He was acutely aware that while the immediate concern was the well-being of Rich Marienthal, the broader political ramifications were potentially huge. The book was bad enough. Although it preached to the already converted, who would wave it about as “proof” that the president was unfit to hold the nation’s highest office—and his defenders would dismiss it as nothing more than braggadocio from a demented former Mafia hit man—it would do damage. But with the tapes played before a Senate committee, and played over and over on radio and TV newscasts, the hit man’s actual words would provide gravamen to the charge against Parmele and throw his bid for a second term into turmoil, the need to defend himself overwhelming the presentation of more meaningful political positions. A familiar plight for modern candidates or officeholders.
“I’m going to put your father on now, Rich,” Smith said. “Before I do, I suggest you not wait much longer to decide what to do with the tapes. You may end up losing your ability to determine their fate. I might have an idea for you if you’ll agree to meet. Hold on.”
He brought the phone to Frank Marienthal at the dining room table. “Rich wants to talk to you, Frank. Take it in my office. You can use this phone or the one on the desk.” He handed the cordless to Marienthal, who slowly got up and left the room, disappearing behind the door to Smith’s office.
The conversation between the elder Marienthal and his son consumed ten minutes. During it, Mac filled Annabel in. Frank Marienthal’s voice was occasionally heard, the words unintelligible, the tone unmistakably angry. When he emerged, he said, “I think I finally talked some sense into him. He’s promised to call again tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“He didn’t say. I could use a drink. Scotch if you have it. Neat.”
“Sure.”
“If he only realized what this is doing to his mother, his name splashed all over TV and the newspapers, hiding out like some dumb kid playing a prank on his parents.”
Mac brought Marienthal a tumbler of single malt. “I think Rich is genuinely afraid, Frank,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too judgmental at this juncture. It’s not all directed at you and Mary. Maybe none of it is.”
Marienthal ignored Smith’s counsel and asked, “Did he tell you where he was calling from?”
“No.”
The phone rang, and Annabel went to the kitchen to answer. It was a friend, an art dealer from New York confirming plans to visit Annabel at her gallery the following day. The two men sat quietly at the table, Annabel’s words filling the void.
“And I’m so pleased you’re coming, Karen. Your train gets in at Union Station at one? Grab a cab out front—you’ll be at the gallery by one-thirty. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”
At the Com Center in the Hoover Building, two agents from the communications division heard
“We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”
”Just a couple of ladies doing lunch,” said one agent, laughing.
“Maybe it’ll get juicier later on,” offered the second one.
“Yeah, let’s hope.”
FORTY
L
ights in the White House burned bright that night.
Political adviser Chet Fletcher had been at work since early morning, as had every other member of the president’s most trusted senior staff. A siege mentality existed in offices manned by press secretary Robin Whitson and her aides. “We have no statement at this time” was the official party line.
“When will the president address this directly?” reporters repeatedly asked.
“We have no statement to make at this time.”
“Does the president deny his involvement in the Eliana assassination?”
“We have no statement at this time.”
While Whitson’s staff fielded the barrage of media calls, the press secretary spent most of her day and evening conferring with other presidential handmaidens. Sides had been taken early in the day; Whitson lobbied for the president to hold a press conference and issue an official denial of the claims in the Marienthal-Russo book. Others, led by Chet Fletcher, argued that to do so would only bestow credibility on the book’s charges.
“No,” Whitson said during one of a dozen meetings since the news broke—she’d lost count of how many there had been. “That’s exactly what stonewalling will accomplish. The longer it festers, the more the story will be believed.” She’d become uncharacteristically strident during that particular debate with Fletcher, and left the room to calm down, hopefully to formulate a more reasoned case for her position. But she was painfully aware that no matter what tack she took, she would lose out. Fletcher’s power within the Parmele inner circle was unquestioned, particularly when it involved politics—and this was politics pure and simple, although a silent minority thought it might be a crime, impure and not so simple.
Robin Whitson twice met directly with the president. During those meetings, Parmele acted as though the issue was whether he wore boxer shorts or briefs, nothing more significant than that. “This is Widmer’s last gasp,” he told her. “He’s an old fool who’s grasping at straws, and I don’t intend to dignify this ludicrous, blatantly political ploy.” He came around the desk, his smile wide and reassuring, and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just let it ride a while, Robin,” he said in a measured voice. “Chet has had a handle on it from the beginning. We’ll put out a statement when he thinks it’s appropriate. In the meantime, let’s not become distracted. Stay on message, Robin. Widmer wants us to lose sight of the prize, that’s all. You’re doing a great job. Keep at it.”
His tone during one-on-one meetings with Fletcher was not quite as relaxed and heartening.
“How did we lose control of this?” he asked his political adviser.
“I don’t think we have, Mr. President,” Fletcher responded.
“It sure as hell sounds that way to me! I thought that when the old Italian—what’s his name? Russo—Russo? What kind of name is that? I thought that when he died, it was over.”
“It was, sir, at least as far as the Widmer hearings were concerned. We didn’t take into consideration that there were tapes. We couldn’t stop the book. Hobbes House—”
“The book isn’t what concerns me, Chet. Yeah, it’s bad enough, but how many people will read it? Not enough to make a difference. But those tapes the writer is supposed to have are another story. They’ll play them day and night on cable news channels and right-wing radio talk shows. Walt Brown tells me Widmer intends to go through with the hearings as long as he has the tapes.”
“He won’t have those tapes, Mr. President.”
“You sound damn sure, Chet.”
“He
won’t
have the tapes, Mr. President!”
“Do you have them?”
“Not yet. Shortly.”
Parmele’s tone softened. “Good. I appreciate the way you’ve handled this. As unfortunate as it was, the murder of Widmer’s witness in Union Station was—well, how can I put it so that it doesn’t sound callous? It was fortuitous. What’s the status of the murder with the police?”
“The attorney general’s office is following up on that,” said Fletcher. “It’s my understanding that it’s been ruled a revenge killing by the people he—Mr. Russo—testified against some time ago in New York. I’m also told that the man who killed Russo was in all likelihood hired by the mob for that purpose and was himself eliminated to assure his silence.”
The president leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. “The whole Mafia notion is interesting, isn’t it, Chet? What do they call it, ‘my thing’? Their society is so insular, governed by its own rules.
Omertà
. Their code of silence. Judging from all the turncoats I’ve read about, including this guy Russo, they aren’t always silent. Once the code is broken . . . I’ve always wondered whether there was any truth to the story about the mob being contracted to kill Castro. I know they prevented sabotage on the New York docks during World War II, and advised on the invasion of Sicily. Were they involved in JFK’s assassination? Marilyn Monroe’s death? Joe Kennedy didn’t have any trouble dealing with them or with Hollywood moguls like Wasserman and Mayer.”
“I’ve never put credence in any of it, Mr. President,” Fletcher said. “They’re just a bunch of goons trying to look legitimate and big-time.”
“Like Mr. Russo.”
“Exactly.”
Parmele straightened in the chair. “Maybe Robin is right, Chet. Maybe I should stand up at a podium and simply dismiss the charges in the book.”
“At some point that would be in order, Mr. President. Not now.”
“When?”
“After we let the press play its cards, show us what they’ve got.”
“Nixon stonewalled and look where it got him.”
Fletcher’s frown wasn’t lost on Parmele. “Forget I said that, Chet. I know this isn’t precisely stonewalling.”
Fletcher gathered papers in preparation for leaving.
“Chet,” Parmele said.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“It’s important to me that you know the truth.”
“Sir?”
“About the Eliana assassination.”
“Mr. President, there’s no need to—”
Parmele held up a hand to silence his political guru. “Hear me out, Chet,” he said. “When I was over at the Company, I was aware that there were cells within the agency that preferred to follow their own agenda. It was the same with some people at NSA and the NSC. Cowboys. Have all the answers. I used to think that the toughest part of my job at the Company was figuring out who they were and corralling them, keeping them from playing out their fantasies about what was good for America. I wasn’t always successful.”
A knock on the Oval Office door interrupted. An aide poked her head in, but Parmele waved her away: “Not now.”
“Where was I?” he asked after the aide was gone. “The cowboys, the rogues. I knew there were people in the agency advocating assassination as a public policy tool, and I knew Eliana was high on the list. I heard all their arguments during my years there, and there were times when they seemed to make sense. It would have been a hell of a lot cheaper in money and lives to assassinate Saddam Hussein than to invade Iraq.”
Fletcher listened impassively.
“But no one was going to assassinate anybody on my watch. The administration wasn’t sanctioning assassinations, at least as far as I knew. Besides, all those bungled attempts on Castro’s life before I got there—botulism in his cigars, which didn’t work because he’d stopped smoking; depilatories in his shoes to cause his hair to fall out—made the agency the laughingstock of the intelligence world. So, no, Chet, Eliana wasn’t assassinated on my orders. Maybe the buck stopped at my desk. Maybe I should have kept a tighter rein on the cowboys within the agency. But I never gave the go-ahead, never even knew that killing Eliana was in the works.”
“I understand,” Fletcher said.
Parmele wasn’t finished.
“Congress held the obligatory hearings, and I testified. You know the result of that: ‘Constantine Eliana was assassinated by unknown persons loyal to his opposition back in Chile. Case closed.’ Until now.”
“Yes. Until now.”
Parmele ended the meeting. “You’ll let me know once those tapes are no longer a problem.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. We’ll ride this out, Chet. We’ll leave egg on the Alaska senator’s face and keep the country moving in the right direction. Your service to me is deeply appreciated.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. Anything else?”
“No. Grab a nap. You look like death warmed over.”
Fletcher left the Oval Office and stood just outside its door. Ordinarily, he would have gone directly to his office. He was not known within the White House as someone who mixed easily with others, who enjoyed chewing the fat or passing along the latest insider joke. But this evening he slowly walked the corridors of the nation’s house, stopping to look into offices that he customarily avoided, accepting a greeting with a wan smile and flip of his hand, file folders cradled to his chest, large, thick glasses perched on his small nose, his expression that of a man sinking beneath a massive weight.
“Anything new with the chief?” Robin Whitson asked when she almost bumped into him as he turned a corner.
“No, Robin,” he said. “Nothing new. But you have credibility with him.”
He entered the reception area of his office, where his personal secretary and an aide conversed. “No visitors,” he said.
Inside, the door closed, he settled heavily behind his desk and dropped the folders on it. The drapes were drawn; the only illumination came from a brass gooseneck lamp that spilled yellow light on the polished surface. He was overwhelmed with fatigue. His reputation with colleagues for having an unusually high level of energy was misleading. It was more a matter of will, talking himself through bouts of exhaustion that frequently threatened to consume him.
He called his wife to say he might not be home that night, told her he loved her, and settled in to review upcoming campaign plans. An aide brought him a cup of tea at nine-thirty, and a platter of small sandwiches from the White House mess. It was almost ten when a call came from Wayne Garson.