Night of Camp David

by Fletcher Knebel

  All six men seated themselves, awkwardly and formally, as O’Malley spoke.

  “Jim,” he said, “I invited Sterling after checking with the others. Five old heads are better than four.” O’Malley undamped his cigar and smiled. “Besides, I didn’t want any historian to claim that this meeting was segregated.”

  Gullion laughed. “Well, I’ll sit in the same room with Fred Odium, but I won’t swim in his pool.”

  Odium grunted. “You’re welcome, Sterling,” he said. “If you’ll risk pneumonia and swim in that pool tonight, I’ll call AP wirephoto and let them get a picture of it.”

  “If the case comes up to the court,” said Cavanaugh with a wink at Gullion, “we’ll rule for you, Sterling. The Odium pool is not a public facility, and you don’t have to swim in it if you don’t want to.”

  All joined in the laughter, and the slightly forced joking continued for several minutes. Then O’Malley raised a hand and asked for quiet. His face was serious and the big jowls seemed to sag with a new burden.

  “As you all know,” he said, “Jim MacVeagh came to me three nights ago with a very alarming story. I thought all of you should hear it. We’ve all agreed in advance not to mention this meeting or anything connected with it outside this group. Is that still understood?”

  They all nodded.

  “I’ve got a completely open mind about Jim’s story.” O’Malley turned to MacVeagh. “Well, Jim, that’s enough introduction. You’ve got the floor.”

  “I apologize for fetching you all out here,” said MacVeagh, “but I’ve become convinced this country is facing a crisis. All I can do, as I did with Pat, is tell you exactly what I’ve seen and heard.”

  And once again Jim launched into the story. He told why he’d gone to O’Malley—because of the announcement of Hollenbach’s April 20 meeting with Zuchek and Jim’s own conviction that it must be canceled. Then he began with the first night at Aspen lodge, trying to relate precisely what occurred. He sought to reflect Hollenbach’s moods of rage and exaltation and to communicate to them the feeling of the President’s erratically racing speech in the dead of night after the floor lamp had been turned off. But as he retold one incident after another, Jim realized that he was failing to convey the frightening reality of the paranoia he saw in the President. Instead, to his own ears, Jim’s story sounded a bit disorderly and vague, as though the events had lost their graphic outline and some of their meaning. But he continued, a bit doggedly, relating Hollenbach’s latest charge Tuesday morning that MacVeagh had joined a conspiracy to destroy the President. He concluded with the odd episode of Mrs. Byerson and her surprising revelation that she too had heard the President mention a super-union of nations.

  When he finished, Jim saw Fred Odium’s little eyes fixing him from the wrinkled, pinched face. Jim felt the pressure of disbelief in the eyes, and he hoped he could survive the questioning without flinching. But Cavanaugh spoke first in an even, conversational tone.

  “I think we get the picture as you see it, Jim,” he said, “but perhaps you should sum up for us what you think. What’s your conclusion?”

  “I think,” said MacVeagh slowly, “as I told Pat the other night, that the President of the United States is either demented, lost in some severe case of paranoia, or else he’s suffering some temporary mental lapse. I pray to God it’s the latter. But, either way, I don’t think he should be allowed to go to Stockholm.”

  Odium’s first question came in the gritty voice he used for evasive committee witnesses. “Senator, you seem to put a lot of emphasis on this business of turning out the lights at Aspen lodge. What’s so sinister about that? Didn’t Lyndon Johnson make a big thing about clicking off lights?”

  “That was a symbol of economy, Fred,” replied MacVeagh, “more for laughs than anything else. With President Hollenbach, there’s something eerily spiritual about it.”

  “Spiritual? Not very scientific terminology,” snapped Odium.

  “I’m just trying to give you the whole picture.” Jim knew it sounded limp.

  “Do you think the idea of a union with Canada has to be the notion of a diseased mind?” asked Gullion.

  “No, of course not,” replied Jim. “But it’s of a pattern with everything else.”

  “Ah’m glad to hear you say that,” drawled Gullion, “because there’s a group of important businessmen in Chicago who favor a union with Canada, and I’d hate to think they were all crazy.”

  “Of course,” said Cavanaugh, “let’s not start off with the assumption that this is an impossibility. Don’t forget Woodrow Wilson. Obviously he wasn’t in possession of his full faculties for months while the Versailles Treaty was up, and Mrs. Wilson was running the country more or less. And I remember that Eisenhower himself said that in his case, he couldn’t speak properly after his small stroke, which mercifully cleared up in a few days.

  “But still, Jim, with that background for an appreciation of your concern, couldn’t Hollenbach’s suspicion that Pat here was deliberately trying to sabotage him, couldn’t that have been the normal exaggeration of a man who was hopping mad?”

  “Sure,” said Jim, “but don’t forget what he said about Davidge, and to me—and his dark hints that there was some kind of conspiracy operating against him. Also, Mark prides himself on mental precision, and those kinds of charges are plain wacky.”

  “Still,” insisted Cavanaugh, “what he said to O’Malley would not in itself indicate a mental ailment.”

  “No,” said Jim defensively, “not in itself it wouldn’t.”

  Cavanaugh frowned. “On the other hand, the most damaging thing you’ve said, to my mind, is that the President actually is considering a national wiretapping law. That seems incredible to me. It flies directly in the face of everything he’s advocated in the area of personal freedom.”

  “Exactly,” said Jim hurriedly. “That’s just the point. His mind has to be radically disturbed to come up with a thing like that. And don’t forget, he told me he could have used a wiretap on Pat here if he’d had the law.”

  “I just can’t believe that you’re accurately quoting the President,” said Nicholson archly.

  “I can’t either,” said Gullion. “For one thing, the President is too smart politically. That kind of plan could defeat him in November.”

  “He was serious,” said MacVeagh doggedly. “He convinced me that he was. That’s all I can tell you but, believe me, I’m not exaggerating.”

  “Now that business about Scandinavia,” said Odium. His tone was acid, unbelieving. “Certainly a man who is married to a lovely woman of Swedish descent would not contend that praising the characteristics of the Swedes is the act of a tortured mind?”

  “No, of course not.” Jim had to struggle to control his temper. Odium was trying to bait him. “But union with Scandinavia is something else again. Hollenbach pictures that as some kind of utopia, and you and I know it would raise hell with our real power allies, Germany, France, England, even Japan. What the hell, Fred, you know that’s nutty.”

  “Well,” said Odium dryly, “just try telling that to Mrs. MacVeagh’s Swedish kinfolks and see who they think is crazy.” The squat little Louisiana senator fingered the wrinkles in his cheek. “You know, maybe Hollenbach hasn’t got such a bad idea. A union with Scandinavia would redress the racial imbalance in this country. We whites need some help. Gullion and his people are about to make this a black republic.”

  “Now, Fred,” said Gullion, shaking a warning finger, “where’s your sense of gratitude? You got 66 per cent of the Negro vote in Louisiana last time.”

  Cavanaugh laughed. “That proves the point Fred is making—when the Negroes gang up to keep a low-brow like himself in office.”

  “A couple of low-brows on the Supreme Court,” retorted Odium, “and you fellows might hand down a sensible decision for a change.”

  Everyone la
ughed except MacVeagh. Jim had a sinking feeling that the heavy-handed humor was intended as a wake for his mission. They weren’t taking him seriously.

  “Let’s get back on the track,” said O’Malley, and MacVeagh flashed him a grateful look.

  “All right,” said Speaker Nicholson. “The trouble with MacVeagh’s story is that there’s no corroboration from the people who know the President best.” He spoke ponderously, as though ruling on a point of order in the House. “What about his wife, Evelyn, that son of his at Yale, the White House physician, the people on the staff who are close to him? What do they think?”

  “It would be impossible, Mr. Speaker,” protested MacVeagh, “to pursue a line of questioning like that without a go-ahead signal from the leadership. That’s what I’m arguing for here—some arrangement for further investigation of my…well…my convictions.”

  “Of course,” said Cavanaugh, “under the present setup, only the vice-president could pursue this thing. The law itself is clear, and besides, Pat has his own written agreement with the President under which he’s required to act speedily. Gentlemen, I do agree that Jim’s story merits further inquiry. After all, we’re not back in Wilson’s day. With all these nukes, push buttons and go-codes, we just can’t afford any presidential ‘hiatus from normality,’ if I can phrase it that way.”

  “But so far we’ve only got one man’s word to go on,” said Nicholson.

  “That’s not quite correct,” said MacVeagh. “Pat heard himself charged with intentional sabotage, and then there’s Jessica Byerson. She’d be easy enough to question.”

  “Looniest old crone in Washington,” said Odium. “I should listen to that crackpot again!”

  “What about this mysterious person who talked to the President about Davidge?” asked Nicholson.

  O’Malley nodded to MacVeagh. “I think Jim has arranged for that,” he said. “Let’s take five while Jim fetches his witness.”

  Rita was sitting in the guest room, a mound of lipstick-marked cigarette stubs in the ashtray beside her. She came willingly enough, after primping her hair and smoothing her charcoal linen dress. Surveying her, Jim had a twinge of anxiety. She looked too sensuous, too inviting, for this cold business with the leaders. But there was no retreating now, and he squeezed her hand as they walked to the big living room.

  The group was as startled as was Rita when she entered the room. The men all rose and there was a brief introduction by O’Malley before she took the chair the Vice-President held for her. Except for Cavanaugh, Rita knew every man in the room.

  “Mrs. Krasicki,” said O’Malley, “I gather that you’re the person who had a conversation with President Hollenbach relative to a banker named Davidge. Would you mind repeating that story just as you remember it.”

  “I’m not in the habit of repeating confidential political conversations,” she replied. Her tone was her crisp, bookkeeper’s one. “May I ask the purpose of this? Is it some kind of investigation of Mr. Davidge?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say,” said O’Malley, “since it’s a matter of national security. Of course, you’re under no compulsion to talk. This is completely informal and we have no power of subpoena.”

  Rita’s black eyes, flicking from face to face, were hostile. Oh, God, thought Jim, she’s going to refuse after all. He caught her glance and pleaded mutely with her. Finally, he said aloud: “Please, Rita. You promised.”

  “May I smoke?” she asked O’Malley.

  “Certainly,” said O’Malley, brandishing his own cigar.

  The seconds dragged silently as she produced a cigarette and leaned forward for a light from Fred Odium. Her small movements and her first inhalation stirred old memories of desire in MacVeagh, and he looked quickly away, lest the others sense his feeling.

  “All right,” she said, and she told the story of her telephone conversation with President Hollenbach. But her tone was flat, arid, and she conveyed none of the fire of the President’s voice and mood as she had with Jim.

  “Isn’t it true, Rita,” Jim asked when she finished, “that you told me that story because I had said the President had talked strangely to me, and you said everybody’s a little strange at times, and then I asked you to explain?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And what was your conclusion, the way you told me?” he prodded.

  “I think I said that…” She frowned. “That it showed the President had a human side, after all, and that even Mark Hollenbach, who preaches perfection isn’t always perfect. Something like that.”

  Senator Odium bored in at once. “And where did this conversation with Senator MacVeagh take place?”

  Rita dropped her eyes. “At my apartment in Georgetown.”

  “When?” asked Odium. He was treating her sharply, as he would a balky committee witness.

  “Let’s see.” She did not lift her eyes to Odium’s. “A Sunday, about three weeks ago, in the evening.”

  Odium leaned forward, his pinched face intent. “And why did Senator MacVeagh come to your apartment, Mrs. Krasicki?”

  Justice Cavanaugh, as though sensing the situation, interrupted. “Is that necessary, Fred? What difference does it make why Jim was there?”

  Odium’s little eyes darted from Rita to Jim. “It has a direct bearing,” he said. He was in his full, relentless role of committee chairman now. “We all read that Cousins and King story yesterday. Suppose, for the moment, that for some reason unknown to us our colleague, the distinguished junior senator from Iowa, is not telling the truth. Then, of course, if there is a…well, uh…an understanding between MacVeagh and Mrs. Krasicki, then I’d say it tends to color the testimony of both.”

  “This isn’t sworn testimony, Fred,” flared MacVeagh. “My God, I’m just trying to do what I think is right, not trying to put something over.”

  “All right,” said Odium, his voice harsh and challenging, “but we were brought out here in the middle of the night, out in the woods, and I, for one, want to get to the bottom of all this.”

  Rita looked beseechingly at Jim. He could see the hurt in her eyes, and he experienced a sinking sensation within him.

  “Don’t worry, gentlemen,” said Rita suddenly. “I don’t know what this is all about, but if it matters, Jim and I were once close friends.”

  She said it defiantly, her shoulders drawn back and her eyes fastened on Odium. With her black eyes and her tensed muscles, she reminded Jim of a cornered animal, a wild and beautiful animal. He felt a surge of pity for her. God, suppose he was wrong, he thought, all wrong? How many persons were being sacrificed for one man’s suspicions?

  “You mean you were intimate friends?” asked Odium. He stressed the word “intimate” in a drawl that taunted.

  “Fred,” said Cavanaugh, “I think that’s quite enough.”

  “It is enough,” said Rita, interrupting. She glared at Odium. “Draw your own conclusions, Senator. I notice that you seem to enjoy drawing the spiciest ones.”

  “My dear young lady,” said Odium, “I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t even volunteer to come here myself.”

  Rita lit another cigarette hurriedly, her hand trembling. She looked numbly at MacVeagh, and he felt as though he’d like to seize her hand and whisk both of them away.

  “Rita,” said Speaker Nicholson gently, “I hate to do this, but there is one question that occurs to me. Are you quite sure you got all of Davidge’s speeches? Isn’t it possible his secretary didn’t send them all to you, and that perhaps Davidge did make some vitriolic speech about President Hollenbach or the administration?”

  Rita nodded with a puzzled frown. “That’s possible. I only read those speeches that were sent to me.”

  “But had Davidge made such a speech, Mr. Speaker,” observed Cavanaugh, “considering his stature and influence, I’m sure it would have made all the papers.”
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  “I guess that’s all, Rita,” said O’Malley. “Thanks for coming and being so cooperative.”

  MacVeagh walked Rita in silence back to the guest room. Only then did he see that her eyes were moist and a tear streaked the powder on one cheek. He put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her, but she shook it off.

  “What in God’s name are you trying to do to me, Jim?” she asked, her voice breaking. “First the FBI and now this. I’m beginning to think you’re an ugly excuse for a man.”

  She turned her back to him, and after a moment he left the room. Yes, he thought, what was he doing to her? Mingled sensations of shame, pity and charred desire churned within him, and he felt undone as he re-entered the living room.

  There was a brief, stiff discussion of whether MacVeagh should be permitted to tell Rita the purpose of the meeting. Justice Cavanaugh settled the matter. MacVeagh’s suspicions, he said, whether true or false, were so inflammable, that absolutely no one else should know. MacVeagh nodded an assent.

  “By the way,” asked Odium, “have you communicated these fears of yours to anyone else?”

  “Only to Paul Griscom,” said MacVeagh, “and as I told you, I didn’t identify the President. I pretended it was someone else. And I’ll be honest with you, Fred, I think Griscom believes I was describing a mental condition of my own. He wanted to help me.” Jim paused. “Oh, yes, I told my wife too, but she wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “And what does Mrs. MacVeagh think of your story?” asked Odium.

  “I don’t think she believes me,” he said, “because of…well…because of other things. I think she thinks I’m having hallucinations of my own.”

  They all stared at him, and Jim knew they surmised that his wife suspected his relationship with Rita. And now Jim understood how Rita felt, for he too had the feeling that he’d been stripped naked.