Lyra sighed. “George, why don’t we watch Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines?”
They occasionally spent their evenings with a classic film, when the outside world permitted. They always went for comedy. But it didn’t happen often. Usually, they were committed to a banquet or they were having one of their artist-of-the-month events or there was an emergency meeting of the Haubrich Commission, which was looking into the most recent breakdown of the nation’s infrastructure.
“I don’t think so,” said Cunningham. He was too stirred up at the moment.
Lyra reached over and touched his shoulder, trying to remind him he wasn’t alone. She still looked good. Beautiful eyes and soft brown hair and a killer smile. The media agreed she ranked right in there with Jackie, Laura, and Michelle. But one of the Fox commentators thought she needed to pay more attention to her wardrobe. And one of the women on NBC said she could be a bit more diplomatic. It was true that she tended to say what she thought, a definite drawback in the political world, especially when she noted that the Speaker of the House would probably not be so anxious to jump into a war if anybody in his family was in uniform. (The Speaker also belonged to the president’s party.) And just last week, she’d commented that the people who opposed family planning should learn how to count.
“George,” she said, “don’t you get tired of being attacked by these morons?”
“Try not to take it so seriously, love.”
She wanted to get rid of Nelson but couldn’t locate the remote. “If we don’t act now, and decisively,” he was saying in that standard supercilious tone, “we’ll pay a price for it down the road. And eventually we’ll be trying to explain to our grandchildren why we stood aside and did nothing.”
“His attitude might be different,” she said, “if he’d ever had to stand out at Dover and watch the bodies come back.”
“Lyra, I’ve never had to do that.”
“And I think it’s smart of you to keep it that way.”
The host raised the issue of Blackstone’s Moon mission. “They’re almost home, Senator. What do you think it all means?”
Nelson came close to scratching his head. “I’ll admit, Jules, that I’m baffled. And I’d bet the White House is as puzzled as the rest of us.” He looked out of the screen, playing his customary role as the Sage of Washington. “But I’ll tell you this: We’ll be putting together an investigation to find out exactly what happened and what they were trying to hide.”
“Right,” said Lyra. “You know, George, I’d love to see some of these people come in here and make some decisions. Maybe—”
The racetrack music started. Lyra rolled her eyes. She didn’t like the ringtone either.
It was Ray. “Mr. President,” he said, “we’ve found somebody.”
“From the DNC?”
“Yes. Her name’s Audrey Conroy. She was a bookkeeper.”
“Beautiful.”
“She’s retired. Lives in Washington State. You want me to send Melvin to talk to her?”
Cunningham thought about it. “No,” he said. He was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t thought anybody would still be alive. “We don’t have the time. Call her. You do the interview. Set it up so I can listen.”
—
While he waited, he did a quick search. Conroy’s stint with the Democratic Party had ended six months after the break-in, when she took a job with the Department of the Interior. About the time Jimmy Carter came to the White House, she met her future husband, a dentist who was vacationing in D.C. A few months later, they married, and she moved to his hometown of Walla Walla. Today, Audrey was a grandmother. Four kids. Seven grandkids.
Lyra was watching him sympathetically. “It’s a wild-goose chase, George. You know that.”
“Probably,” he said.
“I hope your biographers don’t find out about it.” Her eyes grew very round. “I can see it now. Chapter 17: Chasing Watergate.”
Editor-at-Large had gone to commercial. Lawyers appeared, reassuring the audience they would fight to the end for them.
Then Ray was back. “Mr. President, we have her.”
“Good.” He activated the Skype. Audrey Conroy appeared on the TV. She was seated at a table, looking a bit flustered, an understandable reaction from someone who’d just learned the White House wanted to talk to her. But she gazed directly out of the screen and kept her voice steady.
“Yes, Mr. Chambers. What can I do for you?” She was tall, with clear brown eyes and hair cut short. She wore a light blue blouse, and her expression reflected an amused awareness of her own disquiet. She did not look like a grandmother.
“Ms. Conroy, we’ve been trying to clear up a few details about the DNC operation at the Watergate.”
“Really?”
“Yes. During the Nixon years.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was looking out of the screen again. Taking a deep breath. “You’re kidding.”
“No, ma’am.”
“There’s another investigation going on?”
“No, no.” The chief of staff was trying too hard to be reassuring. Just ask the damned questions, Ray. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh. Good. That’s a relief.”
“Yes. We’re just trying to set the record straight on a couple of details. Does the name Jack Cohen ring a bell?”
Her forehead creased. Then she broke into a big smile. “You mean Larry’s old buddy.”
“We’re talking about Lawrence O’Brien?”
“Yes. Is that who you mean?”
“Yes. Of course.”
The smile grew even wider. “Jack Cohen. Sure. This is the first I’ve heard his name in a long time.”
“How well did you know him?”
She shrugged. “Not that well, really. He’d come into the office once in a while, and he and Larry would sit and talk.” Cunningham could see her reaching back through the years. “He seemed like a nice guy. But he wasn’t the quickest horse in the stable.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was an academic type. Loved to talk about Egyptian tombs and stuff like that. I never understood what Larry saw in him. I mean, Larry was down-to-earth, you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“Okay. Anyhow, Cohen was always in some other world. But Larry was a little bit like that, too. I mean, he had a good imagination. And he was smart. But Cohen always seemed kind of lost. I remember one time he’d promised Larry tickets to a play at one of the colleges. But he couldn’t find them in his pocket so he started looking through his briefcase. And he came up with tickets but they were to a show downtown. The Thurber Carnival, I think it was. The tickets were ten years old. I remember asking him if something had happened because he hadn’t used them. He shrugged and said how he didn’t remember, it was too long ago.”
“Did he find the correct tickets?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time, Mr. Chambers.”
“What else can you tell me about the briefcase? Did he ever leave it at the Watergate office?”
She thought about it. “Not exactly,” she said, finally. “But there was an incident. How did you know?”
“Just a rumor we’d heard.”
“Well, yes. He did lose it on one occasion.” Her brow creased. “It’s an odd story.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Well, Jack Cohen and Larry went to lunch together a lot. Usually in the hotel restaurant at the Watergate. They were down there one day and afterward they came up to the office.” She paused, trying to remember. “I think what happened was, they sat in his office and talked for a while. Later that afternoon, Cohen called, saying he’d left his briefcase somewhere, thought it was probably with us. Would we take a look?
“I don’t really remember the details. I don’t even remember whether I took the call or Jessica did. I don’t think Larry was there at the time it came in. But we looked around. Didn’t see anything. When Larry got back to the office, he looked, too. Cohen came back around closing time and they hunted some more. It sticks in my mind because it was right around the time of the break-in.”