He called Ray. Told him to wait in the Oval Office. Then he headed downstairs.
—
“Tell them,” Cunningham said, “that we’ll be putting out a statement within the hour.”
“Okay.” Ray looked uncomfortable. “When we do, what will we be saying?”
“Depends on what Ms. Morris tells us.”
“Suppose she has nothing? I mean, I hate to be negative, but it’s not really likely Nixon’s going to be able to shed any light on what happened tonight.”
Cunningham shrugged. “If so, we’ll just tell them we’re looking into it. That we have no answers either.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d hate to have to do that, but I think we’re in a situation where we might have to just fall back on the truth.” He grinned. It was a line that politicians often used. “By the way, they’re here. Security tells me they’ve just entered the grounds.”
—
The Nixon Museum director, accompanied by Ray, came into the oval office and smiled nervously at the president, who rose from his couch. She was carrying the locked box. “Mr. President,” Ray said, “I’d like to introduce Michelle Morris.”
“Mr. President,” she said, “I’m honored.”
“The pleasure’s mine.” Cunningham extended his hand. The box was made of dark-stained wood. It was large enough to hold a couple of oversize books. It did not, however, seem heavy. She tightened her grip on it and clasped his hand. “Now,” he continued, with a smile designed to put her at ease, “let’s see what this is all about, shall we?”
She handed it to him. He set it on a coffee table ringed by three armchairs. “Please be seated, Michelle.” He indicated one of the chairs.
A small padlock secured a hinged lid. Michelle showed him the key. He was reaching for it when a strange expression appeared on her face. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“My instructions,” she said. She reached into a pocket and produced a folded envelope. “Sir, they say nobody but you is to see what’s in the box.”
Cunningham held out his hand. “May I see that?”
She gave the envelope to him. He opened it and extracted a piece of letterhead stationery. Richard Nixon’s name was printed across the top, above his San Clemente address. The document was dated April 30, 1990, and was signed RN. With a flourish.
It was addressed to the Director of the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum.
The attached package is under no circumstances to be opened except as provided below, nor is its existence to be made known save to your successor. It is to be kept in a secure location.
In the event that a sitting president of the United States inquires about a secret package, or indicates he is aware of its existence, or believes such a package may exist, and he stipulates a connection with the Apollo program, it may be turned over to him. But no one else, including the director, may be shown its contents save at the express pleasure of the president. He should be advised that it might be best to make himself aware of the contents before allowing anyone else to see them.
Michelle was looking directly at Ray. Cunningham showed him the letter. Ray read it, nodded, and got up. “Call me if you need me, Mr. President.”
Michelle also started to rise. Cunningham signaled Ray to sit down. “I’m sure we can trust Mr. Chambers,” he said. He turned the package over. “Michelle, you have absolutely no idea what’s in here?”
“No, sir.”
“How long have you known about its existence?”
“I just found out when your man came looking, and we initiated the search. It was in storage.”
“The previous director didn’t say anything?”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Okay, thank you, Michelle. There’s a lady outside who’ll show you to your quarters.”
She beamed. “I’m staying here?”
“Yes, ma’am. You will have one of our best rooms.”
—
“I wanted to carry the box for her,” said Ray. “But she wouldn’t let anybody touch it.”
“She takes her instructions seriously,” Cunningham said. He inserted the key, twisted it, and listened to the lock click open. He lifted the lid and looked down at plastic packing material. Beneath it was a nineties-style videotape. It carried a label, marked simply RMN.
Beneath the videotape lay more plastic. He pulled it back, revealing a mahogany-colored plaque with a silver plate. No. Two mahogany-colored plaques with silver plates. Both plates were metal, and both were inscribed with several lines of characters. The characters were in a foreign alphabet. Or, now that he looked at it, different alphabets. Otherwise, the plaques were identical. “That one’s Greek,” said Ray.
The letters on the second one looked vaguely Hebraic.
“I think you’re right.” Ray frowned. “It shouldn’t be hard to find out for certain.”
Cunningham moved them under a table lamp. “The Greek one is seven lines. This one is eight.”
“You think it’s the same inscription?”
“Could be.” He picked up the videotape. “I wonder if we have anything that will play this?”
“It’s pretty old. We can probably find something in the morning.”
“Ray—”
“George, this is old technology. But I’ll send somebody out. See if we can find something. In the meantime, how about we do the press release? Let’s just tell them we’re looking into it.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve about had it for the night.”
39
The next night, Blackstone Enterprises threw a huge celebratory party in the Flat Plains hangar. Every member of the press showed up. (“Trust me,” Bucky told Jerry, “these guys would never miss a free meal.”) But they also had half a dozen congressmen, three senators, and two governors, a Medal of Honor winner, five all-pro football players and all-NBA basketball players, and the usual hey-take-my-photograph celebrity crowd.
“Airport must have been swamped,” remarked Bucky.
“You said it.” Gloria Marcos grinned. “They only have one runway and two gates. Your private airfield is every bit as big, and probably a lot more modern.”
“You know, I’ve been asked to run for the presidency by members of both parties,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be George Cunningham tonight.”
“You don’t look that happy,” she remarked.
“He’s not an evil man,” responded Bucky. “I don’t know why he lied about it—hell, I don’t know why any of our presidents lied about it—but I’m sure he had his reasons.” He paused. “He didn’t try to stop me, you know.”
“Could he have?” asked Gloria.
“He could have made it a lot more difficult.” Bucky frowned. “I think I’ll try to make peace with him in a few weeks.”
“And not run against him?” she said with a smile.
“I’m an entrepreneur, not a president.”
“Isn’t that what almost every president is, too—in a way?” said Gloria.
“Stop right there.” Bucky spoke with mock severity. “You convince me of that, and you might spend the next few years dealing with all those jackasses in Congress.”
She turned and began walking away.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To get some tape to cover my mouth.”
“Good. I was afraid for a minute I’d said something to offend you.”
She laughed. “If that was a quitting offense, I’d have been gone two hours after you hired me.”
He winked at her and then went around the room chatting with everyone, endlessly explaining every aspect of the mission, taking an occasional sip of the Dom Pérignon and an occasional taste of the Beluga caviar his people had set out for the guests. After another hour, he was getting bored with the same questions, and tired of fighting off less-than-subtle inquiries about his politics and his willingness to run in next year’s election (for president, for the Senate or the House, or for the governor’s mansion once they could figure out where his legal residence was), and decided he needed a break. He knew that if he went to his own office, he’d be getting a visitor every two minutes once they noticed he was missing, so instead, he went to Jerry Culpepper’s much smaller office at the back of the hangar.