“It’s going to happen eventually. You’ve seen the numbers.”
“Fine. Whatever happens, happens. First off, we don’t know the truth. Secondly, religion may or may not disappear from people’s lives. But if it does, I won’t be party to it.”
“Okay. You’re the president.”
“None of this gets beyond this office. Right?”
“Of course not. I won’t say anything. But be aware that the people at the Nixon Museum will almost certainly let the press know you got a package from Mr. Nixon. And that it had something to do—”
“If we have to take some heat, we will.” Cunningham restarted the program.
Nixon straightened his shoulders. “One final point I’d like to make, Mr. President. When the plaque first came into my hands, I had to find someone to translate. We weren’t even sure what the language was. John—John Ehrlichman—had a friend who was a professor at George Washington University. I forget his name. But he did the translation for us.
“He never knew how we’d acquired the plate. Or at least, he didn’t unless John told him. But I doubt very much that happened.” He thought about it. Shook his head. “No. No chance. In any event he—the professor—assured us that none of what he’d seen would go any further. But we didn’t realize he’d made notes. Kept them, despite his assurances no written record would be made.
“We put the plate away, intending it should never see the light of day. I’d thought about destroying it, but that seemed inappropriate.” He stopped, and he seemed focused on another time. Another place.
“In June 1972, I got a call from John. The professor had informed him that he’d lost materials relating to the translation. Worse, he’d been socializing with the Democrats. With Larry O’Brien, and he thought he’d left the briefcase in his office. At the Watergate. O’Brien claimed he knew nothing about it.
“I have no idea who I may be speaking to, or how long it has been since I left the stage. It may be twenty years. It may be centuries. But I want to make the statement to you that I could never make to the American people: The reason for the break-in had nothing to do with politics. It was for the benefit of the nation. For that reason and no other.
“I should add that O’Brien, it turned out, did not have the briefcase. The idiot professor had left it in the hotel restaurant. But the guys who went in, and paid the price, never said anything. They never mentioned the professor’s notes.” He looked out at Cunningham. “I owe them. The country owes them.”
And the screen went blank.
—
Ray sat back in his chair. “So where do we go from here, George?”
“We’ve arrived at the last act, Ray. It’s over. Blackstone will give the voters an answer. He knows we handed it to him. He won’t be able to figure out why, but he’s indebted to us, and he knows it. So I don’t think we’ll take too much heat from him.” Cunningham got up and walked over to the window. The sky was heavy with clouds. No Moon that night. “We’ll announce tomorrow that Blackstone probably has it right. The people from the museum will think that’s what was in the package. And it’s done.”
“Well, I hope you’re right.” Ray extended his right hand. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”
—
The president was going over legislation that had just arrived for his signature when Kim called him. “Mr. President,” she said, “Mr. Blackstone is on the line. I don’t know how he got this number, but—”
“It’s okay, Kim. Have him hold for three minutes, then put him through.”
Cunningham went back to reading a bill to upgrade the national parks. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying to read it. He was uneasy about the call. And he was looking at his watch when the phone began blinking again. He pressed the button and Blackstone’s image appeared on-screen. “Mr. President,” he said. “We should talk.”
42
Two Secret Service men ushered Bucky into the Oval Office, then took up positions on each side of the doorway.
“You don’t want them here,” said Bucky, indicating the two men. “What we have to discuss is private.”
Cunningham, seated behind the large mahogany desk, faced the Secret Service men and nodded.
“But, sir—”
“He’s an old friend,” said Cunningham.
“Frisk me first if it’ll make you feel any better,” added Bucky.
“We already did, sir,” said one of them.
Bucky looked surprised. “When?”
“Electronically,” came the answer. “When you entered the White House, and again when you entered the office.”
“Isn’t science wonderful?” said Bucky. “Not only can we reach the Moon, but we can frisk a man without touching him.”
The two men looked at Cunningham questioningly.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Leave us.”
They exited, closing the door behind them.
“I’m not so naïve to think that this isn’t being recorded on both audio and video,” said Bucky when they were alone. “Just make sure you get to the tapes or disks or whatever the hell you’re using before anyone else does.”
“It can be arranged,” said Cunningham. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you think it will be necessary. And please be quick about it. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Cancel it.”
“No one gives orders to the president of the United States,” said Cunningham firmly.
“Then I’m requesting you to cancel it. Please.”
“Now look here, Mr. Blackstone—”
“Bucky.”
“Now look here, Bucky, I’m giving you a private meeting on something like three hours’ notice. There are senators who have been waiting four and five months for one. So let’s get to the point. You made it to the Moon and you proved someone was there ahead of you. I congratulate you for your remarkable achievement, and I hasten to point out that I was as unaware of what you discovered as the rest of the world. Now, what is the purpose of this meeting?”
Bucky smiled. “Very well said. It really tempts me to vote for you next time.” He indicated a chair opposite Cunningham’s desk. “May I sit down?”
The president nodded.
“There’s just one little problem,” continued Bucky.
“Oh?”
“Jerry Culpepper got a mysterious phone call, directing him—and me—to the NASA Archives, where, thanks to his ability to decipher a really vague clue, we found a truly remarkable plate that Sidney Myshko reportedly brought back from the Moon in January of 1969.” He pulled a folded paper out of the lapel pocket of his suit and placed it on the desk. “Here’s a photo of it.”
“Amazing!” said Cunningham, picking the photo up and studying it.
“You know what’s the most amazing thing of all, Mr. President?” said Bucky.
“No. What?”
“It’s a phony.” The smile vanished. “And that means that the White House planted it for us to find.”
“Damn it, Mr. Blackstone! I didn’t know Myshko had landed until you came back with the proof. I had no idea that there had been any deception, I didn’t even believe in it until yesterday, and I had no previous knowledge of this so-called plate.”
“Maybe some of that is true,” said Bucky. Before Cunningham could protest, he continued: “Maybe all of it is. And do you know what, Mr. President? It doesn’t matter. Who’s the public going to believe? A government that’s been lying to them for half a century, or a man who went to the Moon and proved they were lying? So let’s talk turkey.”
“Calm down, Mr. Blackstone.”
“Bucky, damn it.”
“Bucky,” corrected Cunningham. “Suppose you tell me what you’re talking about and why you think the plate is a fake.”
“Ah, yes—the plate that no one spotted for fifty years but that took Jerry Culpepper and me less than twenty minutes to find and photograph.”