“I told you about Irene Akins—”
“The woman who worked in the Nixon White House.”
“Yes. She thought there was a connection with Cohen. And she said something about a set of notes. In a foreign language.”
She looked at him. Shook her head. “You said he was a linguist.”
Cunningham walked over toward the window. It was a bright, clear evening. The Washington Monument dominated the sky. And a sliver of moon was rising in the east. “Yes, he was,” he said.
“So what’s next, love?”
“Okay. Look, we know they were trying to hide something. Three years later, and they hadn’t destroyed it.”
“So—?”
“It was something they wanted to hold on to.”
“So they hid it somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“All right. Where?”
“I can only think of one place.” He looked at her for a long moment, picked up the phone, opened it, and waited. After a moment he spoke into it: “Ray, you think Milt’s free tomorrow?”
35
Milt Weinstein pulled off Yorba Linda Boulevard into the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum parking lot. A white colonnade overlooked a long, rectangular pool and a beautifully landscaped rose garden, filled with shrubs, annuals, palms, and flowering trees. Birds sang, and a young couple sat contentedly on a bench, holding hands. Others wandered through the grounds. The place looked busy and simultaneously placid.
Weinstein got out of his rental car, followed a walkway into the rose garden, and went through the front doors into a large display room. Tourists were everywhere, taking pictures of a Nixon bust, looking at framed photos from his presidency, posing among bronze figures of world leaders from that long-gone era. He walked slowly among flags and tapestries. Posters provided a history of the thirty-seventh president, from his early days in Yorba Linda and Whittier College, to his election in the midst of the Vietnam War, his breakthrough with China, and the devastating experience of Watergate. And, finally, his years as an elder statesman.
There was a short line at the admissions desk. He waited his turn, then showed his White House ID and asked to see Ms. Morris. Michelle Morris was the director.
The woman at the desk frowned at the ID, then looked at Weinstein. “Is she expecting you, sir?”
“Yes,” he said.
“One moment, please.” She picked up a phone, explained that Michelle had a visitor, nodded, paused, and nodded again. “Mr. Weinstein,” he said, “someone will be right out.” Then she looked past him. “Next.”
—
A tall young man in a museum uniform appeared out of a doorway. “Her office is in back,” he said. “Please come with me.” On the way, he passed the 1969 Lincoln that had provided transportation for President Nixon and glanced into a replica of the East Room of the White House, which was used by the museum for appearances by celebrities, and to accommodate weddings and other special events.
Morris rose from her desk as he entered. “Mr. Weinstein,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but wouldn’t say why. Please have a seat.” She was tall and blond, about fifty, wearing a dark jacket over a white blouse. The jacket had a Nixon Museum patch on its breast pocket. Behind her, visible through a set of curtained windows, was a small one-and-a-half-story cottage. Richard Nixon’s birthplace, built in 1912 by his father, Frank. Somewhere in the immediate area of the house grounds were the graves of the former president and his wife, Pat.
“The museum is very impressive,” Weinstein said.
“Thank you. We’re proud of it.” She flashed an automatic smile. White House or not, I’m busy. Can we please get on with it? “So what brings you—?”
“This is going to sound a little off-the-wall, Ms. Morris.”
“We’ll help any way we can.”
“Good.” He lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s a possibility a message may have been left here for the president. Left by President Nixon, that is.”
The smile widened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I quite understand—”
“President Cunningham thinks it might have been deposited here with instructions to turn it over to a future president if one inquires about it.”
“Mr. Weinstein,” she said, “you’re not making sense.”
Weinstein laughed. “I don’t know what it’s about either, Ms. Morris. But apparently there’s reason to believe such a letter exists.”
“If it does,” she said, “it’s the first I’ve heard of it. What’s it about, do you know?”
“They told me that it might have something to do with the Moon flights.”
She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.”
“You’re sure?”
She got up. Ready to move on. “Positive.”
“There’s not some sort of lockbox here?” Weinstein tried a grin. “A hidden vault, possibly?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid not. But you can tell your boss that I’ll have one of the interns look around. Just in case.”
—
He called Chambers from the Rose Garden. “Negative, Ray,” he said.
“Nothing at all?”
“No, sir. She laughed at me.”
“Okay,” said Chambers. “It was worth a try. Come on home.”
“Ray, if you don’t mind—”
“What, Milt?”
“What are we actually looking for?”
“Just come home, Milt. And thanks.”
Chambers disconnected, leaving Weinstein staring across the grass at President Nixon’s Sea King helicopter. Marine One. Or Army One, depending on the service branch of whichever pilot had been on duty when the president was traveling. This was the helicopter that Nixon had climbed into on that last desperate day, turning to wave a final good-bye to his presidency. A crowd stood around it, taking pictures of it, sometimes using it as background for family photos. Despite the dark history on display inside—the Watergate break-in, the Saturday Night Massacre, the enemies’ list, the secret tapes, and the rest of it—the general aura of the museum left Weinstein with a sense that the former president had, after all, been an iconic figure. A man for the ages.
He knew better. Weinstein wasn’t old enough to remember Nixon in the White House. He’d been in his teens when he’d learned about the man’s anti-Semitism. That he’d thought Jews were running the country and would ultimately bring it down. Nixon’s presidency had come to a sad conclusion, but it was hard to sympathize.
He turned away from the helicopter and began walking slowly back toward the parking lot.
Weinstein was on Route 55, headed south toward Santa Ana and the John Wayne Airport, when his phone sounded. “Milton?” Morris’s voice. “This is Michelle. I guess I was wrong. I think we might have something.” The formality was gone.
“A letter?”
“No. It’s a small locked box. Instructions attached to it are exactly what you described. They say it’s to be turned over to any president who inquires about it.”
“What’s in it?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“Where was it?”
“Back in storage. It wasn’t in the safe.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
“Milton, there’s probably no point in your coming back here.”
“Why not?”
“The instructions say it has to be delivered personally. I have to put it into the president’s hands.”
“All right. You want me to pick you up? You can fly back with me.”
“I’m not exactly ready to go this minute.”
“You’re not going to keep the president waiting, I hope.”
“Oh, c’mon. How urgent can it be? It’s been here since the 1990s.”
“Only thing I can tell you, Michelle, is that they’re anxious to get their hands on it. When can you be ready to leave?”