The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America (5 page)

Kathy raised her hand in farewell. “‘Immense, of fishy form and mind’,” she said. “‘Squamous, omnipotent and kind.’ I hope to see you again. You too,” she added to Kit. Then she dashed off behind her father.

“Youthful enthusiasm,” St. Yves said, staring at her retreating form. “Lovely girl. Vandermeer must be very proud of her.”

“He and his wife are separated?” Kit asked.

“Divorced,” St. Yves said.

“Ahem,” said the waiter, appearing at the table. “I didn’t wish to interrupt. Shall I serve?”

“Yes, bring on the food. My young friend here must be starved.”

The waiter brought their lunch, and they ate in silence until St. Yves placed his knife and fork neatly together on his empty plate. “As you may have gathered,” he told Kit, “we’d like you to work with us.”

“You mean you people in Room Sixteen? What would you like me to do?”

“Officially you’ll stay in your present job, and keep your present job title,” St. Yves said. “But you’ll have an assistant to do all the rote work that keeps you busy now. We want you to be liaison for plans and procurement between our group and CIA and Defense. Are you interested?”

Kit shrugged and nodded. “Sure. If that’s what the President wants me to do. I’m getting tired of checking the locks on safe doors anyway.”

“It was never intended that you should stay in that job,” St. Yves said. “But the reelection was everybody’s first concern, and we had to get that done and out of the way before some of our other plans could go into operation.”

TRANSCRIPT: AMERICA WANTS TO KNOW (excerpt) Sunday, January 21, 1973

A live telecast from our nation’s capital interviewing the newsmakers—and the decisionmakers—of the day. Today’s interview is with Nelson H. Greener, president of the newly formed Institute for an Informed America.

Interviewers: Daniel Gores of the
Baltimore Sun
. Susanne Witclair of the Hearst syndicate. Ian Faulkes of the British MacPherson News Syndicate. Moderated by George Brownworthy.

Brownworthy: Welcome to
America Wants to Know
, Dr. Greener. Could you start by giving us a little of the background of the Institute for an Informed America?

Greener: Well, Mr. Brownworthy, strictly speaking, of course, there is no background on the institute. We are a brand-new organization. Our history, as the saying goes, lies ahead of us.

Brownworthy: Yes, but what are the roots of the institute? How was it formed, and what will its function and, ah, purpose be?

Greener: The Institute for an Informed America was formed because a group of concerned citizens felt that the opinions and attitudes of the great majority of Americans—what our president has called the Silent Majority—were not being given proper weight in the halls of government.

The institute will function as a research facility and information outlet for those of conservative views in the government and outside, much as the Brookings Institute serves the liberal establishment.

Brownworthy: Miss Witclair.

Witclair: What sort of activities is the institute going to engage in, Dr. Greener? Will you only be working for the government?

Greener: Our goal is to assure that Americans have access to all sides of significant issues. We will work for the administration, we will work for private individuals, and, if we see an area that would be desirable to explore, we will be free to initiate the research on our own. We plan to prepare reports on subjects of vital interest to the citizens of this country. We will sponsor debates and seminars, and maintain a speakers’ bureau of experts on issues of interest to conservatives. We will always endeavor to represent the average citizen—the great Silent Majority out there in America’s heartland—and not merely the bunch of effete intellectual snobs that make up the East Coast establishment.

Brownworthy: Mr. Faulkes.

Faulkes: Does that mean you’ll be mainly a propaganda outlet, pushing the conservative viewpoint as the answer to all problems?

Greener: Now, I don’t think that’s a fair question, Mr. Faulkes. The institute staff will bring their intellectual resources to bear on our problems in the spirit of open, fair, scientific enquiry, with no preconceived formula or solution.

Brownworthy: Mr. Faulkes.

Faulkes: Then the institute will stick mainly to the intellectual approach to problems, preparing studies and position papers, that sort of thing?

Greener: By no means. Besides the research facilities, our organization will include film crews for documentary work, public-relations people, media people, psychologists, and experts in such diverse fields as drug abuse, agriculture, prison reform, education, city planning, and oceanography. All of whom will be working in these areas on a day-to-day basis. No, the Institute for an Informed America will get into areas that would astound you.

Calvin Middler was his name. He was a little over six feet tall, slender, and he moved with an almost feline grace. He was twenty-eight years old but passed for twenty-two. Which was a good thing, because in his circle twenty-eight was a suspect age, too close to thirty to be completely trustworthy. Too many years to be warped by Middle-American materialism before the New Values had taken hold. He was known as a college dropout, which was true. It wasn’t his fault if his associates believed that he had dropped out a lot more recently than 1965. He was also known as a Special Forces veteran, just back from ’Nam, who had joined the antiwar movement after seeing his buddies blown to bits in support of American imperialism. Which wasn’t true. He had spent his two years in the Army as a cook’s helper in Fort Dix, New Jersey.

It was eleven-thirty, and he’d been waiting in the Why Not? for over an hour. The crowds on Bleecker Street were beginning to thin out as the Saturday-night tourists made their way back to the subways to leave Greenwich Village to the hippies, yippies, teenie-boppers, and aging beatniks who called it home. Calvin was beginning to wonder if maybe she wasn’t going to show, the girl with the sweet voice who wanted the machine guns, when there was a tap on his shoulder. “Don’t turn around,” the sweet voice said in his ear.

“Okay,” Calvin agreed. He lifted his cup and took a sip of cold coffee. “Why not?” He spoke softly and kept his eyes facing forward.

“We don’t want you to know who we are,” the girl said. “It should be obvious.”

“Fine,” Calvin said. “Then stop wasting my time. I’ll close my eyes and you walk out of here and we’ll both forget the whole thing.”

“What’s that?” the girl said. “What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m not going to do business with a voice I hear over the phone and then behind my back, no matter how pretty the voice is. I’ve got to protect myself—you can see that.”

“You can call me Cash,” the girl said. “Two hundred a weapon, I believe was the price.”

“No prices were mentioned over the phone,” he said.

“You quoted that to a friend of ours once,” she said softly, into his ear.

Calvin was developing a very strong urge to find out what this girl looked like. “Go away,” he told her, “and tell whoever you work for that either I deal face to face and only with principals, or I don’t deal.”

She thought that over. “You’ve got the merchandise?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you care who deals?”

“I got high ethical standards,” he told her. “You want these beautiful pieces of machinery for revolutionary activities, that’s one thing. You want to start a gang war or go shooting up the proletariat, that’s something else.”

She got up and walked around the table, sitting in the chair opposite Calvin. She had short, fluffy blonde hair and a round face, and might have been as old as twenty, maybe.

The dungarees and pea jacket didn’t go with the hair, which looked as though it had seen the inside of a beauty parlor in the recent past. Then Calvin caught on: it was a blonde wig—and she had shaved her eyebrows off.

“Okay,” he said, “we deal. What’s your name?”

“Zonya. How many pieces can you get?”

“How many can you pay for?”

“We can take five now,” she said. “What about ammunition?”

“I can get you a little.”

“A little isn’t good enough. Our people have to have practice.”

“Hell, they use standard forty-five caliber ammo,” he told her. “Any gun store in the country outside of New York will sell it to you.”

“Oh,” she said. ‘That’s okay then. Five pieces and whatever ammo you have for a thousand dollars. Are they near here?”

“I can put my hands on them,” he said. “But the price has gone up since you overheard that conversation.”

She pushed her chair back. “Listen, mister,” she said, her voice a hard squeak, “don’t try to rip us off.”

Calvin put his hands palms up on the table. “Look, Zonya, machine guns don’t grow on trees. You want to wait awhile, I can probably get you some cheaper guns—but these ain’t them. Besides, whatever you think you need machine guns for, shotguns will probably do just as well, and them you don’t need me for.”

“We want machine guns,” she said stubbornly, not willing to discuss it.

“Fourteen hundred dollars,” Calvin said.

“Twelve,” she said.

“I don’t bargain,” Calvin told her. “Whoever told you about me should’ve told you that.”

“He said you were interested in helping revolutionary movements,” she said. She was gradually working her way up into a rage, her hands opening and closing in her lap.

“Cool it!” Calvin said. “Keep your cool!”

Zonya sat there for a minute, staring at him as though she were trying to read his face, and then she said, “I guess I’m not very good, am I?”

“Nope,” Calvin said immediately. “You came here to score weapons, not to get insulted by what I say. You haven’t been at this very long.”

“I’ll learn,” she said. “We’ve got to get as tough as iron, resilient as earth, and relentless as rain. Mao said that.”

“What’s the name of your group?” Calvin asked.

“We’re the People’s Revolutionary Brigade,” she told him.

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“We’re new.”

The waitress brought over the refill and took his soiled cup away. Calvin watched her leave—she had a nice ass—and turned back to Zonya. “You have friends in any other groups, one I might’ve heard of maybe, who can vouch for you?”

She thought about it for a minute and came out with a name.

“Never heard of him,” Calvin said.

“He’s in the Weatherpeople,” she said. “At least that’s what he told me.”

“Well, I never heard of him. But then I don’t know all the Weatherpeople.”

After a little more thought, Zonya came up with a name that Calvin allowed he had heard of. “Okay,” he said. “Twelve hundred it is. I’ll even throw in a couple of free lessons; you shouldn’t waste too much ammo.”

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

“Is tomorrow soon enough?” he asked. “Meet me here about ten, we’ll arrange a trade.”

“I can manage that,” she said.

“You leave now,” he told her. “And don’t wait around to see where I go.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “We have to trust each other.”

“Right.” Calvin waited until she was out the door, then lay put a bill down on the table to pay for the coffee and hurried out to a pay phone on Bleecker Street. He dialed a number he had memorized. “Made contact,” he told the man who answered. “A young female calling herself Zonya. Set up a meet for tomorrow.”

“Very good,” the phone voice said.

“I need five Thompsons.”

“What are they planning to do, rob the Mint?” the voice asked. “What the fuck do they need five Thompsons for?”

“I didn’t ask,” Calvin said. “Do I get them?”

“Sure thing,” the voice told him. “We’ll send them to your apartment. Don’t lose them. Join their group.”

“It’s all arranged,” Calvin said. “I’m teaching them how to use the damn things.”

“Very good.”

“Send along a manual, will you?”

“Sure thing.” The voice hung up.

On the first and third Thursday of each month TEPACS met in Professor Adams’ study. Starting in 1965 as a biweekly poker game, the gatherings had quickly attained the mock formality of the Thursday Evening Poker and Conversation Society. From there, given the bureaucratic orientation of most of the members, the acronymic TEPACS became inevitable.

As TEPACS had evolved over the years, Aaron Adams had chosen men who were personally and professionally interesting to him. After all, it was his house. Now the group was a good cross section of the decisionmaking level of Washington bureaucracy, articulate, intelligent men who played damn good poker.

Early in the afternoon, Adams’ silent myrmidon, Gerald, turned the felt side of the gaming table up, set out the chips, set up the wet bar for heavy use, and filled the ice bucket. Adams padded in from the pool and performed the ritual of placing TEPACS’ framed constitution on the wall over the table. Calligraphed on parchment by a former member of the group who was now Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the constitution was to hang only at meetings. Its presence was as important to the games as the ritualistic opening of two new decks of cards. Tradition, after all, is tradition.

The CONSTITUTION of the

Thursday Evening Poker and Conversation Society

one

TEPACS shall exist to further the art of good poker, and otherwise benefit mankind.

two

TEPACS shall meet on the first and third Thursday of each month. Play shall begin promptly at 2000 hours and end precisely at 0200 hours.

three

Poker shall be defined as five-card draw, five-or seven-card stud ONLY. Within these limits, the dealer may choose.

four

The office of Secretary shall rotate from session to session. The Secretary shall supply the cards.

Adams went upstairs to shower and dress and then came down to eat the
omelette aux fines herbes
that Gerald had prepared for dinner. When they were alone, Adams ate in the kitchen with Gerald. When there was any third person in the house, Gerald would not permit it.

Obie Porfritt was, as usual, the first to arrive. And, as usual, his first words on coming through the door were, “Evening, Aaron. Where is everybody?”

“You’re a shade early, Obie,” Adams said. “Make yourself a drink.” He nodded to Gerald, who put the scotch on the bar, looked at Adams, and tapped his nose twice with his ring finger, and left the room.

“Boy!” Obie said, staring after Gerald. “What I’d give for a couple of aides who couldn’t talk.” He took a tall glass, filled it halfway with scotch, and then stuck in two ice cubes and two inches of Seven-Up. “Had a hard day,” he said, “entertaining constituents. Least, they damn well better have been entertained.”

Obie was Representative Obediah Porfritt (R., Neb.), a hardworking, intelligent, capable representative of the citizens of central Nebraska. He put as much time as he could into personal contact with his Nebraskan constituents, as he knew himself to be a boring public speaker who came across badly on television. His great fear was that someday the Democrats would find some farmer with charisma to run against him in his district.

“What sort of entertainment do constituents go in for these days?” Adams asked.

“Not much in the way of song or dance,” Obie told him. “They actually came to see the President, congratulate him on his reelection, let him know they support him, in case he was wondering. I only escorted them to the Oval Office.”

“Did they come away with pens?” Adams asked.

“Tie pins and cufflinks. And a group photograph and autographed presidential photos. How can a poor congressman compete with the presidential seal?” Obie slumped down into an armchair and stared into his scotch. “Do you have any idea of how much the government spends a year on cufflinks? I hear he wanted to put his picture in the middle of them, right in the center of the presidential seal, but Vandermeer wouldn’t let him.”

“Obie!” Adams said in mock horror. “And you a Republican. Do you mean that the fair citizens of Nebraska weren’t interested in talking to you at all?”

“Oh, sure,” Obie said. “I sat them down and told them an amusing story about my plan for getting the Army Corps of Engineers to inspect the Middle Loup River with an eye toward inserting a dam. That got their interest. Very amusing.”

“They were amused?”

“They were delighted. I was amused.” Obie took a long gulp of whiskey. “Over Wilbur Mills’ dead body do I get a dam on the Middle Loup.”

“You mean you can’t deliver?”

“Sure I can deliver. All I told them was that the Corps would inspect. And inspect they will. The Corps loves to inspect. No problem there.”

“Ah.”

Colonel Francis Baker entered the study and skimmed his hat onto the couch. “I’m early,” he said, “but I may make up for that by leaving early. Fair warning.” He took a wide glass, plumped two ice cubes in it, and surrounded them with bourbon. A tall man with silver-white hair who looked trim and youthful in his uniform, Colonel Baker had begun his Army career by being drafted during the Korean War. To his surprise he liked the Army; it was dirty, muddy and dangerous, its regulations were mostly stupid, and entirely too many officers were incompetent, but for the first time in his life he felt that he was doing something worth doing. Something that mattered. And he did it well.

He had gone to OCS after Korea and slowly worked his way up the chain of command. Now, back from a field command in Vietnam, he was holding down a staff job in the Pentagon and waiting for his first star.

Adams nodded at him. “Sit down, Colonel,” he said. “Leaving early should be no problem. If you’ve lost enough, I’m sure nobody would object.”

Colonel Baker snorted. “That’s a precedent I don’t think I’ll set.” He was known as an ultraconservative player, who seldom lost.

Ian Faulkes and Grier Laporte were the next to arrive. Ian, a Londoner who had been living in the United States for the past six years, was employed by the MacPherson News Syndicate to report and comment to the British on their American cousins. A slender, handsome man in his early forties, he dressed with the faultless arrogance found only in upper-class Englishmen.

Grier, a fifty-year-old Texan with a pot belly, had a wide handlebar mustache and was bald as a marshmallow. His suit looked as though he had borrowed it from a larger friend who slept in his clothes. As always, he had on a string tie with an American flag tie clasp. One of the founders and owners of a commercial freight airline called Globeair, he served the company as their Washington lobbyist.

Grier fixed himself a bourbon and Saratoga. “Time,” he said. “Let’s get down to the serious business at hand, gentlemen.”

Ian took a chilled ginger beer from the small bar refrigerator and poured it into a sloping glass. “Thank the Lord that’s over,” he said. “I think I’ll put in for a well-deserved vacation.”

“Thank the Lord what’s over?” Baker asked.

“That special I was doing on your presidential election,” Ian said. “You can’t conceive what it’s like to attempt to explain the American presidential process to the great British public.”

“Say,” Obie said, settling down into his playing chair. “What’s the matter with our elections?”

“You’ve got no complaints, Obie,” Grier said. “You picked up the biggest majority yet in this last one, didn’t you?”

“Goddamn right. My constituents know when they’ve got a good thing going. That’s my motto: ‘You’ve got a good thing going in Obie Porfritt’.”

The last three current members of TEPACS entered during this conversation. They were Rear Admiral David Bunt, son of Admiral David “Pigboat” Bunt of World War I fame, and currently Deputy Chief of the Office of Naval Intelligence in the Pentagon; George Masters, Director of Training Aides for the FBI; and Sanderman Jones, who did this and that for the State Department. They fixed themselves drinks and then got down to the serious business of cutting for deal.

Grier Laporte won the deal with a three of clubs. “A little stud, gentlemen,” he said, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

“What was that about the election?” Sanderman asked Ian. “Your viewers don’t understand the process, or the result. Or what?”

“Not particularly the last election,” Ian said. “But American presidential elections in general. In their wisdom, the electorate choose a majority from your Democratic Party. Then they turn around and, by an overwhelming landslide, elect a president from your Republican Party so he can veto all the laws your Democratic legislators enact. And thus does government come to a standstill while two of the coequal branches fight it out. Fortuitously, one of the branches is more equal than the other, so progress is made.”

“You gonna play cards or lecture us on democratic institutions?” Grier demanded. “Come on, ante up!”

They played in silence for a while, except for an occasional obligatory poker comment. Then Colonel Baker turned to Sanderman Jones. “Much reshuffling going on in State? Is it going to affect you?”

Jones shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “There’s a lot of head-rolling going on, but it’s mostly in the more visible sections of the department. Intelligence hasn’t yet felt the ax.”

“I heard about that,” Faulkes said. “It’s That Man, isn’t it? What does he think he’s doing? First the resignations, now this.”

“He knows just what he’s doing,” George Masters said. “Our President is a man who demands complete loyalty to himself. Not to the country, or the job, but to himself personally. Some of the people in the Bureau who’ve crossed him in the last four years are getting the word now. It’s either early retirement or field work out in the boonies.”

“Crossed him how?” Faulkes asked.

Masters shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

“It is rumored,” Adams told Faulkes, “that the President asked his investigative and intelligence agencies to provide him with information regarding his domestic political enemies—among others. For the most part, that information was provided. Some, however, resisted this politicizing of the process of government. Those people are gradually being surgically excised.”

“Is that right?” Faulkes asked Masters. “Have you any comment? Did anything like that happen at the Bureau? Has anything changed since Hoover died?”

“No comment,” Masters said, “but I’ll tell you this: A lot of people have been throwing shit at J. Edgar Hoover for the past thirty years for the way he ran the Bureau, but if the facts ever come out, they’re going to eat their words. That man bowed to no political pressure. Everything he did was for what he considered the good of the country. And nobody, in any office, ever used him or the Bureau. And nobody tried more than once.”

“Are you saying the FBI is being subverted?” Faulkes asked.

“I’m not saying anything,” Masters said.

“Could we shut up and play cards?” Obie Porfritt demanded.