The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America (4 page)

Ralph Schuster didn’t approve, and the expression on his face showed it. Here he was standing in the middle of the third level of a parking garage in downtown Washington at three o’clock in the morning feeling like a jackass—and probably looking like a sneak thief if the security man should happen to drive by. And whoever he was supposed to meet was nowhere in sight.

Mysterious phone calls from husky-voiced women might lead to clandestine meetings—indeed, should lead to clandestine meetings—but not in the middle of a for-Christ’s-sake parking garage.

A pencil flashlight blinked briefly at him from inside one of the three cars on the floor: a late-model gray Chevy. He walked over to it and peered in through the windshield. There was a woman in a gray coat behind the wheel, and she motioned him into the passenger’s seat.

Schuster climbed into the seat and closed the door. He noticed that the interior light didn’t go on when the door was open. The woman immediately reached over him and pushed down the locking button.

“What’s this all about?” Schuster said. “Why the melodrama?” There wasn’t enough light for him to get a good look at the woman. He had an impression of a thin, angular face of indeterminate middle age.

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Schuster,” she said in a husky whisper. She turned to look at him. “I’m neither melodramatic nor paranoid. You must believe that if you wish to ever see me again.”

“You haven’t told me yet why I want to see you at all,” he said.

“First the ground rules,” she said. “You’re not taping this, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. Rule one: Don’t ever tape our meetings. And don’t ever take notes until you get home.”

“No notes?”

“That’s right.”

“Lady, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to take notes.”

“And you have to swear to me that you’ll never reveal your source to anyone, from your girl friend to your city editor. Anyone.”

“Why all the secrecy?” he asked. “What are we talking about?”

“Do you agree?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Of course,” he said. “Yes. If it’s worthwhile. Otherwise I’ll just forget I ever saw you.”

“You will never forget,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “What are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about malfeasance in high places,” she said. “We’re talking about first-degree felonies, including burglary, arson, wiretap, bribery, and conspiracy to commit kidnapping and extortion. All conducted out of the Executive Office Building at the direct order of the President of the United States.”

Schuster stretched his feet out and leaned back. “Go on,” he said.

PRESIDENT ANNOUNCES NEW

3-MAN SUPERCABINET

ODER—VANDERMEER—GILDRUSS

Friday, January 5, 1973, special to the Washington Post

In a surprise news conference in the Oval Office this morning, the President announced the appointments of Charles Ober, Uriah Vandermeer, and Dr. Peter Gildruss as the three chief officers in a new “Supercabinet” to oversee the executive branch of the government.

“The reorganization,” the President said, “will be along the guidelines set up in a report by the President’s Advisory Council on Executive Organization, a group that has been working on the problem for the past four years.

“In general terms,” the President added, “the three offices will be chairman of the Domestic Council, who will have charge of the formation and implementing of domestic policy, the chief of the Office of Management and the Budget, who will, among other things, oversee Congress’s attempts to spend the taxpayers’ money, and the head of the newly formed Foreign Advisory Council.”

The President named Uriah Vandermeer, his chief aide, to head the Domestic Council, Charles Ober to oversee the OMB, and Dr. Peter Gildruss to head the Foreign Advisory Council.

WATERGATE CAMERA

TRACED TO WHITE HOUSE

POLICE SOURCE REVEALS CIA INVOLVEMENT

by Ralph Schuster

Washington, Friday, January 5—A Leica camera left behind by five burglars who entered the Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate complex last June 16 has been traced to a staff member of the White House Executive Department, a highly placed government source revealed today.

The camera’s serial number has been traced back to the Fleming Importing Company, reportedly a Central Intelligence Agency front organization in New York. According to a confidential source, CIA records show that the camera was borrowed, along with other equipment, by a member of the White House staff two days before the robbery.

The five burglars were actually arrested while still inside the Watergate Complex, but they were subsequently released and their booking record was destroyed. An official of the Metropolitan Police confirms that pressure was brought on the arresting officers by the CIA to effect the release of the five men.

The burglars were apparently interrupted before they could accomplish their goal, still undetermined. A roll of film found in the camera had not been exposed.

A White House spokesman, when questioned about the alleged connection, denied any knowledge or involvement of the White House in this “second-rate burglary attempt.” The Central Intelligence Agency declined comment.

Edward St. Yves’ appearance revealed nothing about the inner man. Not that he was nondescript. He was, if anything, too descript. His light-brown hair was kept closely and meticulously cropped, and massaged several times a day with a pair of military brushes. His angular face was well tanned except for the thin white line of an ancient scar running under his right eye. His mustache was neat and thin, and looked as though each hair had been carefully ironed into place. From a distance he gave the illusion of being quite tall, although he was of average height.

He seemed to have complete run of the White House and the Executive Office Building, although few people in the EOB knew precisely what he did. He was liable to show up at any office at any time and make some strange request of its occupant. If the requests were checked, they were always found to have been approved from on high, although he never cited higher authority, but merely demanded what he demanded as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was Kit’s first day back at the job after a two-week trip to Maine with Miriam, where they had holed up in her parents’ summer cabin. St. Yves appeared at the door to Kit’s office on the second floor of the EOB shortly after ten o’clock. “You Kit Young?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Kit said.

“I’m St. Yves. You free for lunch?” He barked out the question and stared intently at Kit, waiting for the answer.

“Yes,” Kit said.

“Good. We’ll eat together. I’ll buy. Things to talk about. Pick me up at my office at twelve-thirty. Room Sixteen.”

“I know.”

“’Course you do. Twelve-thirty.” And with a curt nod, he strode off down the corridor.

Which left Kit with a shade over two hours to catch up with all the scut work that no one else had bothered to do in his absence, and wonder what the hell St. Yves wanted to see him about. Room Sixteen, the Special Intelligence Unit, was popularly known within the Executive Branch as “the Plumbers,” or the Dirty Tricks Unit, and St. Yves was reputed to be in charge.

Kit took the logbook for classified documents that was his responsibility and spent the next hour and a half wandering from office to office, verifying that the last person signing for each document was, in fact, currently in possession of it. Then he went to the interoffice loan vault, where documents on loan to the White House from the various intelligence agencies were stored. There he spent the next half hour checking red-and-gray-covered documents against the list, and was pleased to find that they were all there. Nothing was less fun than searching the corners of the White House and the Executive Office Building for a document that some executive assistant borrowed from some assistant secretary and then shoved in the back of a desk drawer and forgot about.

At twelve-thirty sharp Kit showed up at the door to room sixteen. A thin, hawk-faced woman met him at the door. “You’re Kit Young,” she said, holding out a slender, well-manicured hand. “I’m Dianna Holroyd. That’s with two n’s. I’m executive secretary and den mother for this group. Mr. St. Yves asked me to tell you he’ll be a few moments.”

“What’s happening?” Kit asked, gesturing into the office, where workmen were moving filing cabinets and ripping telephones from the wall with chaotic efficiency.

“We’re expanding,” Dianna told him. “Part of our operation is moving across town, and the rest is taking over most of this hallway.”

“What’s happening to the Vice-President’s press office?” Kit asked, amused at the constant game of musical chairs that went on in the EOB.

“That’s moving into the President’s Counsel’s office. The President’s Counsel is moving across the street into the White House. I don’t know whose office he’s getting.”

“Fascinating,” Kit said sincerely.

“It’s like dominoes,” Dianna agreed, smiling. She was very pretty when she smiled.

“Greetings!” St. Yves said, appearing from behind a moving file cabinet. “We got our marching orders this morning, and so we march. Into bigger digs. The SIU takes on new functions, grows with the times. You hungry?”

Kit admitted to hunger, and St. Yves shepherded him upstairs and out onto Seventeenth Street. As they walked over to the nearby restaurant, St. Yves kept up a steady stream of small talk. He had led an adventurous life, traveled all over the world, and spoke with equal facility of Kathmandu and of Paris. His stories were sprinkled with the names of heads of state, movie stars, authors, rich men, wise men, beautiful women, traitors, spies, and assassins, all of whom he knew well or had been closely associated with.

Kit learned two things from the conversation: first, that St. Yves was at least ten years older than he looked, and, second, that St. Yves wanted something from him. What it could be, he had no idea, but he was sure that before the meal was over St. Yves would let him know.

The Sans Souci was the in-place for those few in official Washington that knew, or cared about, good food. Since Dr. Gildruss, the President’s Adviser for International Affairs, was such good copy, the Sans Souci had been mentioned several times in various newspaper columns and news magazines. Now it was becoming the in-place for those who wanted to be seen eating in the in-place. This had not, as of yet, St. Yves assured Kit as he ushered him through the doors, affected the food.

“And,” St. Yves said, “it’s a good place to talk, because it’s so fucking public nobody pays any attention to you.”

The maître d’ placed them at a table along the far wall and St. Yves talked Kit through the menu: “The
coquilles St. Jacques
isn’t bad; a little rich, perhaps. Keep away from the
tournedos
. The chef makes
béarnaise
as though he were dueling with the saucepan. Do you like veal? The veal is superb. I’m going to have the sweetbreads myself. This is the only place west of the Avenue Georges Cinque where they really know how to handle sweetbreads.”

Kit, whose idea of lunch was a cheeseburger, no fries, and a vanilla malted, studied the menu intently while St. Yves continued his guided tour of the entrees. When the waiter came over, Kit, in a spirit of rebellion, ordered a small steak, medium rare.

“The
ris de veau a la maréchale
, Charles,” St. Yves ordered, closing his menu and tapping it thoughtfully on the table. “With a small
salade maison
to begin—not on the side, you understand, but before—and perhaps a bottle of the Haut Brion sixty-seven.”

Charles nodded, extracted the menus, and went off. St. Yves leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared at Kit. “We don’t know much about you,” he said.

“Who’s we?” Kit asked. “And what do you want to know?” He suddenly felt very much on the defensive. St. Yves had that effect on people.

“Oh, we know all the usual stuff,” St. Yves said, picking up a fork and revolving it over and over between his hands. “Your birth date, your schooling, college grades, extracurricular activities, the first girl you ever laid, all that stuff. You’re a patriotic, loyal American. But of course with your background you’re not old enough to be anything else. The closest thing to a subversive in your family is your Uncle Harry.”

“Uncle Harry?” Kit asked.

“Right. Your mother’s older brother. He joined the Young People’s Socialist League in 1932. Didn’t you know?”

“No. The subject never came up.” Kit now had no idea of what was going on. What could St. Yves want to know that wasn’t already in his file?

St. Yves focused his attention on Kit. “What we want to know are your political beliefs,” he said, lacing his long, slender fingers together under his chin. “Your concept of where this country is headed, what its goals should be, and what you feel you should do about it. What I’m asking you, I suppose, is what you think it means to be an American. If this sounds too patriotic, or any bullshit like that, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think patriotism is bullshit,” Kit said. “I think sometimes it’s misplaced, and goes over into chauvinism.”

St. Yves looked warily at Kit. “Who’d you vote for in November?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course.”

“I will tell you,” Kit said. “I didn’t vote.”

“Is that straight?” St. Yves said, sounding surprised. “You live in the most political town in the world, work for the President, and you didn’t vote?”

“That’s right. I feel I have to remain completely non-political. I have to do my job honestly and fairly, no matter what party’s in power and no matter who’s elected president. So I don’t want to get involved with the process to the point that it would matter to me.”

St. Yves put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned back. “That’s probably the most naive political philosophy I’ve heard espoused since I left the third grade.”

“You asked me and I told you,” Kit said, the annoyance showing in his voice. “I guess the basic fact is that I’m not that interested in the political process. Most politicians, as far as I can tell, are either idiots or crooks, and yet they keep getting voted back into office. And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it either way.”

“Don’t get pissed,” St. Yves said. “I didn’t mean to sound disapproving. I just wanted to find out whether you’re for us or against us.”

“Us?”

“The President.”

“I think he’s a good man, and I think he has guts. Going to China took guts.”

“Right,” St. Yves said. “Hes a gutsy guy. Ah!” The conversation died out while they paused to watch the maître d’ compose a
salade
and place it in front of St. Yves. “A
chef d’oeuvre
as always, Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled and left, to be replaced a few seconds later by a tall man with a blond crew cut who paused in front of the table. “Edward! How are you?”

St. Yves looked up from the salad which was commanding all of his attention. “Mr. Vandermeer.” He pushed back his chair.

“No, no,” Vandermeer said, “don’t get up. Tell you what, I’ll sit down for a minute.” And, pulling a chair out from the next table, he turned it the wrong way and straddled it, leaning forward across the bentwood back. “You must be Kit Young,” he said, staring at Kit through his steel-rimmed glasses. “Billy Vandermeer.” He stuck out his hand to be shaken.

Kit took Vandermeer’s hand and received a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “A pleasure,” Kit said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Uriah “Billy” Vandermeer was the mystery man of the administration. When the President had taken office, Vandermeer’s position had seemed no more important than that of an appointment clerk. But now, with the second term about to begin, and Vandermeer the chairman of the newly created Domestic Council, even Cabinet officers had to check with Billy to get in to see the President. And instructions from Billy were the closest most staffers got to orders from the President. A shadowy figure, often ignored by the press, he was the man who got things done; he and Charlie Ober, head of OMB, more than any other men, held the reins of power in the White House.

“As it happens,” Vandermeer said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’ve been meaning to thank you personally for the help you gave us over at the Second District Police Station over that business at the Watergate.”

“I was just doing my job.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and even as he said it Kit realized it sounded inane.

Vandermeer leaned forward, pushing the chair over until the back was resting against the table. “That may be, and it says a lot about you that you feel that way, but you did that job very well. All cleaned up, and without a ripple. And now you’re going to be working for us, and I’m glad to have you aboard.”

Obviously it hadn’t sounded as inane to Vandermeer as it did to Kit. And
now
he was going to be working for
them?
For whom had he been working for the past six months?

“Excuse me,” Vandermeer said, and he jumped up, most upsetting the chair, and waved at a slim blonde girl who had just appeared in the entrance and was looking around. “My daughter,” he explained. She waved back and started toward them, maneuvering between the crowded tables with the unconscious grace of a Borzoi. Her long blonde hair cascaded off her shoulders and down the back of the tan shirtwaist dress that clearly had not been bought within a thousand miles of Washington, D.C.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, reaching the table and giving her head a shake to settle her hair back into place.

“Hi, love,” Vandermeer said. “Gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Kathy. Kathy, this is Edward St. Yves and Christopher Young.”

Kathy gave St. Yves her hand. “Mr. St. Yves,” she said, her eyes opening wide, “my father has told me a lot about you.”

St. Yves laughed. “If the things he’s said about me are only half as nice as the things he’s told me about you, then ‘One may not doubt that somehow, good shall come of water and of mud’.”

Kathy’s face lit up with a bright, wide smile. “‘Somewhere, beyond space and time’,” she said, “‘is wetter water, slimier slime!’”

“I’ve always thought so,” St. Yves agreed, deadpan.

Vandermeer looked from St. Yves to his daughter. “What are you two babbling about?” he demanded.

“Oh, Dad,” Kathy said. “It’s only Rupert Brooke. Only one of the greatest poets who ever wrote in English.”

“I’m glad you recognized the poem,” St. Yves said, “since he’s one of my favorites, too. Which makes it a special pleasure to meet you. Your father never mentioned that you were coming to Washington.”

“He didn’t know,” Kathy said.

“Complete surprise to me,” Vandermeer said. “I thought she’d be starting college in September. But instead she applied for this Senate Junior Aide program—where they let teenagers work their young, ah, fingers off for next to no pay for some senator so they can learn about government. She got an appointment with Senator Jensen, and I didn’t know a thing about it. Starting with the January session. All on her own.” He shook his head. “Won it in a competitive examination in her school system. They didn’t even know who she was; she uses her mother’s name, you know.”

“It must sound horribly silly to you gentlemen,” Kathy said. “But believe me, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to a girl from Grand Rapids.”

“She’s going to live in a dormitory with the other junior aides,” Vandermeer said. “But she’s promised to come have dinner with me at least twice a week. And what more can you ask of a daughter? And, speaking of food, we must get to our own table.”