Altered America (9 page)

             
“I am head of the Committee for State Security,” Andropov said.  “You are the second-in-command, for now, of the American equivalent of my agency.”

             
“There’s no equivalence,” Nixon bristled.

             
Andropov held up his hand. “Hear me out.  We occupy unique positions in our governments.  We monitor internal affairs, combat crime, and also have a role in counterespionage.  Our two governments appear to be unable to stabilize the inter-nation situation.  We both want something, but we aren’t likely to get it from the normal channels.”

             
“I see,” Nixon said.  “You propose a sort of shadow diplomacy.”

             
“Please.  An alternative means of accomplishing our goals is a better description.”

             
“How precisely do you plan to accomplish this?  Assuming that I go along, of course.”

             
“Maintain regular contact on topics that have the potential to flare up into larger crises.  Berlin, for example.  Twenty-five years after the end of the Great Patriotic War, we still have this odd situation of a capitalist city inside a socialist nation.  Our countries nearly came to war over it in 1958 and 1961.  Even though war is no longer a real possibility, Berlin is still a constant source of tension between us and with the rest of Europe.  If the Soviet Union is to reform economically, we will need help from Western Europe.”

             
Nixon nodded.  “You need to buy time.  How much?”

             
“Ten years at least.  Perhaps longer.  If the Soviet Union does not reform its economy, it faces serious internal problems in the next decade.  Shortages of food, for example, and other basic necessities.”

             
“Most of our leaders would be happy to see that,” Nixon said.  “It would only reinforce what they’ve been saying about your system for years.  Why should they help you?”

             
“It’s in your interest and mine to convince them.  Try and imagine a second October Revolution,” Andropov said quietly.  “Try and imagine a second Civil War.  This time, raging across a country dotted with missile silos and intercontinental bombers.  Are you
sure
it wouldn’t spread?”

             
“China would likely move on the southern frontier, along the Amur River, like they did three years ago,” Nixon said.  “There would be only one response left to the Politburo.  More unrest in Poland and Hungary and Czechoslovakia, also with only one possible response.  I see your point.”

             
“We may not like one another, but we have to coexist peacefully.  To do so requires stability.  No more Berlins, no more Cubas, no more Koreas.  Warfare of any kind is far too costly.”

             
“Accomplishing it in the shadows, away from the public eye, is far easier than in the arena,” Nixon added.

             
“Those in the limelight care only for appearances that hide the corruption, and their energies are directed towards appeasing the public or their superiors.  Then there are those of us who care little for appearances, who toil without fanfare, to do the real work with little reward.  We tend to be, what is your phrase, ‘square shooters,’ no games or lies.”

             
Nixon was briefly startled by Andropov’s use of his old college fraternity’s motto.  “We have no need of them.”

             
“So let me do some square shooting.”  Andropov leaned forward.  “Your president is afraid of a rapprochement to my country and to China.  The reactionary wing of his party would be up in arms.”

             
“And there’s no question of a Democrat doing so,” Nixon added, “not if he wants to be re-elected.  If there’s one thing that politicians in the Soviet Union and the United States have in common, it’s that they want to be re-elected.”  He paused.  “How do I know I can trust you?”

             
“You don’t,” Andropov said with a smile.  He opened a desk drawer, removed a sealed folder, and slid it across to Nixon.  “Take this as a measure of good faith.  The arms control talks are stalled, largely because Mr. Nitze, your head negotiator in Helsinki, keeps insisting on an accurate accounting of Soviet anti-ballistic missile sites.  The Defense Ministry has been less than forthcoming.  This file should clear up any confusion.”

             
Nixon took the file.  “And in return?”

             
“One of the sticking points for our negotiators is the number of launch vehicles versus the number of warheads.  Your nuclear force is moving to MIRVs, as is ours, but at a slower pace.  The multiple warhead vehicles carry live warheads, or dummies.  The question, of course, is the ratio of each.”

             
Nixon was taken aback.  “There’s a term for that.”

             
“Indeed.  Verification.  Or call it the facilitation of détente,” Andropov pointed to the folder in Nixon’s hands.  “Our countries have used back channels before.  During Cuba, our embassy used one of your reports to pass messages from Chairman Khrushchev to President Kennedy that may well have averted a war.  An arms control agreement is paramount for both of our nations.  The arms race is wasting resources that can be better used at home.”

             
“If I accept this?”  Nixon asked.

             
“Perhaps some easing of pressure in Indonesia and Egypt on our part.  A comprehensive agreement regarding Berlin on yours.  Trade and tariff concessions.”

             
“How would we communicate?”

             
“There will be a way,” Andropov said.  “There always is.  I will use the code word Plowshare.”  He looked at his watch.  “Mr. Jernigan should be delivered to your plane by now.  If you will excuse me, it is late.  I have a Politburo meeting set for tomorrow, and there is a long agenda.”

             
“One thing,” Nixon said, standing.  “The agents that Jernigan was running—”

             
“They have been given light sentences,” Andropov said.  “Three years in the camps.  In Kazakhstan, where it is warm, not Siberia.  A slap on the wrist, given the nature of the offense.”  Andropov walked around the desk and took Nixon’s hand in a grip that was surprisingly firm.  “It will be a pleasure working with you, in any capacity.”

             
“You can count on it.”

* * *

              Two months later, Richard M. Nixon was confirmed as FBI Director.  Tolson was quietly retired, and his only potential rival, Mark Felt, was eased into Tolson’s place.  The Senate confirmation hearings were quick and harmonious.  With his wife Ellen behind him, and his sons Arthur and Harold flanking her—the happy All-American family—Nixon breezed through the questions posed to him. 

             
Ted Kennedy had been the only sticking point, going on about COINTELPRO, but Nixon deftly dodged them—he hadn’t been part of the program.  Kennedy was eventually drowned out by the accolades handed down from Humphrey, Jackson, Bentsen, and other Democrats.  They listed his service to the country from his gang-busting days in Chicago, to his spy-busting efforts during the war, and his current battle against the Reds.  The Republicans were solidly united behind him, led by Charles Percy of Illinois and Barry Goldwater. 

             
On his first full day as Director, he sat in the office so long occupied by Hoover.  It was still bare; Nixon had thought that moving his own items in before formally taking the oath would have been presumptuous. 

             
His secretary buzzed the intercom.  “You have a visitor,” she said.  “It’s a courier.”

             
“Who sent him?” Nixon asked.

             
There was a pause.  “He says he’s from Plowshare.”

             
Nixon’s heart skipped a beat.  “Send him in.”

             
A moment later, a young man in a dark green uniform entered, and handed Nixon an envelope.  “Sign here,” he said, holding out a clipboard with a receipt that looked legitimate.  Nixon signed, and the courier thanked him and left.

             
Nixon took a letter opener and slit the envelope.  A single sheet of paper was enclosed. 

             
Congratulations on your promotion. More to follow.

             
Your fellow Orthogonian—YVA

             
Nixon folded the paper and placed it in the envelope.  He took out a Zippo lighter from his desk drawer, lit the envelope, and let it burn, dropping it into the empty trash can beside his desk.  Andropov had done his research, too.  Maybe, just maybe, this was someone he could do business with.

Revolution 1865

By Brad Hafford

             
Throughout my very busy life, I have been engaged in the profession of Detective. I have thus been brought into contact with many men, famous and infamous, and have participated in many exciting occurrences.

             
It may seem inappropriate for me to reveal the details of this particular case, as sensitive as it is. But I beg the reader’s indulgence, for in these pages I tell of the importance not just of a few people and their actions, but of a nation and all its people.

KING AND COUNTRY

              This is the story of my most important case. If the particulars seem to the reader unlikely, I can but remind him that truth so often is much stranger than fiction.

ALLAN PINKERTON

CHICAGO, October, 1880

              It was 1861. Cotton was still king—in the South at least. Some said Mr. Lincoln was vying to be king in the North. America was in a stir, strife that amounted to nothing less than a rebellion. Our newly established leader planned a whistle-stop tour passing through 71 towns and cities, to let the people know of his plans and policies for this great land, for reconciliation.

             
It was an attempt to connect with a people divided, to show that this great man and his beliefs were not out of touch with the troubled times—a subtly festooned journey openly accepted by most towns along the route, it was nonetheless ill-advised. Luckily, the railroads recognized the potential danger and engaged me to provide security.

             
Maryland was known to be sympathetic to the concerns of the Rebels, and thus it presented the most obvious point for trouble. Virginia had become too dangerous, so the approach to the Capitol had to be through Maryland. Appropriately, I dedicated much of my attention to the rails in that state, listening carefully at planned stops along the route. I utilized disguises and cunning to infiltrate several dissident bands and learned of a coercive plot. Centered in Baltimore, the plan was to ambush the train for the purpose of assassination.

             
At risk of sounding less than humble, I must here relate that I single-handedly discovered and foiled the Baltimore Plot. I contacted Mr. Lincoln at the Capitol in Georgetown to let him know to expect the prince earlier than planned. Informing the railroad, I ensured that His Highness’ train would not stop in Baltimore, but instead pass through at night, with the prince himself disguised, as an additional precaution. On his arrival, Mr. Lincoln would then convene the Congress that Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India and America, had so graciously allowed our land.

             
Thus I received my royal charter. I had foiled the most heinous plot yet perpetrated by the Rebel Nationalists, and as a result Mr. Lincoln and the Dominion Congress commissioned my agency as personal guard to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, Regent of America. I had long been engaged in hunting down outlaws in the West, but the security of Georgetown was clearly the most important task for the stability of the Dominion. I would dedicate much of my time over the next four years to personal supervision of Prince Edward’s safety.

             
“Your Royal Highness,” I said, standing in the audience chamber of the White Palace only a few months after the foiled assassination plot. “If I might be so bold...”

             
“Speak Mr. Pinkerton. Your service to the throne has been impeccable. You have my ear.”

             
“The French continue to stir trouble in the South and I fear the uprising will only grow.”

             
“Is it that the South desires slavery despite our prohibitions?”

             
“That is an issue, Sire. However, I feel it is not primary. Instead, I fear it is the question of British Dominion, even in the North, which causes Nationalist feelings.”

             
“The French spur on this feeling?”

             
“They do. And it may well be that the Spanish will join them soon.”

             
“Might I enquire, Mr. Pinkerton, as to your own proclivities?”

             
“Sire?”

             
“Is it not true that as a Scotsman yourself, you favor Home Rule?”

             
He was but half my age at that time, but well beyond his years in insight and wisdom. It was undoubtedly inherited from his formidable mother, Empress Alexandrina Victoria. There was no denying it. “Indeed I do, Sire. But I am also an American Colonial, and here at least there is a semblance of Home Rule in the Dominion Congress.”

             
“In your opinion, does that Congress, and its Chief Minister, Mr. Lincoln, have adequate power?”

             
It was not a question I could answer. “Who is to say, Your Highness? A voice of the people is important, but so, too, is a guiding hand, an experienced vision.”

             
“Well said, Mr. Pinkerton. Well said.” He pursed his lips in what I would come to recognize as the sign of pensive, inner searching. He was never a rash man, but thought carefully about all courses of action. But of course, the Empress remained the ultimate power.

* * *

              The Viceroyalty of New Spain did join the Louisiana French in openly advocating a free America. With such a hold on the North American continent—along the eastern seaboard and through the Canadian provinces to the Pacific Ocean—England was for its enemies far too powerful. Their only chance was to strengthen their own colonies while simultaneously weakening Britain’s by promoting rebellion.

             
Yet, France and Spain struggled against each other as well, and more importantly, they had to contend with their own potential rebellions. The Mexican people and those of the Louisiana Territory were none too pleased with Europe. And the Texans—no one knew what to do with them.

             
Tensions only grew. By 1863, Her Majesty had placed substantial forces under Prince Edward’s command, shoring up the Canadian Provinces against French interests, and particularly fortifying the Capitol and the Louisiana border. Despite the Prince’s nuptials to Princess Alexandra of Denmark that same year, things were far from jovial.

             
Emboldened by American public opinion, Mr. Lincoln gave an inspired speech proclaiming that all people should be free, including freedom from what he termed “Royal Tyranny.” It was a turning point for the prince. He had Lincoln seized on charges of treason and sent him into exile. He then placed the aging British Prime Minster, Lord Palmerston, at the head of the Dominion Congress. Palmerston was a harsh opponent of American Home Rule and the appointment was not well received by the Nationalists. Even some Loyalists began murmuring of nationalism.

             
Prince Edward’s loyalty was first and foremost to his island nation and his Empress, exactly what Lincoln had said it would be. The risk to his safety increased tenfold and I was hard-pressed to protect him. It was time once again to infiltrate dissident groups and obtain inside information.

             
I sent out many agents to gather information in various Colonial States. My best agent, Kate Warne, I sent to Massachusetts and New Hampshire, where I believed Mr. Lincoln had gone into hiding, not willing to leave the Colonies as ordered. She was to infiltrate a group of Nationalists there, ones who secretly swore by a motto “Live Free or Die.” She had managed difficult missions in the past and I did not hesitate to assign her to this case despite the potential danger. I had found that women were extremely valuable in detective work, more than capable of all tasks and often more reliable and accurate than men. They were observant and detail-oriented, and Kate was particularly adept. I gave her orders to avoid danger where possible, but to listen to everything the Nationalists were saying.

             
Meanwhile, I traveled to Georgia and Alabama to establish contact with the central group of Rebel Nationalists led by Jefferson Davis, a former Congressman from the Southern Colonies. I traveled by train, unaccompanied by any pomp or royal accoutrement. Traveling papers had to be displayed at each through-point and I went through all the difficulties rather than call on my status as personal guard to the Regent. I would not allow my royal charter to soften me. It was time to do what I did best.

             
My disguises and forged papers worked well, and within a month I had re-entered the company of the secret organizers of what was now being called the Confederation of American States. Staunchly anti-Britain, these Confederates hoped to overthrow British control of the Southern American Colonies and establish an independent nation.

             
It was foolishly impossible and I told them so, attempting to discourage from within while at the same time appearing loyal to their cause. I posed as one Arthur McLeish, a disgruntled Scotsman with inside information on the Loyalists and the Prince. The Confederate leadership took notice of my apparent knowledge, and six weeks later I had an audience with Mr. Davis himself.

             
“You know the current workings of Georgetown?”

             
“Aye,” I said, playing up my Scottish accent. “Until recently, I worked as Administrator at the White Palace.”

             
“Are they set on quelling any American bid for Nationhood?”

             
“Very much so.”

             
“Yet you side with Confederate freedom?”

             
“Aye. The Loyalists treated me none too well. Though they have outlawed slavery, they treat both Scot and American as naught but chattel.” I used the terminology deliberately, to provoke his response.

             
“Slavery may have its place,” he said, cautiously.

             
“Then you are for slavery so long as it is not you who is slave?” I may have been pushing, but I could not sanction slavery in any form.

             
He was a congenial gentleman of Southern tradition even when pressed. His reply was polite, if tinged with a hypocrisy I hoped he understood. “It is up to each State to decide,” he said, “for only they are Sovereign. Where crops are concerned, labor is necessary, and to compete with Caribbean interests, wherein slavery is entrenched, the South must have a similar workforce.”

             
“It is not my place to advise you there, Sir. But if the Dominion Congress will not legislate on such matters, a free nation could decide for itself. Yet how could any Confederation of locals stand against the British armies and navies?”

             
“We would not go about it alone, Mr. McLeish. Napoleon III’s envoy has told me personally that the French will assist a Confederated uprising against the British. Furthermore, they insist that after the war, they will themselves withdraw from America, ceding territories to our new nation.”

             
“And what if they do not?”

             
“We have their word.”

             
“And Prince Edward has your word that you will not rise up against him.”

             
“I offered no such word.”

             
“But many Colonials did. And if Americans do not speak with one voice, then why suspect the French do?”

             
“If we become an incorporated nation, we will have the ability to stand against any remaining French.”

             
“After a deadly uprising? France was weakened terribly by its rebellion in 1789—and even now it is ruled not by a President but an Emperor. America, too, was nearly destroyed by its attempt in 1776; we would not have been able to form a nation in its wake. If not the British, some other power would have taken control. Rebellion would not seem to pay.”

             
“I think you underestimate the will of a Confederated America. Too long have we suffered under European dominion. It is time, my friend, to put an end to it once and for all. We will not stop until all monarchial powers have been removed from our soil. It is our manifest destiny.”

             
I sensed that he had been thrust into his political role, but this speech was from the heart. I gave him false information on the strength and location of British troops as well as their general orders, all the while explaining that I had not been privy to most of that information in the performance of my duty, and thereby the second-hand knowledge may not be completely accurate.

             
I investigated and observed for a few more weeks, determining that the Confederates had the will to break free, but had no idea of their first move. Finally, I made my way back North, disguised as a businessman. I sent a telegram to Kate, telling her to expect
Mr. Stockworthy
at the Merchant’s Hotel in Philadelphia. She was there to meet me.