“His first name was Sidney.” “Whatever.”
—
Eddie Bancroft, the host of The Eddie Bancroft Show, pointed his index finger in the general direction of Air Force Colonel Max Eberhardt. “I’ll tell you what I think, Colonel. It’s not a coincidence that next year’s an election year. This whole business is an effort by the Republicans to suck the president into a ridiculous story. To force him to make a statement. Then, when it all turns out to be a joke, no matter what he’s said, he’ll look idiotic. Dumb. I mean, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense.” —Meredith Capehart, on The Rundown, scribbled something on her notepad, waved the pencil at her audience, and frowned. “I’m not supposed to mention this in public,” she said, “but the whole story was dreamed up by the media. Look, you have a couple of nitwits, Bucky Blackstone and what’s-his-name, Jerry Culpepper, saying crazy things during a slow season. Of course the media are going to run with it. What would you expect?” She touched her earpod. Faked a look of surprise. “Wait one, Louie, they’re telling me archaeologists have just discovered a working radio buried in the Great Pyramid.”
15
George Cunningham loved fund-raisers. He got no greater pleasure anywhere than mixing with the party faithful, hearing the enthusiasm when he walked into a room, seeing the gleam in everyone’s eyes, the hands outstretched to touch him. There was nothing quite like telling those jokes on himself, like the one in which the First Lady confessed to him that she’d fallen in love with him because he’d looked so much like her family’s pizza delivery guy back in Ohio. “She loves pizza,” he added. It always got a laugh.
The first requirement, if you want to succeed in politics, is to stand for something. The second is to pretend to be modest, to disguise yourself as an ordinary person. The guy down the street. And to play that role to the hilt. Be an average American with the right moral values. The kind of guy the average voter would like to sit down with over some beer. Pull that off, convince the voters, and nothing will ever stop you.
Cunningham would have been delighted to be able to say what he really thought, to be brutally honest with the voters, to point out that the country couldn’t go on forever watching the dollar lose value. That we couldn’t continue indefinitely packing more people within our borders. He owed it to the electorate to mention that sometimes the country needs a little socialism. (That it’s okay; we’ll just call it something else.) And so on. That was all political poison. To stay in power, you had to play the game. But that didn’t mean he didn’t believe in country over party. Everybody said that, but Cunningham believed it. It was a position that often alienated his allies. But he’d do what he could to stay in power because it was important to keep his political opponents well away from the Oval Office. They were inclined to approach every problem with a hammer.
He was at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza in Beverly Hills. There were some Hollywood people in the audience. Among them was Grant Barrin, the action star. Grant was at the far end of the president’s table. You couldn’t go wrong if the heroic types came out for you. Comedians were good, too. And leading ladies. But you couldn’t do better than someone like Grant.
Within minutes after he was seated, they rolled out the dinner. Steak, mashed potatoes, corn, red cabbage, and apple sauce. George’s kind of meal. He had never developed much of a taste for ethnic food. He was basically a meat and potatoes guy. Senator Andrea Gordon was on his left, and state party chairman Bill Merkusik on the other side. He expected to name Andrea as his running mate in 2020.
The party was anticipating problems holding on to its California House membership. And that became the topic during the meal. The voters were unhappy with the runaway inflation, and they wanted overseas bases closed down. The United States, many of them felt, had developed serious imperial ambitions, which it could not afford. The watchword in the 2020 election was going to be “time to come home.” George would have loved to pull out and bring everybody back to the States. He’d already done some of that. But the country had made promises under previous administrations. And some places were inherently unstable. Leave, and people who had supported the United States would die. He didn’t want that on his conscience. The New York Times was leading the charge against him. It was an easy enough call, he told Merkusik and Gordon, for The Times. They wouldn’t have to live with the results when people started getting butchered.
Sometimes, he regretted having gotten into politics. He didn’t like the life-and-death decisions that periodically faced him. Twice he’d stayed out of conflicts while his critics screamed for intervention. And he’d watched while dictators massacred thousands. Blood on his hands whether he acted or stood by.
Damned job. Sometimes, he was tempted to announce that he’d back off at the end of his first term. Let somebody else try his luck. If there were a graceful way to do that, he probably would. But it would hurt the party, and, consequently, damage a lot of the people who’d supported him.
—
When they’d finished eating, Merkusik rose to applause, took his place at the lectern, and introduced him. The applause was deafening. Andrea smiled at him. Go get ’em, cowboy.
He shook hands with the chairman. “Thanks, Bill,” he said, turning to the audience. He had to wait for them to settle down. When they did, he held up both arms. “I love California.”
More cheers.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to be among friends.” He told a few jokes about his early ambitions to break into the movies. “I always wanted to be a leading man,” he said, looking toward Grant as if trying to suggest they would both have been in the same class. Grant smiled and pointed a finger. You and me, baby. And the laughs came. He stayed on message. The party would win big next year, he told them, but they couldn’t do it without the efforts of the people gathered in that room. He thanked them, and expressed his hope for their continued support. He outlined his objectives for the second term. Social Security would be kept on track. The administration would continue its policy of closing overseas military bases deemed nonessential. “The problem we face,” he said, “is that two decades after we were saying that history had essentially ended, we are still dealing with an unpredictable world. And, unfortunately, the very act of taking precautions sometimes tends to create more potential enemies. The really good news, of course, is that the destruction of the global nuclear stockpile continues on pace.”
That line always got applause. Decades from now, if he was remembered for anything at all, he’d get credit for pushing, and finally bringing to fruition, the Nuclear Weapons Elimination Treaty. His father had been appalled that the world had stored tens of thousands of atomic bombs in its arsenals and, when the Cold War ended, made no move to get rid of them. “There won’t be a future,” he’d told George one evening after they’d watched a scientist on the History Channel make dire predictions about the next half century. “Eventually,” he’d said, “either by accident or design, one of them, or maybe a lot of them, will go off, and take three million people into oblivion with it. Once that happens, civilization will come apart.”
The treaty had been signed in 2018, in Hiroshima. Remarkably, every nuclear-capable government on the planet had gotten on board. There’d been promises, some coercion, a lot of compromises. To make the system work, the United States, and everyone else, had granted unrestricted and unannounced access to I.A.E.A. inspectors. Passage had been branded a miracle, accomplished in the face of outrage around the world. He wished his father could have lived to see it.
—
Cunningham made it a point never to talk longer than twenty minutes. At fund-raisers, he’d found it best to cut off at about fifteen and turn the program over to the audience. So he assured everyone that, whatever it took, he would maintain a balanced budget. Then he asked for questions.
Clyde Thomason, a vice president at Paramount, wanted to know whether the president saw an economic turnaround coming. That led to a discussion about
the administration’s efforts to get inflation under control.
How had he managed to get the Koreans to agree to a peace treaty?
Was the United States going to get involved in the effort to get global population under control?
Were we going to continue sending aid to Cuba?
What was his reaction to Morgan Blackstone’s comments?
That came from a guy near the front. Cunningham was pretty sure they’d been introduced at one time, and he seemed to recall he was a banker. But he couldn’t remember a name. “Blackstone?” he said, stalling for time. Merkusik, who’d taken a seat beside the lectern, wrote the questioner’s name on a slip of paper and placed it where the president could see it.
“To be honest, Michael,” he said, “I really don’t know how to respond to his comments. I think you’ll have to ask him to explain a bit more. While you’re at it, you might check with Mr. Blackstone to see if he knows what’s going on in the Bermuda Triangle.”
—
Bill Merkusik rode with him to the El Segundo Air Force Base. “Good show, Mr. President. You were great in there.” He was heavyset, had lost most of his hair, and had a face full of wrinkles. Still, when he laughed, an entire room could light up. He was a physician though he’d given up the practice long ago. He’d hated the health-care system. Cunningham had promised reform, but hadn’t gotten to it. It was complicated, and nobody really had a workable answer.
Without Merkusik, Cunningham knew, he would very likely not have taken California. And that would have cost him the race. “Thanks, Bill,” he said. “They were a good audience.”
“They believe in you.”
“What’s on your mind, Bill?” He’d seen a shadow in his eyes.
“Michael’s question. About Blackstone.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, it’s becoming an issue. Blackstone lit a fuse last week. You’re going to have to lay it to rest.”
“Lay what to rest, Bill? There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Okay. Just be aware that Bucky has some friends here. And they trust him. Word’s getting around that, well—”
“Look, Bill, I can’t shut down a nonstory. The more I talk about it, the more credence it will get. Just relax. It’ll go away on its own.”
16
Bucky Blackstone spent the night in his bedroom suite atop the office building, had some breakfast brought up from the cafeteria, considered lighting a cigar, decided against it, poured himself another cup of coffee, and carried it down the hall to his office.
“Have you heard the rumors?” asked Gloria excitedly as he opened the door.
“We’re at war with Latvia?”
“No, of course not.”
“The Cubs won the pennant?”
“Stop being silly.”
“You’re right,” said Bucky, sitting down at his desk. “It’s much easier to believe that Sidney Myshko turned cartwheels on the Moon. Now, I could guess all day, or you could enlighten me.”
“The word on the grapevine is that Jerry Culpepper resigned yesterday!” said Gloria.
“Have you tried to check it out?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“And?”
“The grapevine is always right,” said Gloria. Then she smiled. “You called that one, Boss.”
Bucky nodded. “He’s gone. He’s a moral man. He could put up with just so much lying and duplicity, and then he had to quit. He’ll find working conditions here much more to his liking.”
“You want me to try to get hold of him today?”
“No, that wouldn’t look good, not for either of us. I’d look like I was buying off NASA’s spokesman after starting all this controversy about the Myshko mission—”
“You didn’t start it,” interrupted Gloria.
“You and I know it, but most of the public never heard of it until I went on the air, and George Cunningham has the press in his back pocket. If he feels betrayed, and he will, that’s the way the story will be played.” He paused and looked out of the buildings that formed the bulk of his empire. “And Jerry won’t look any better, not if he comes to work for me the day after he quits. We’ll give him a couple of weeks, and then, to quote an Italian friend I never had, I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“What if someone else offers him a job first?”
“Then I’ll outbid them.”
She smiled. “It must be nice to be able to say that and not have anyone tell you no.”
“People have been telling me no all my life,” answered Bucky. “I got rich by ignoring them.”
“So we just pretend Jerry doesn’t exist for a few weeks, and then you dangle so much money at him, he can’t say no?”
Bucky shut his eyes and sat stock-still for a moment. Gloria had worried the first few times she’d seen it years ago, certain he’d gone into an epileptic or catatonic trance, but by now she was used to it. It just meant her boss was getting an idea, and they usually worked out to his advantage.
“Let’s not ignore Jerry totally,” said Bucky. “See if you can get me a face-to-face connection with him.”
“The press hasn’t been able to get a statement out of him all day,” said Gloria. “My guess is that he’s not answering his landline or his cell phone.”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Bucky. “Tell you what: Let’s send him a video e-mail. Do we have his address?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This way he’ll read it when there’s no pressure on him to reply right away.”
“You don’t expect him to get right back to you?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t want him to feel pressure.”
“What do you want him to feel?”
Bucky smiled. “Curiosity. He didn’t quit NASA because of the truth. He quit because they’re hiding it from him.” He stared at his computer. “I never remember how to start the camera and microphone.”
“Some astronaut,” she said sardonically, walking over and activating the machine. “All right, just hit ENTER, look at the camera, and start talking.”
Bucky did as she instructed, and a tiny blue light went on above the camera lens, showing that it was operating.
“Hi, Jerry,” he said. “This is Bucky Blackstone. I’m not calling to offer you a job. That’ll come later if you’re interested.” Suddenly he smiled. “I’m calling to offer you a proposition.”
He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “One of the nice things about leaving this message rather than speaking face-to-face with you is that you don’t have to contradict me for form’s sake. I’ll just assume you’re issuing all the expected denials, okay?”
Bucky paused again, giving Jerry time to assimilate what he was saying.
“All right,” he said after a few seconds had passed. “You know and I know that Sidney Myshko landed on the Moon. What I don’t know is why, and I assume you don’t either. I also don’t know why the government and almost everyone connected with NASA feels obliged to lie about it, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve found some additional material in Aaron Walker’s diary, and one of my most brilliant and trusted assistants”—he frowned briefly, trying to remember her name—“Sabina Marinova, has interviewed Amos Bartlett. I’ve got a video of the complete interview.” Suddenly, he grinned. “I’ll bet you’d like to know what we’ve found in the diary. And I suspect you’ll be curious about the video. Admit it.”
One last pause to dangle the baited hook, and then it was time to reel him in. “Well, you can, Jerry. I may know a little more than you, but there’s a lot more both of us want to know. I’m busy overseeing all the preparations for our Moon flight, and I just haven’t got the time to follow up on it. Besides, everyone thinks I’m a billionaire crackpot, whereas you’re a straight arrow through and through. So how would you like to do all the digging that you either couldn’t do at all, or had to do when no one in author
ity was looking? No salary, I’m not hiring you, not until you’re ready to sign on for the long haul. But I’ll pay all your expenses, fly you anywhere you need to go, give you cash to slip to anyone who won’t talk for free but will sing like a bird for money. Not only that, but I will loan you Serena—make that Sabina—Marinova, and since she is my employee, all of her expenses are covered, too.”
Bucky looked at his watch. “Okay, Jerry. It’s nine fifteen in the morning. Get back to me by six o’clock tonight. After that, the offer’s no longer on the table.”
He deactivated the camera and microphone, leaned back, and allowed himself his first cigar of the day.
“You really mean it?”
“Why the hell not?” responded Bucky. “His sources have to be different from ours. And he’s got nothing to do for the next two or three weeks.”
“If you’re going to give him your most trusted superspy, you really ought to learn her name.”
“Maybe I’ll call her Lady X. That sounds properly mysterious, don’t you think?”
“Why not?” answered Gloria. “After all, she’s been a covert agent for, oh, maybe five minutes now.”
He chuckled. “She’s good, and since I didn’t know she existed until a couple of days ago, I’m sure we can spare her.”
“What if he doesn’t want a covert assistant?”
“Then he doesn’t have to have one,” said Bucky. He shot her a smile. “But I’m not paying him to find a bunch of answers, then not share them with us. She can be his covert assistant or mine, but he’s not working on his own until I know I can count on his loyalty.”
The Cassandra Project Page 17