It all made sense, I was thinking; the flow of power into the White House had been a gradual process during the first term—in fact, during the last forty years. It was tested and proven. Minnick had been part of the pattern in the first term. He and Krogh had run the government’s anti-narcotics campaign from the White House, once Ehrlichman had wrested control from Mitchell.
The only time I’d met Minnick before was at an odd meeting a few months earlier when Krogh had called me in and treated me to a mysterious denial that the White House narcotics office had been involved in the assassination of drug traffickers in Latin America. I had puzzled over what this bit of theater meant. No such story had appeared in print, and none ever did. But the episode piqued my curiosity about the drug program. Krogh had described to me how, when he was bored with his desk work, he had carried bars of gold bullion through Asia’s “Golden Triangle” in CIA planes and bargained with drug chieftains. There were rumors of bombing poppy fields, and once Bud had asked my office to resolve a dispute among the Pentagon, the State Department and the Bureau of Narcotics over the legality of kidnapping drug traffickers abroad. If the goal was worthy, the means were secondary, the thinking went, and there was a firm conviction that agencies outside the White House could not be trusted.
Gordon Liddy had received his White House indoctrination in this very drug program, and he had read the signs clearly. Years later I would learn that the remarkable intelligence force he had described in Mitchell’s office was only a part of his dream to build a clandestine police force for the White House. He and Hunt had recruited hundreds of operatives—most had had CIA training—and had promised them service after the election.
As I rode along, I was thinking that the reorganization seemed a quantum leap in the trend toward centralization, but it was obviously also Ehrlichman’s consummate power play. He would become, in effect, chief executive of domestic affairs, because Nixon did not interest himself much in such matters and ordinarily deferred to Ehrlichman’s judgment.
“Well, this tape is a beauty,” I sighed to Haldeman and Ehrlichman when we were alone in the President’s Laurel Lodge, an office he seldom used. It was almost bare except for an American flag and a Presidential flag on either side of an empty desk. There were two chairs and a sofa. “I’m kind of surprised Chuck even talked to Hunt, but you might as well hear straight from Hunt how much of a pain in the ass he’s going to be. I’m sorry about this recording. I had to do it myself, and I was interrupted by a lot of phone calls while I was doing it. You’ll hear some overlaps and repeats, but the gist is here.” I was apologizing. I knew how intolerant Haldeman was of any sort of mechanical imperfection. He’d made cracks about my recording of Segretti.
We listened in silence to Hunt’s ghostly voice foul the post-election euphoria. Ehrlichman doodled. Haldeman winced during the money talk, smirked at Colson’s energetic efforts to parry Hunt’s cover-up messages, and laughed aloud as Hunt called Mitchell a perjurer. Then I awaited my instructions. There was no jolly rehash, as there had been after the Segretti tape. No one was eager to discuss the money.
“Well, I can understand why Chuck let you have this tape,” Haldeman said finally. “It sure as hell’s self-serving for him. Colson’s no fool.”
“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “He’s proud of it.” Haldeman, like Colson, remained fixed on what had happened before the break-in.
Ehrlichman was closer to the point. “Why don’t you have our friend John Mitchell take care of Mr. Hunt’s problem? He’s got a lot of free time up there in New York making money.”
“I’m going up to New York this afternoon with Maury Stans,” I replied, “and I’ll play this for Mitchell. I don’t think he’s going to be too happy about it.”
“Well, he’s a resourceful man when he has to be,” said Ehrlichman. “Let us know how it comes out.”
The conversation ended. I had wanted instructions, some guidance. Haldeman and Ehrlichman wanted to make Howard Hunt go away with sheer willpower. If anything, Ehrlichman was even more curt than before as he tossed the albatross back to Mitchell. He was riding high and was totally absorbed in the reorganization; Hunt was a gnat buzzing in his ear.
“Well, I’ll leave it with you fellows,” Haldeman said brusquely, rising. “I’ve got to go talk to our noble Vice-President.”
As Haldeman headed for the door, Ehrlichman turned to me. “Your old friend Dick Kleindienst was up,” he said, referring to the Camp David shuttle.
“Is he going to stay on?”
Haldeman stopped at the door. “Yeah. We’re going to keep him on until some of this stuff is all cleared up. We’ll keep him another six to eight months.”
“I think that’s good,” I said to Haldeman, but I was talking to the door. He was gone.
I packed up the recorder, which was all I had in my attaché case, and Ehrlichman and I got ready to rejoin the others, who were waiting around the fireplace in the main living room. It was time, I thought, to make a move with Ehrlichman to let him know I would not be so easily left out of the reorganization scheme. “Say, John, I was talking to Walt Minnick on the way up here about the reorganization. It sounds pretty impressive.”
Ehrlichman raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded. I assumed he was not happily surprised that Minnick had told me about the project.
“I think it will make the birds sing,” he said quietly.
“I do, too, but I think you’ve got some legal problems to deal with that belong in the counsel’s office.” I hinted at some of the technical points governing reorganizations of the executive branch. I was indirect. I was sending signals: this was my turf. I knew how to solve Ehrlichman’s problems, while Minnick was coming in cold.
“Yeah, I think you might be able to help,” Ehrlichman replied without enthusiasm.
“Okay,” I said, knowing that he had little choice so long as I was carrying his burdens on the cover-up. “What do you think we should tell the others out there about our little meeting in here?”
“Well, why don’t we tell them we were discussing the reorganization?” Ehrlichman replied. “Which we were.”
We returned to the group and gossiped some. I was satisfied when Ehrlichman suggested that Minnick consult me on the legal arrangements for the reorganization. I had the White House switchboard track down Maurice Stans in Washington and told him I’d missed the flight to New York we had planned on. He said he’d wait for me and we’d take a later plane, and I dashed off to my limousine.
Stans was waiting in his limousine at the entrance to the White House. On the way to the airport, he kept glancing at his watch. Stans is a man who glances frequently at his watch. His precision had earned him a place in the Certified Public Accountants’ Hall of Fame, as well as the standing one-year record for political fund raising—estimated at around $50 million.
“Have you ever thought about getting one of those computer watches?” I asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I looked at them, but decided against it.”
“Why?”
“Because it takes two hands to operate them. When I’m meeting with someone and want to sneak a look at my watch, I don’t want to be conspicuous.” He showed me how noticeable it would be to press a button on his watch to make the time light up. “And I’m often carrying a stack of papers in one hand, and that would make it tough to check the time if I was on the run.”
Stans was the only Administration official who could have tutored Bob Haldeman on efficiency. He was proud of his fund-raising technique, inviting comparison with the work of Herb Kalmbach, his only rival. He would tell wealthy targets that they owed the President a fixed percentage of their income and that he was there to collect. It was insurance, or it was a necessary business expense to keep the right President in office. The ship was sailing, Stans never gave them enough time to think about it. Kalmbach took a seductive, bonhomie approach, loosening his targets by alluding to his intimacy with the President and telling a few jokes. Herb had elevat
ed fund raising to a fine-arts craft. Among his props was a small notebook filled with his joke collection which he consulted before each appointment, choosing items to suit the customer.
As the plane took off, Maury pulled out his attaché case and reviewed his personal reminder list, his own tickler. As fast as he checked one item, he added another. We chatted about the reasons I was along. He was going to see Mitchell to discuss closing down the Finance Committee. He was under pressure to disclose the names of Republican contributors because of a suit by Common Cause, a vigorous citizens’ lobby. While Stans talked, I was wondering whether he was going to lay a new cover-up disaster at my door. If so, I knew it would be a whopper. Maury was one person I had never needed to fret about. He could take care of himself. I was relieved when he returned his notes to his attaché case and fished out a copy of Playboy.
“You read that?” I asked.
“Sure,” he answered with a smile, “and I look at the pictures too.” I was embarrassed when he asked me if I wanted to have a look. I liked the pictures well enough, but I didn’t have the nerve to display them on American Airlines. I relaxed. Maury eased the tension I felt as I thought about the Hunt tape in my attaché case.
Since Stans had provided our transportation to the Washington airport, I reciprocated in New York. It was now nothing for me to have my secretary call the Secret Service and have agents meet my plane, take me to my appointment, and return me to the airport. I was assigned jurisdiction over the Secret Service in the post-election shuffle at the White House: another score for the counsel’s office.
We proceeded to the conference room he had reserved at the Metropolitan Club, a decorous relic from another era. The room was spectacular—high ceilings, faded walls, a huge fireplace with a massive baroque mirror over it, and a conference table that could comfortably handle dozens. When Mitchell arrived, the three of us met around it. Stans ran swiftly through his checklist and then left. His departure spared me an awkward moment; I hadn’t wanted him around when I broached the subject of Hunt with Mitchell.
“John, we’ve got a problem with Hunt,” I began. “Now that the election’s over, he’s turning the screws.” While I opened my attaché case I described Colson’s call and how I’d recorded it. “I’ll let you hear this for yourself. I played it this morning for Bob and John, and they told me to bring it to you.”
Mitchell chuckled. “Hmm, I’ll bet they did.”
He listened to it impassively, breaking his silence only to protest Hunt’s remark that he had committed perjury. “I don’t know what the hell Mr. Hunt is talking about on that,” he said angrily, and then settled back for the remainder of the tape.
“That’s sweet, isn’t it?” I remarked, trying to lighten the load I had just dumped on him.
“I’ll say.” Mitchell rose slowly. “You have any good news?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Haldeman and Ehrlichman told me this morning that they’re going to keep Dick on as Attorney General.”
“That’s kind of them,” Mitchell said with a bite. He was making his way toward a small table near the door, where his overcoat and hat lay.
“Can I give you a ride? I’ve got a car down in front.” I wanted to know what, if anything, Mitchell wanted me to do about Hunt, and I was disturbed by his hasty departure.
“No, thanks.” He was putting on his coat. “Our place is just a few blocks from here. The walk’ll do me good.”
“Anything you want me to report to Bob or John?” I asked plaintively.
“No. No, I don’t think so. Thanks for coming up. I’ll give you a call later.” We both headed out of the room and said goodbye when I stopped at the checkroom. By the time I reached my car, Mitchell was at the corner of Sixtieth Street and Fifth Avenue. His collar was up around his neck, his hat pulled down, and his shoulders were slumped. I watched him cross the street slowly and wondered if this once powerful man felt as burdened by the cover-up as I did. All we had were worries and shady habits, evasions but no solutions.
“Ready to go?” shouted the Secret Service agent.
“Yeah, let’s go. Maybe I can make the seven-o’clock shuttle if we hurry.” I jumped into the front seat, not wanting the agents who drove me around to think I looked on them as chauffeurs. We took off. “How’s it going up here in New York?” I said.
“Fine, thanks. Just fine.”
“What kind of cases you been working? Anything exciting?” Some agents had told me spine-tingling tales about breaking up counterfeit rings, a principal function of the Secret Service.
“No. Nothing good recently. I’ve been on protective detail the last few months.” He spoke sourly. Protective details were the bane of many agents’ existence.
“Oh. Whose?”
“Sugarfoot,” he said. It was Tricia Cox’s code name.
“How was it? Pretty painful?”
“I’ll say.” He fell silent, busy getting through the midtown traffic. But Sugarfoot was obviously on his mind, for he abruptly picked up the conversation about ten minutes later. “Frankly, she’s a pain in the ass. She bitches about what we wear, and when she goes shopping she complains if we don’t stay a certain distance away from her. I can understand her side of being under protection, you know, but she doesn’t understand ours. Shit, we can’t do anything right for her. Oh, well, I guess I should keep my mouth shut.”
I commiserated with him briefly and jumped out to catch my plane. Mo greeted me warmly at home about eight-thirty and was amazed to hear that I had been to Camp David and back to Washington and then to New York and back in one day.
“Sweetheart, would you fix me a good strong drink? I’m weary.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll tell you—” I called after her, and then stopped. I seldom, if ever, talked about my office problems at home, because I didn’t want the unpleasantness to spread into my marriage.
“You’ll tell me what?” she asked as she came back with the drink.
“Nothing, really.” That’s not fair, I thought. “Well, it’s just that I’m right in the middle of some nasty decisions that have to be made soon. Decisions that are going to affect the President’s second term. It’s pretty heavy stuff—on second thought I’d just as soon not talk about it. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Tell me about your day.” Which she did as I anesthetized myself with one drink after another. I do not become boisterous or wildly creative with booze. I sink slowly into a solemn, numb catatonia.
A few days later, the middle-level cover-up group filed into my office for a strategy session. Ken Parkinson and Paul O’Brien, who had been the Re-election Committee’s lawyers and who were serving as intermediaries with Hunt, reported that Parkinson had received a memorandum from William O. Bittman, Hunt’s lawyer. Fred LaRue reported on the tribulations of a secret fund raiser. I referred to the problem that was most constant: Mitchell and the White House were engaged in the perennial war of nerves over who could ignore the problem longer.
“Here, take a look at this memo,” said Parkinson. He began pacing around the room. Ken could never sit still when the ugly side of Watergate was being discussed. O’Brien was usually cool and witty, providing comic relief and a clear head. LaRue, who had the toughest job as money raiser, flopped into his chair like a tired basset hound and sat there in quiet mourning. Since I was much younger than the others, I felt the need to prove my worth as the President’s counsel. Usually, I would try to act the competent moderator, keeping things going, emphasizing the fact that I was only a liaison between the top and the bottom.
When the Hunt memo was passed to me I looked at it with dread. The money demands of each of the seven Watergate defendants were spelled out: salary, family upkeep, incidentals and lawyers’ fees. Month by month. Due dates for cash deliveries stretching to the early months of 1973. The total was staggering.
“I think I’m going to switch sides,” O’Brien cracked. “Any of you guys have any break-ins you want me to do?”
LaRue was shaking his head. “I can’t raise this kind of money,” he said sadly. “We can’t meet these demands. It’s just that simple, so maybe we’ll find out what’s going to happen.”
“You think they’d take it out in trade?” asked O’Brien.
This one never made it off the ground. LaRue looked too forlorn. I turned to him. “Fred, have you had any luck at all so far? What happens when you hit people?”
“Well, Herb and Maury gave me a few names to try,” he replied. “But, Jesus, I don’t know what to say to the people. I can’t tell them we need some campaign money. That won’t work. We just won the goddam election, and the papers are full of stories about how much money we have left over. And even if they did cough up some campaign money, I couldn’t report it. I don’t know what to do. Maury gave me the name of some contact down in Florida who’s supposed to be the key to a couple hundred thousand dollars cash. I think it’s Arab oil money that Maury wouldn’t touch. I don’t want to touch it, either. The last thing we need is for some crazy Arab to have us by the balls and threaten to sing if the President doesn’t bomb Jerusalem. That would be worse than Hunt.”
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