“So you got nothing?”
“Other than Cohen was upset when the Nixon administration started coming apart.”
“Why?”
“I guess because he and Ehrlichman were such good friends.”
“And that’s everything?”
“There are a few other people who were his colleagues at GWU. But they’re out of town. You want me to stay with it?”
—
Margaret Haeffner lived with her son and his wife in Downers Grove, outside Chicago. She’d enjoyed a long career in the academic world. Currently in her eighties, she remained active in community life, directing the local arm of Blind Justice, which, naturally enough, provided support for persons with visual problems. She was also a volunteer for the Animal Welfare League. She was waiting on the front porch in a hammock when Weinstein arrived in his rented car. Her hair was snow-white, and she was rocking gently back and forth. Nevertheless, she didn’t look like the high-energy volunteer in the Google accounts. It was a windy afternoon. Branches were swaying and, in an open field across the street, a group of twelve-year-olds were laughing and yelling their way through a volleyball game.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weinstein,” she said, signaling him to sit down in a rocker. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.”
“Of course, Dr. Haeffner.”
“Did I understand you correctly? You flew out here from D.C.?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just to see me?”
“No. Actually, I’ll be talking to a couple of people.”
“Oh.” She smiled at him. They both glanced across the street in response to a loud whoop from the volleyball game. “So what did you want to know?”
Weinstein asked a few of his usual questions, concentrating on Cohen’s interest in the development of language in the Middle East and in early Greece. Her eyes lit up, and he realized it was a subject she seldom got to talk about anymore. He made notes, nodded occasionally as if Haeffner’s answers confirmed what he’d learned elsewhere. And, finally, when there was a lull, he asked about Cohen himself. “The man,” he said, “what kind of person was he?”
“Very gentle,” she said. “His students really enjoyed his classes. They were always full. He was easy to get along with. Self-effacing.”
“Is it true he was a friend of John Ehrlichman’s?”
“Yes, that’s correct. I met Ehrlichman once when he came to speak at the school.”
“I understand Cohen was something of a Renaissance man.”
“Oh, yes. He was interested in everything. Art, music, politics, you name it.” There was a bad moment when the volleyball got knocked into the street. It bounced out in front of an oncoming car. One of the kids, a girl, charged after it and almost got hit by the vehicle. It jammed on its brakes, and the girl jumped aside at the last moment. The ball rolled onto the lawn next door. The driver yelled something at the kid, then waved her across the street. “Sometimes, I think,” said Haeffner, “they’re safer with their computers.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Well, outside the classroom, he was probably the most disorganized person I’ve ever known. He was always losing things.”
“Like what?”
“The keys to his car. His stapler. He was always losing his stapler. He published a lot, and he’d bring in the stuff he was working on so he could work between classes, and he’d lose his notes or the book he was reviewing.
“A big part of his problem was that he never threw anything out. His desk and his files were full of stuff, which would have been okay if he’d learned to actually file things. But he just dropped everything in a convenient place. He’d be looking for information on Rahrich and wandering around in his office trying to find his data.”
“Who’s Rahrich?”
“A German anthropologist.”
“Were you at George Washington when he left?”
“Yes. I was there. We were sorry to see him go. Well, I was, anyhow.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “It’s a long story. The important thing about him is that he had a marvelous imagination, he was dedicated to his research, and he was a pleasure to work with.”
“Tell me the long story.”
She frowned. “Okay. He had a drinking problem.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Occasionally he missed classes. A couple of times he showed up at school events when he, um, should have stayed home. So the rumor was they invited him to leave.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“So were we. We lost a good man. Eventually, it killed him.”
“I wasn’t aware of that either. What happened?”
“Not sure of the details, but you know he took his own life, right?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“What I heard at the time was that he was diagnosed with clinical depression. I’d liked the guy. I flew out to the funeral. People who were there say it all started at GW. That the alcohol, and the mood swings, and the rest of it hadn’t been there before he went to D.C. Hell, Milton, the guy flew a bomber during World War II. If he was going to get depressed, you’d think it would have shown up before the 1970s.”
“Maybe it was the work environment?”
“Not a chance. George Washington was an excellent place to work. Good administration. Good kids. I never should have left.”
—
Marvin Gray was the last person on his list. He owned a home in an assisted-living community near Cincinnati. He’d been retired almost twenty years when Weinstein caught up with him. Gray’s wife let him in, invited him to sit in one of the armchairs, and told him that Marvin would be right there.
“You must be Teri,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Are you a teacher, too?”
“I was. High school math.” She smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
The place looked comfortable, with paneled walls, lush curtains, pictures of kids and other family members scattered around. As well as a few certificates. And a trophy.
“We play in the local bridge league,” Teri said.
He heard movement in one of the side rooms, and a giant, overfed man with a shining scalp and an unkempt black beard came out through the door, straightening the collar of a Xavier University pullover. He was carrying a magazine, which he put down on a side table. “Milton,” he said, extending a wrestler’s hand, “good to meet you. What can I do for you?”
Weinstein did his usual opening lines, made a few generalizations about Cohen’s contributions to the field, and saw a skeptical look begin to distort Gray’s features. He added that of course there had been differing interpretations of his work. “That’s why I’m here.” He expressed his hope that his host could shed some light “on things.” Teri left the room. “How well did you know him, Professor?” he asked.
“Call me Marvin. Please.” Gray shrugged. “I knew him from a distance. He was okay. Apparently, he was pretty good in the classroom. The only time I ever really worked with him, though, I mean closely, was in the doctoral program. He took everything seriously. Never neglected his responsibilities.” He paused, trying to frame what he wanted to say. “I guess the reality is that I’m surprised anybody would be classifying him among the top anthropologists of the century. And I told you that on the phone, so I’m actually surprised you wanted to come all the way out here anyway.
“He did what was expected of him. But he wasn’t—wasn’t brilliant. You understand what I’m saying? He was probably at my level. Wrote some papers and won some nickel-and-dime awards. Nothing major, though. He won the Ditko Award, I think, and one or two others, but he never showed up on the big stuff. I doubt Triple-A even knew he existed.”
“Triple-A?”
“The American Anthropological Association.”
“Well,” Weinstein said, “sometimes people aren’t appreciated until after they’re gone.”
>
“That’s probably true of all of us.”
Teri came back with coffee and cinnamon buns. Then she explained she had work to do and left them to themselves. Weinstein tried one of the buns. “Good,” he said.
“I’m not supposed to eat them.”
Weinstein grinned. Tried to think of something funny to say, but he decided Gray’s weight was a minefield. “I understand Cohen was a friend of John Ehrlichman.”
“Yes. He visited the White House a couple of times. Apparently, he got to see Nixon.”
“Did he ever do any work for the White House? That you knew of?”
“I don’t think so. But he sure as hell was broken up when they all got kicked out of office.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that when his drinking problem started?”
“Well, I don’t really know when it started. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” Gray picked up the magazine, opened it, turned a few pages, and handed it to Weinstein. It contained an essay by Cohen. “The Origins of Monotheism.”
Weinstein glanced at it, and they were suddenly back talking about ancient languages. He took notes and cited a couple of favorable references to Gray’s work, commenting that he’d wanted to talk to him because he had such a favorable reputation among his peers. “Everybody credits you with good judgment,” he said.
“That’s nice to hear, Milton.”
He let Gray enjoy the moment, then went back to Cohen. “I understand he was interested in the NASA spaceflights.”
“I suppose. Pretty much everyone was back in those years.” Gray refilled his cup and offered to pour more for his guest.
“Sure. Please.” While he poured, Weinstein asked whether he’d known Cohen when the Moon landings were happening. “The early ones,” he added. “In—what was it—’69?”
“No. I was still in the Navy then.” He glanced sidewise at a picture of himself, a much younger version, minus the beard, in a lieutenant’s uniform. “Didn’t get to GWU until 1972.”
Weinstein asked about his service. He’d been on a destroyer in the Pacific for two years. Then two years with subs, operating out of Norfolk. “I don’t guess, having been a naval officer, you had much tolerance for heavy drinkers.”
“There’s some truth in that. But I don’t think it had much to do with my time in service.” He sucked on his lips. “My father was a drunk.”
“Oh.”
He looked at his watch. “Anything else, Milton?”
Weinstein tapped his notebook with his pen. “Not really. Cohen’s history seems to suggest he didn’t have a drinking problem until he got to GWU.”
“I have no idea.” He pushed back in his seat. “I can tell you one really odd story about him, though.”
“What’s that?”
“We threw a farewell party one time for one of the people in the department. Lisa Rhyne. She was getting married, as best I can recall, and moving to Boston. I think she’d gotten a position at Boston College.”
“And—?”
“Anyhow, on the subject of Cohen’s reaction to Nixon and the scandal: We were all sitting around at the party. At one of the local restaurants. And Cohen had had too much to drink. At one point I heard him tell one of the women that he’d been one of the Watergate burglars.”
“Say that again?”
Gray laughed. “That’s right.”
Weinstein wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was a joke, Marvin.”
“He wasn’t smiling.”
24
Jerry entered Bucky Blackstone’s office, nodded to Gloria Marcos, and approached Bucky’s desk.
“My, don’t we look sharp today?” said Bucky with a smile. “New suit?”
Jerry nodded. “And tie.”
“I hope you remembered to use the company credit card.”
“I did. But I feel a little guilty about it.”
“Why?” asked Bucky. “You billed the government for everything for years.”
“Yeah,” said Jerry. “But that was the government. You’re a private citizen.”
Bucky smiled. “The only difference is that I’m not seventeen trillion dollars in debt . . . yet.”
“There is that,” agreed Jerry. “Anyway, I stopped by to see if there’s anything you want me to say or avoid saying. I won’t ask every time, but this is my first press conference.”
“Just answer their questions,” replied Bucky. “Well, as many of them as you can answer. I have no secrets from you or them or anyone else. But if you’ve been told anything in confidence, about the crater or anything else, keep it in confidence. We’re doing them a favor. I don’t need publicity as much as they need something to write about.”
Jerry grinned. “Now I know I’m not in the government.”
Bucky chuckled. “Three billion dollars insulates you from a lot of criticism.” He paused and continued smiling. “And the wild part of it is that I owe it all to one forty-two-inch bosom.”
“Yeah, I heard about how you got your start—or how Suave did. Whatever happened to Miss 42-D?”
“I married her.”
Suddenly Jerry felt very uneasy. “I didn’t mean . . . that is, I . . .”
“It’s okay,” said Bucky easily. “It lasted fifteen months.” An amused smile crossed his face. “I think the final nail in the coffin was when I ran Miss 44 DoubleD on the cover.”
“You’ve led an interesting life, Bucky,” said Jerry.
“I’ve had my moments.” Bucky checked his watch. “Yours is coming up fast. Want me to introduce you, or would you feel better if I was nowhere around?”
“You’re the boss.”
“Then I think I’ll watch from here. If I introduce you, I don’t think I could stop from saying that you quit NASA as a matter of conscience, and that’s all they’d ask about for the next hour.”
“Thanks, Bucky.”
“Oh, you’re not getting off the hook. I’d kind of like you to defend the guy who’s paying your salary, and that’s who they’ve come here to savage.”
Jerry frowned. “Why? You’re always a good news story.”
“They’ve been told to, of course.”
“By . . . ?”
“By the administration, of course.”
“Come on, Bucky,” said Jerry. “This is America. They can’t tell people what to write.”
“No,” agreed Bucky. “But they can make access to the president damned difficult for anyone who doesn’t play ball.”
“You really think they would?”
“This wouldn’t be the first White House, or the tenth, or the twentieth, to do just that,” said Bucky with conviction. “All of which is academic. They’re going to try to get you to admit that I’m an idiot or a madman.” Suddenly he grinned. “Might be interesting to see their reaction if you agree with them.”
“You really don’t care, do you?” asked Jerry.
“If I cared what the press thought, I’d sit in splendid isolation and clip coupons. Now you’d better get down there.”
Jerry turned and walked to the elevator, took it down to the studio, and was surprised to find the place totally empty. He was still looking around when Ed Camden walked in.
“Hi, Jerry.” He extended a hand. “I just want you to know there are no hard feelings.”
“Thanks, Ed,” said Jerry. “I appreciate that.” He looked around. “Where is everybody?”
“They get unruly if they have to wait, so we keep ’em outside until the spokesman is ready for them.” Another man came in, and Camden nodded to him. “Okay, Harry—unlock the cages.”
Harry radioed down to the main floor, and a moment later some forty members of the press, most of whom Jerry knew on a first-name basis, thundered into the studio.
“Please be seated,” said Camden. “As soon as you’re all comfortable and those with cameras have set them up, we can proceed. Everything said will be saved to video and audio and made availabl
e on our Web page tomorrow afternoon, which gives you a twenty-four-hour head start.” He paused, waiting for them to take their seats and set up their cameras. “Allow me to present the newest member of Team Blackstone, Jerry Culpepper, who will be our spokesman on all matters concerning our pending Moon shot.” He stepped aside. “Jerry, it’s all yours.”
Jerry came forward. “Good morning. I’m a little new on the job, so I may not have answers to every one of your questions, but I promise that anything I can’t answer today, or at any conference in the future, I will answer within twenty-four hours. That said, I have a few brief announcements. First, it has been determined that the ship will take off and land at a private field owned by Mr. Blackstone. Maps will be available to you on your way out. Second, the launch will take place exactly four weeks from this morning.”
“That soon?” asked The Washington Post.
Jerry smiled. “The technology has been available since the late 1960s, though of course we’ve improved upon it.”
“How does it feel to be working for a nutcase?” asked The Los Angeles Times.
“I don’t know,” answered Jerry. “I’ve never had the experience.”
“What does Blackstone expect to find up there?” demanded CNN.
“The Moon,” answered Jerry, breaking the growing tension and eliciting some chuckles.
“Come on, Jerry,” persisted CNN. “Isn’t this whole business about bringing you in here just a stunt to get publicity for your boss’s Moon shot?”
“He’s the second-most-recognizable man in the country after President Cunningham,” said Jerry, “and I don’t think you can find a dozen citizens who don’t know he’s flying to the Moon, so why does he need to create false publicity?”
“Maybe because he’d be lost without it,” said The Chicago Sun-Times.
Jerry forced a smile to his lips. “I think he’d say that you’d be lost without it.”
He looked around the room and called on Fox News.
“Let me word this properly, so you don’t give us another runaround answer,” said the woman from Fox. “Once he reaches the Moon, what does he expect to find other than Moon rocks?”
“He doesn’t know,” said Jerry. “No one knows. That’s why he’s going.”
The Cassandra Project Page 23