The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  “Now, that’s a way to make an entrance,” someone quipped. Ed sat up and rubbed his head, looking for Driscoll and Monroe, but they were nowhere in sight. The man who had opened the door nudged Ed out of the way with his foot and quickly shut it again.

  When he stood, he found himself face to face with a man he recognized. He had a flat-top haircut and a severe look about him. Ed had seen him in person once before: he was one of the men he’d seen in the diner during his meeting with Driscoll and Mason. “Mr. Haldeman,” Ed said.

  “You’re Paisley’s contact, aren’t you?” said Haldeman. “I thought he said you couldn’t make it. What’s your name again?”

  Utterly flummoxed, Ed stammered helplessly for a moment and then said the first word that came into his mind. “Bismuth.” That had always been his favorite element, a heavy metal that was good for preventing diarrhea. Atomic number eighty-three, a prime number. “Uh, Walter. Walter Bismuth.”

  “That wasn’t the name Paisley gave me.” Haldeman’s frown deepened. “Are you his man from CIA?”

  Ed hadn’t the faintest idea who this Paisley might be, but there seemed to be only one sensible answer. “Yes. Paisley sends his regards.”

  Nixon’s Chief of Staff stared at him a bit longer, possibly just for effect. His unwavering gaze was chilling. “Welcome to the Plumbers, Bismuth. Have a seat.”

  “Plumbers?” Ed asked.

  “Our job is to stop leaks. Take a seat, please.”

  Seven men sat around a conference table. One of them patted the seat of an empty chair. Ed sat.

  “Bismuth,” said Haldeman, “this is Egil Krogh. He’s running this team. Going around the table, this is Mr. Colson, the President’s Special Counsel.” Ed nodded hello. “Edward Watership…” Watership had a thick brown mustache that looked pasted on. “…And Leonard Garbanzo,” Haldeman went on, “are our field agents, in a manner of speaking.” The man named Leonard nodded without smiling; he had disheveled hair and had beads of sweat on his forehead. “Abe Cruller is our advisor on covert surveillance. He worked previously with Leonard and Watership on the Bay of Pigs thing, but I’m sure you know all about that.” Cruller nodded to Ed. He had a curly mop of black hair and a heavy pair of eyeglasses, and he was smiling from ear to ear. “Mr. Earley, I call him the Late Howard Earley”—Earley frowned at this introduction—“is a guest from the DOJ. The Attorney General wants to make sure we’re following protocol in this little endeavor. And Mr. Dean is White House Counsel.” Ed promptly forgot every name except the ones he had already memorized. His attention was focused on the tendrils of oily black smoke that seeped out of each man’s head. It oozed up into the air, thick and oily, collected in their hair, and oozed out from around their hairlines in little puffs when they moved or spoke. The room stank of scorched oil.

  “Pleased to meet you, Bismuth,” said the one named Earley. He was older than the others, perhaps in his late fifties, and had thinning gray hair. “What exactly do you do for the Agency?”

  Ed had never been adept at thinking on his feet. He shrugged and said, “I really can’t talk about it.” This was technically a true statement.

  “Wet work, eh?” said Watership.

  Ed shrugged again. He wasn’t sure what CIA agents would be doing in the water.

  Earley laughed. “I think what he’s trying to say, Watership, is that it’s none of your Bismuth.”

  There was general laughter around the table, and Earley slapped Ed hard on the back. Cruller grinned and gave him two thumbs up. It seemed Ed had been accepted into their little group.

  “So, Bismuth,” Haldeman said. “Back to the matter at hand. I’m sure Paisley filled you in. What’s your sense of the national security implications here?”

  Ed frowned. “National security implications,” he repeated thoughtfully.

  “Yes. Are these papers revealing any classified information that might be used to harm the United States? Is this going to come back to bite the President?”

  “All the disclosures have to do with previous administrations,” Colson said. “The information reflects badly on Kennedy and Johnson. Not on us.”

  Cruller shook his head vigorously. His curly hair waved wildly with the motion. “What the documents are saying is damaging to the present government, not just Kennedy and Johnson. Have you read the latest in the Post? It says Kennedy was planning to overthrow the Vietnamese government. With the help of the CIA, I would add.” He shot Ed a pointed look. “That’s a serious charge against your agency, Bismuth. And Johnson’s hypocrisy in escalating the war… All of this could give the U.S. government a black eye. I say the President is perfectly justified in going after this leaker, this Ellsberg.”

  “Of course he is,” said Krogh. “No one here doubts that. We have men exploring options as we speak.” He glanced at Watership and Leonard as he said this.

  “What options?” said Earley.

  “Options.”

  “Come on, Bud,” said Leonard. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we? There’s only one option on the table: Daniel Ellsberg has been seeing a psychiatrist in Los Angeles. Cruller and Watership think that doctor probably has a load of good stuff on Ellsberg. The kind of stuff that could be used against him, either in court or in the newspapers. Me and Watership, we’re going out there to do some investigating.”

  “Covert surveillance,” Cruller said, still grinning.

  Earley looked unimpressed. “You’re going to break in and steal his files? Is that what you’re planning?”

  Leonard shrugged. “It’s not stealing if we don’t remove anything.” He mimed taking a picture with a camera, making a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “And what happens if you get caught? You’ll be traced right back to the President.”

  “We won’t be doing it ourselves,” Leonard said. “We’ve got friends to do the actual, you know―”

  “That’s enough, Garbanzo” said Edward Watership.

  But Leonard kept right on talking. He seemed quite fond of talking. “And even if we do get caught, this Pentagon Papers case is all about national security. Leaking classified documents is a felony. The President has the right to do whatever it takes to protect the nation from traitors like Daniel Ellsberg. Isn’t that right, Bismuth?”

  Everyone in the room was suddenly looking at Ed, who could think of nothing to say. “Traitors,” he said, folding his arms and nodding solemnly. “Whatever it takes.”

  “See, Bismuth knows what I mean,” said Leonard.

  “I think you’re wasting your time,” Earley said. “The courts will take care of Ellsberg. The people we should be going after are the journalists who are printing this stuff.”

  Leonard’s face lit up at that. “Oh, we’ve got plans for the reporters, too. Hank Mulberry is handling the surveillance of the reporters.”

  “Zip it,” said Watership. “That topic is compartmentalized under ODESSA.”

  “Don’t bring up ODESSA,” said Haldeman.

  Leonard looked around the table. “Has anyone spoken with Mulberry? Why isn’t he here for this meeting?”

  Haldeman shook his head. “Hank Mulberry does not need to be a part of this discussion.”

  “Mulberry is Kissinger’s man,” Earley said to Ed, just loud enough for Haldeman to hear. “The President doesn’t want Kissinger involved in any of this.”

  Leonard laughed. “Of course not. He’s the only man in the world Nixon’s afraid of.”

  “Who isn’t afraid of Kissinger?” Watership said. “Leonard, you practically wet yourself when Henry Kissinger enters the room.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Ed,” said Leonard. This statement caused Ed some alarm until he realized Leonard was addressing Edward Watership.

  “Cool it, gentlemen,” said Colson, giving Leonard a dark look. “Garbanzo, you talk too much.”

  “The President was hoping this would all simply go away,” said Earley. “Or that the Pentagon Papers would help him by reflecting badly on the Democrats.
But it’s not going away. All of America is talking about this leak. We have to do something about the press. It’s not just the Pentagon Papers. Just this morning I got another call from that journalist―” He practically spat out that last word as if it tasted bad. “That nosy clown, Emanuel Wilson. Now he’s asking me about Pakistan, and where the President stands on Pakistan versus India. He’s not just guessing—he’s heard something. He has a contact somewhere inside, and it’s a senior one.” A couple of the others began to argue, and soon the whole table was engaged in several competing discussions.

  Haldeman raised a hand. Everyone fell silent almost instantly. It was clear that every man in the room deferred to him. “The question of leaks is exactly why we’re here today. The President has asked Bud Krogh and myself to make sure these leaks are stopped. We’ve decided to form a new task force, a Special Investigations Unit, to investigate any leaks and prosecute anyone involved. And in some cases, we may go beyond prosecution.” He let those last words hang out there ominously.

  “Bob,” said Earley with some hesitation, “how far beyond prosecution are we willing to go?”

  Haldeman ignored the question. “Bismuth, we’re going to need cooperation from CIA on this. If the President determines that a leak is jeopardizing our national security, he’s going to expect your help in taking care of matters.”

  “Certainly,” Ed said. He felt like he was growing into his role. “What sort of help?”

  Cruller leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. This was evidently his area of expertise. “We’ll need surveillance,” he said. “Electronic equipment. Tape recorders, microphones, radios. Disguises. Maybe… maybe some wet work. The first job, though… Bismuth, we’ll need your special skills for that.”

  Ed had never been a confident swimmer, and he was still not sure what sort of wet work might be required. But there was little he could do now except go along with it. “Happy to help,” he said.

  * * *

  An hour later, Ed left the office after a great deal of hand-shaking and back-slapping. These men were very big on back-slapping. “Looking forward to working with you, Bismuth,” said Egil Krogh, as a cloud of filthy, dark smoke oozed out of his hair and drifted toward the ceiling.

  Ed found Driscoll and Wayne Monroe just outside the entrance, having a smoke. He joined them, bumming a Lucky Strike from Driscoll. They chatted and smoked for a few minutes, enjoying a cool breeze that helped ease the oppressive humidity.

  “Good job keeping a low profile,” Wayne said. “What happened in there?”

  Ed exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Nixon’s starting up a new outfit to deal with leaks to the press. They think I’m some kind of liaison to the CIA.”

  Driscoll looked dumbfounded. “You told them that?”

  “I didn’t say it. They just assumed. You’re both going to have to call me Walter Bismuth.”

  Wayne shook his head in disbelief. “Jonathan will be furious. You weren’t supposed to talk to anybody.”

  “Didn’t have much of a choice,” said Ed. “Besides, Jonathan is too cautious. It’s about time we did something ourselves instead of waiting for him.”

  Monroe looked unconvinced, but he let it be for the moment.

  Ambassador Bush was still in his meeting with the National Security Advisor, so they took a cab to Georgetown and found a nice place for dinner. They ate an obscene amount of food and shared a bottle of wine paid for by George Bush’s expense account. When it was close to midnight, Wayne took care of the bill and they caught another cab to their hotel.

  Mason had used Bush’s name to reserve three suites for them in an enormous hotel in Foggy Bottom, a sprawling new sixteen-story complex located right on the Potomac River. This hotel, called the Watergate, had quickly become a favorite of many visiting officials who had business at the Department of State, just a few blocks away. The buildings in the complex, all new and shining white, were curved and elegantly modern in their design. “The U.S. Government spares no expense for our Ambassador and his staff,” Jonathan had said with a wink. Ed had been pleasantly surprised to see that his suite was large and beautifully furnished, with a well-stocked bar.

  The taxi dropped them off at the hotel entrance and they went up to take a look at their rooms. Monroe’s room was a deluxe suite on the top floor with a private terrace. Normally reserved for foreign dignitaries or high-ranking officials, Mason had been able to claim it simply by mentioning that his colleagues would be in town to meet with Henry Kissinger. Ed and Driscoll had adjacent suites downstairs on the seventh floor, not as posh as Monroe’s terrace but certainly fancier than any hotel room Ed had ever seen. He and Driscoll got off the elevator, said good night to Wayne, and walked down to the end of the curving hallway to their neighboring doors.

  “I hope you haven’t gotten in over your head, Secret Agent Man,” Driscoll said.

  Ed smiled. “I’m always over my head. This can’t be any worse.”

  “Maybe. Just don’t get into any more trouble tonight, all right?”

  Ed clapped him on the shoulder and they went into their suites for the night. The light didn’t come on when he flipped the switch; the power seemed to be out in his room. Once the door closed behind him, the darkness was complete. He stubbed his toe no fewer than three times as he tripped and stumbled across the dark suite to the bedroom. The light wasn’t working in there, either. He would have to phone the front desk. But it was late and he didn’t need light to change out of his clothes, so he didn’t bother searching for the phone. There would be time to worry about that tomorrow.

  It was a relief to loosen his tie and permit the blood to resume flowing to his head. He unbuttoned his shirt and felt his way to the bed. There was a faint glow in the window from a streetlamp outside. He could see the outline of the window, which had been left open, curtains swaying gently in the cool breeze. There was just enough light to see his suitcase, the shape of the dresser, and the outline of a person hiding in the corner of the room.

  Ed let out a holler and jumped to his feet. The intruder was on him in an instant, seizing his necktie and tightening it like a noose. Ed clawed at his attacker’s arms, tearing away a few bits of skin but having no effect on the grip that was slowly strangling him. Finally he gave up on that approach and reached for the face of his assailant. When he found it, he inserted two fingers into one nostril and jammed them up the man’s nose as hard as he could. The attacker grunted and let go of Ed’s necktie. Ed yanked the tie off over his head and tossed it aside.

  He spun around to face his assailant. It was too dark to make out any features of his face, but Ed noticed a sudden odor of burning oil that filled the room. How had he not noticed the stink when he’d first entered the room? Whoever this man was, he had been infected by Nosgrove.

  These thoughts flashed through Ed’s mind in the few seconds it took for the attacker to get over the pain in his tender nasal tissues. He rushed Ed again, landing a hard punch in the ribs. The assailant’s momentum carried both of them into the dresser and smashed the mirror to pieces. Ed pushed forward until the man hit the wall with a satisfying thump. Then they were rolling on the floor, and it was Ed who managed to get on top and start pummeling his enemy. He meant to punch his attacker’s face, but it was impossible to see in the dark. Some of the blows missed the mark entirely; others hit him in the neck or the ear. The last one, a hard jab, got him right in the eye.

  Ed paused when he realized his attacker was yelling something over and over. “What?”

  “I said stop! You hit my eye!”

  “Sorry,” Ed replied. Then he shook his head. He was not sorry, not at all. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s Leonard. Christ, my eye! Did you have to do that?”

  “Leonard?”

  “From the meeting today. Goddamn it, I think my nose is bleeding. You stuck your fingers in it. Let me up.”

  Ed’s fingers did feel sticky and wet. Well, it served the guy right. He stood and wiped his hand on the bed
sheet. “Why did you attack me?”

  Leonard stood up. His features were not visible in the darkness, but Ed could hear him breathing heavily. “I had to see if you’re for real. A lot of guys talk big, but they’re full of shit. You said you were CIA, so I had to see if you were for real.”

  I never said that, Ed thought. Everyone just thought I did. “And?”

  “We need to talk. Let me turn the power back on.”

  * * *

  “The first thing I need to know,” Leonard said, “is which side you’re on. Are you with Kissinger or Nixon?”

  After stopping the flow of blood from his nose with a wad of toilet paper, Leonard had gone around the suite and tightened all of the light bulbs in their sockets. Apparently he had loosened them all to hide in the dark. Now he and Ed sat facing each other across the low table in the suite’s sitting room. Ed noted with immense satisfaction that Leonard’s nose was roughly the shape and color of a beet, and his left eye was swollen almost shut.

  “I didn’t know I had to be one or the other,” said Ed.

  “You can only play for one team,” Leonard said. “Kissinger thinks he can run this country from the background. Can’t run for president, wasn’t born here, but who needs to be president when you can boss the president around?”

  Ed thought for a moment. It seemed reasonable to assume that everyone in the Haldeman meeting would have been in the Nixon camp, so he decided to go out on a limb. “I’m with the President.”

  Leonard nodded in approval. “A Cowboy, then. Good. I need your help. John Paisley sent you to us for your special skills. Are you as good as he said?”

  “Probably better,” said Ed, wondering what skills he was supposed to have.

  “Do you have a lot of experience? How long have you been doing it?”

  Ed had learned in his dealings with the government that the best way to get away with a lie was to evade all questions. “Long enough to know what I’m doing. I can’t say more than that.”