Naturally, being “Kissinger’s shadow,” George not only held opposing views but was actively involved in the escalation of hostilities. Nixon still wanted a victory, and his inner circle was determined to give him one. They would spare no effort. And no bombs.
“Can’t you convince Henry that this is folly?” Cathy asked George one evening.
“Can’t you forget about the war even when we’re in bed?” he retorted.
“No, I can’t. Please George, I know he respects your opinion.”
“I can’t make him end it just like that.”
“You could try,” she said softly. And then added, “It’s going to get even worse, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do, too. But you just don’t trust me. Why? I’m not some undercover agent. Can’t you level with me?”
“Cathy, I swear I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“What do you think?” he asked, kissing her again.
On April 20, 1970, President Nixon announced that 150,000 American troops would be withdrawn from South Vietnam the following spring. The doves took heart.
Two days later, Nixon began a series of secret meetings with Kissinger and a few trusted aides. To discuss widening the war by invading neutral Cambodia, to destroy the enemy’s supply depots.
George was proud to be one of those who Kissinger regarded as trustworthy enough to include in these strategy sessions. His pride increased when he realized that not even the Secretary of Defense was present.
Nixon was in an angry mood. “The damn North Vietnamese are romping in Cambodia. We’ve got to move boldly to show them and the Russians that we can hang tough.”
“Not everybody in the State Department would agree with you, Mr. President,” George dared to comment respectfully.
“Jerks,” murmured Nixon.
On Sunday, April 26, 1970, the President decided to commit thirty-two thousand American troops to the invasion of Cambodia. In his own words: “Knock them all out.” Plans were finalized with the military in Southeast Asia without the knowledge of several key cabinet members.
That same afternoon, the National Security Council met to debate the merits of a possible Cambodian invasion, Only a few of them knew that the decision had already been made. The attack was set to begin forty-eight hours later.
Kissinger “objectively” presented the argument to his assembled staff.
“We have a very stark choice,” he began gravely. “We could permit North Vietnam to overrun Cambodia. Or we could commit troops and try to stop them. A successful attack might be a step toward achieving an honorable peace. Any comments?”
Many speakers had deep misgivings about this potential escalation.
Though she was by far the most junior person present, Catherine Fitzgerald bravely raised her hand. “With due respect, I think if the government goes ahead with this invasion, every campus in America will explode.”
Kissinger answered her calmly. “Our decision must not be swayed by a group of rootless, self-indulgent adolescents with no sense of political realities.”
Catherine could not stop herself from responding, “Isn’t that a bit harsh, Dr. Kissinger?”
“Perhaps that was an overgeneralization. I beg your pardon, Miss Fitzgerald.”
The debate grew more heated and even less conclusive.
“I’m glad you called Henry on that antistudent remark,” George said, as they were sharing a bottle of white wine in her apartment that evening. “But I think if you weren’t so pretty you wouldn’t have gotten away with it.”
She brushed off the compliment and remarked, “You were certainly quiet today.”
“I don’t think I had anything to add,” he replied evasively. “Besides, everybody knows where I stand.”
“Yes. Right behind Kissinger. The point is, where does he stand?”
“I don’t know,” George lied.
Though the President did not announce it officially till the evening of April 30, the National Security Council was informed of the U.S. invasion of Cambodia on April 28.
There was outrage among some of the members, who realized that the entire debate on Sunday had been nothing but a charade. Several senior members stormed into Henry’s office and immediately resigned.
But the disaffection was even more widespread among the younger aides, some of whom cut off promising government careers to quit in protest.
Catherine Fitzgerald was among the first to leave. And after delivering a strongly worded letter to one of Kissinger’s secretaries, she marched ten paces down the corridor to the office of George Keller.
“You bastard!” she exploded before he had even shut the door. “You ruthless, heartless bastard! You have no respect for anything or anyone. You and that Svengali of yours trifle with human lives —”
“Cathy, please calm down —”
“No, let me finish, George. Because today I’m walking out of the White House and out of your life.”
“Cathy, be reasonable. I’m not responsible —”
“But you knew! You knew and you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me.”
“Well, I was right, judging by this hysterical reaction,” George countered.
“It isn’t hysterical — dammit. It’s human. In all your great assimilation of English words, George, did you ever really learn the meaning of that word?”
Before he could reply, she disappeared.
He sat motionless at his desk for several minutes, mulling over what had happened.
I suppose it was inevitable, he rationalized. Anyway, we couldn’t have gone on much longer fighting our own private war.
Maybe Henry’s right. Women should only be a hobby.
Six days later, after four students were killed at Kent State University in a protest demonstration, a taxi driver appeared at George Keller’s home, bearing a battered suitcase.
Inside he found a pile of shirts, ties, and other clothes that he had left at Cathy’s place. There was also a page onto which she had neatly pasted newspaper photographs of the four victims.
Her message was simple and direct: “These are your children, Dr. Keller.”
If Alice found her Wonderland by entering the looking glass, Ted Lambros first spied his as he was peering through the dusty windows of a British Rail carriage as it slowed down just before Oxford station.
On that same chilly autumn day, Cameron Wylie took the Lambros trio on a walking tour of a university which had been conducting classes more than three full centuries before Columbus found America. Some of the original colleges, like Merton and St. Edmund’s Hall, still had portions from the late 1260s. And there was also a vestige of the Middle Ages in Exeter, Oriel, and “New” College.
Magdalen, a relative newcomer from the fifteenth century, was Oxford’s jewel, with its exquisite gardens bordering the river Cherwell. It even had a deer park, which made little Ted feel like he was in a fairy tale.
And finally, Christ Church, dominated by the huge octagonal Tom Tower built by Christopher Wren (an imitation of which adorned Harvard’s Dunster House). This was Wylie’s college, where he had arranged temporary Common Room privileges for Ted.
“What do you think, kiddo?” Ted asked his son, as they stood in the Great Quadrangle.
“It’s all so old, Daddy.”
“That’s the best atmosphere for getting new ideas,” Sara commented.
“Quite right,” said the Regius Professor.