right on the receiver with no yardage gained. But we sold it, didn’t we?

      O. Yes. The five were released with nobody taking a second look. And that CIA liaison guy came through for us. The kid could have kicked this whole thing right up to his bosses at Langley. Instead, he accepted your direct authority as Commander-in-Chief.

      P. Right. Good guy.

      V. But you know damn well that he’s going to cover his ass. He’s probably typing his report out right now—in triplicate.

O. Billy, we always knew that it’s only a matter of time before the Director gets wise to the SIU.1 Hell, he’s already got it roughed out.

      V. Sure, but a botched bag job like yesterday is just the ammo he needs to move to eliminate SIU. We don’t want to give the Director a handle. And we might want a dependable pipeline into the Agency. So I suggest we use what we’re given.

      P. Okay. What’s the game plan?

      V. We transfer Christopher Young to the White House Staff—immediately. He’s proved his loyalty to the presidency. We reward him now. Make him White House Liaison to the Intelligence Community: CIA, Defense Intelligence, like that. That way he’s rewarded and CIA’s signaled off. Besides, Young is the perfect tripwire if—or maybe I should say when—CIA takes to snooping around the White House.

      P. Great! Don’t you agree, Charlie?

      O. That might play.

      * * * *

      The clock by Kit’s bed said four-fifteen when he woke up. For a second he had that curious sense СКАЧАТЬ