The Last President. Michael Kurland
right,” Kit said, getting up. “Mr. Schuster?”
“Right. I’m a reporter for the Post. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Have you any identification?” Kit asked. The question was reflex.
“Right. Here.” The young man pulled cards from his wallet that showed him to be Ralph Schuster, 28, of the Washington Post city desk. He had a District of Columbia Police press pass and a congressional press pass to go along with his D.C. driver’s license. The three photographs on the documents showed that he varied between sporting a beard and going clean-shaven. At the moment he was clean of face.
“Okay,” Kit said, handing the cards back. He waved Schuster to a chair and flopped back into his own. “You can ask whatever you like. You understand that I reserve the right not to answer.”
“Of course,” Schuster said. “Is it true that you’re the White House Liaison for Intelligence Matters?”
“That’s what it says on the organizational charts.”
“Is it true that you moved into this job on the nineteenth of June?”
“I think that’s also a matter of public record,” Kit said. “Why?”
“Mr. Young, I want you to help me. Anything you can say will be of help, either on or off the record. Your confidentiality will be completely respected.”
Kit leaned back. “What are we talking about?”
“Let me lay my cards on the table,” Schuster said. “Here’s what I’ve got: On the night of the sixteenth of June the offices of the Democratic National Committee in the Watergate Towers were burglarized by five men. They were arrested in the offices by plainclothes officers of the Metropolitan Police. A camera was left behind when they were removed. The film in that camera had not yet been exposed. The men were released at the request of the CIA, and the operation was hushed up to the extent that the boys of the DNC didn’t even find out that the men had been arrested. DNC was told that they were apprehended in the building but released at that time for lack of evidence, whereas actually they were taken to the station house and booked before they were released.
“I traced the camera back by its serial number. It was one of several purchased by the Fleming Importing Company, which a cursory check showed to be a CIA front operation.
“You were the CIA man on duty at the Washington DOD desk that night. You were called to the police station. You met with the men. You made a mysterious phone call. The men were then released. Two days later you suddenly take a job with the White House.”
Schuster paused and lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of his last. Then he crushed the stub out in the glass ashtray on Kit’s desk. “That’s what I’ve got,” he said.
Kit stared at him. “That was five months ago,” he said finally. “Isn’t that a long time to be following up a minor burglary?”
“That’s the trouble,” Schuster said. “I’ve been doing this pretty much on my own time. The city editor thinks it’s a minor story, too. I don’t. I smell something big in it. I’m learning to trust my nose, and, Mr. Young, this story smells. What do you think, Mr. Young? Was it a minor burglary? Who were the five John Does, Mr. Young? What were they after in the DNC headquarters?”
“You put me in a difficult position, Mr. Schuster,” Kit said. “As you must know, I can neither confirm nor deny any part of your story. I do have a job in the Executive Office. So do about two thousand other people. I did come from another branch of government; so did most of them. I did come to work on a certain date, two days after an event you claim happened. I’m sure that most of the other people here come to work within a day or two of something significant happening somewhere.”
“You could deny my story, Mr. Young,” Schuster said. “If you wanted to, you could deny it. If it wasn’t true. If any part of it isn’t true, you could deny that part. Supposing I go over it again, point by point, and if there’s any part of it you’d like to deny, stop me when I reach that point. Okay?”
Kit laughed. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry, Mr. Schuster, but I have nothing to say on that subject.”
“Right,” Schuster said. He stood up and pulled a card case out of his jacket pocket. “Here’s my card,” he said, extracting one from the case. He scribbled on it with a ballpoint. “That’s my home phone, if you want to get me direct for any reason. You can leave messages at the Post number anytime—twenty-four hours. Thank you for talking to me.” He flipped the card onto the desk.
“I wish I could help you,” Kit said.
“I can wait,” Schuster said. “Five months already, like you said.” He left the office and strode down the hall, his oversized raincoat flapping almost to his ankles.
CHAPTER THREE
Ralph Schuster didn’t approve, and the expression on his face showed it. Here he was standing in the middle of the third level of a parking garage in downtown Washington at three o’clock in the morning feeling like a jackass—and probably looking like a sneak thief if the security man should happen to drive by. And whoever he was supposed to meet was nowhere in sight.
Mysterious phone calls from husky-voiced women might lead to clandestine meetings—indeed, should lead to clandestine meetings—but not in the middle of a for-Christ’s-sake parking garage.
A pencil flashlight blinked briefly at him from inside one of the three cars on the floor: a late-model gray Chevy. He walked over to it and peered in through the windshield. There was a woman in a gray coat behind the wheel, and she motioned him into the passenger’s seat.
Schuster climbed into the seat and closed the door. He noticed that the interior light didn’t go on when the door was open. The woman immediately reached over him and pushed down the locking button.
“What’s this all about?” Schuster said. “Why the melodrama?” There wasn’t enough light for him to get a good look at the woman. He had an impression of a thin, angular face of indeterminate middle age.
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Schuster,” she said in a husky whisper. She turned to look at him. “I’m neither melodramatic nor paranoid. You must believe that if you wish to ever see me again.”
“You haven’t told me yet why I want to see you at all,” he said.
“First the ground rules,” she said. “You’re not taping this, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. Rule one: Don’t ever tape our meetings. And don’t ever take notes until you get home.”
“No notes?”
“That’s right.”
“Lady, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to take notes.”
“And you have to swear to me that you’ll never reveal your source to anyone, from your girl friend to your city editor. Anyone.”
“Why all the secrecy?” he asked. “What are we talking about?”
“Do you agree?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Of course,” he said. “Yes. If it’s worthwhile. Otherwise I’ll just forget I ever saw you.”
“You will never forget,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “What are we talking about?”
“We’re talking about malfeasance in high places,” she said. “We’re talking about first-degree felonies, including burglary, arson, wiretap, bribery, and conspiracy to commit kidnapping and extortion. All conducted out of the Executive Office Building at the direct order of the President of the United States.”
Schuster stretched his feet out and leaned back. “Go on,” he said.
PRESIDENT