“Keep it quiet or we’ll have to rewrite the history books,” said Ramser, sotto voce.
McCoy did not share his smile. “There’s more?”
“Much.”
“Such as?”
“It wouldn’t be right of me to say until you join us. I will say, however, that I don’t disagree with a single action the Committee has taken.”
“I always thought that you looked like a man who slept well at night.”
“Jefferson, Lincoln, JFK… It would be an honor to count you as a member. There are some issues that require your attention.”
“I’m sure they’ll be covered in my PDB.”
“Probably not.”
McCoy leaned forward. “I don’t share your pessimism about the American people. I’ve always found that if you give it to them straight, take off the sugarcoating, they’re more than capable of making the right decision. Your problem, Gordon, is that you never trusted them to begin with. Maybe none of us have. Somehow we’ve convinced ourselves that the people-our husbands, and brothers, and best friends-need to be hoodwinked into thinking things are better than they are or worse than they are. Bigger and Scarier and More Threatening. I have a different opinion. I think the people have had enough of the bullshit and just want to see things the way they really are.”
“That kind of talk worked in the campaign, Meg. Unfortunately, this is the real world. Believe me, people don’t want to see things how they truly are. They are much too frightening.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Ramser bowed his head and sighed. When he looked up, his complexion had paled. He looked like an old man. “I take it that’s your final answer.”
“No, Gordon, it’s not. Here’s my final answer. The day and age when a group of fat cats and power brokers can operate behind the scenes to make things happen is over. I’m not going to join the Committee because the Committee will be no more. After I swear the oath tomorrow, I’m going to make it my first priority to root out every one of you secretive bastards.”
“How will you do that?”
“I have some friends at the Post who will be very interested in what you’ve told me. It will make Watergate pale in comparison.”
“The press?”
Senator McCoy nodded. “I think this is something that’s right up Charles Connolly’s alley.”
Ramser nodded. “Oh, you’re right about that, Meg. I’m sure Charles Connolly would find your story very interesting, indeed.” For a long second, he stared into her eyes. “I am sorry, Meg.”
Senator McCoy felt a profound shiver rustle her spine. The emotion in his voice disturbed her. The President of the United States sounded as if he were offering his condolences.
43
“Professor Walsh?”
A bearded, shaggy-haired man in a black cable-knit sweater and tortoiseshell glasses glanced up from his desk. “We’re officially closed,” he called gruffly. “Office hours are Monday and Friday from ten to eleven. They’re posted on the window and on your syllabus, if you haven’t had a chance to take a look at it.”
“Professor Walsh, it’s Jennifer Dance. Senior seminar… the historical society.”
Behind the pebble lenses, watery blue eyes stirred. “Jennifer? Jennifer Dance? That you?”
Jenny stepped tentatively into the office. “Hello, Professor. Sorry to disturb you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.”
Walsh stood and gestured for her to enter. “Nonsense. Come in, come in. I thought you were another one of my geniuses carping about their grades. The kids these days… either it’s an ‘A’ or you’re jeopardizing their future. Ingrates is what they are.” Turning to the side, he slipped past a bookcase filled to overflowing. He was broad-shouldered and burly, more a mountain man than a tenured professor of American history and the president of the New-York Historical Society. “Still giving tours of the city?”
Jenny closed the door behind her. “Not for a while. Actually, I’m teaching. High-risk teens at the Kraft School.”
“Teaching? Bully for you. Remember my motto: ‘Those that can, teach… and the hell with the rest of ’em.’ My God, look at you. It’s been too long.”
Walsh spread his arms and Jenny accepted the hug. “Eight years.”
“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. “That makes me sixty. Don’t tell a soul. The cult of youth. It’s everywhere. New department chair is forty. Forty. Can you imagine? I was still growing my sideburns at forty.”
Jenny smiled. As a student, she’d spent considerable time in this office. After taking four classes with Professor Harrison Walsh, she’d served as his teaching assistant senior year while he supervised her thesis. Professors fell into three categories. Those you hated, those you tolerated, and those you worshiped. Walsh counted among the last. He was loud, long-winded, and wildly passionate about his subject. God help you if you hadn’t done your reading. It was either a one-way ticket out of the class or an hour of sheer hell in the hot seat.
“Take a seat, kiddo,” said Walsh. “You look pale. Coffee? Hot chocolate? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine,” said Jenny. “Just a little cold.”
She glanced out the window. Walsh’s office overlooked the main quad, Low Library, and the statue of Alma Mater, which every Columbia University student knows means “nourishing mother.” The sky had fused into a pearl gray dome that pressed lower and lower, crushing the city beneath it. A light snow danced in the air, whipped about by contrary winds, never seeming to fall to the ground.
Harrison Walsh clapped his hands together. “So what brings you back to school on a day like this?”
“A question, actually. Something about the past.”
“Last I checked, this was still the history department. You’ve come to the right place.”
Jenny set her purse on her lap, trying to keep from wincing as she settled into the chair. “It’s about a club,” she began. “An old club. I mean, very old. Dating from the beginning of the country. Something like the Masons, but different, more secretive even, made up of government officials, big wheels in industry, important people. They might call themselves the committee, or something like that.”
“And what does ‘the committee’ do when they’re not practicing their secret handshakes?”
Jenny recalled Bobby Stillman’s words. “They spy, they listen, they interfere. They help the government get things done without the people’s consent.”
“Not them again,” Walsh complained.
Jenny sat forward. “You mean you know who they are?”
“Sure, but I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong room. You need Conspiracy 101: Introduction to Fruitcakes. Jenny, you’re talking about everyone from the Trilateral Commission to the fellows at Bohemian Grove, with a spice of the Council on Foreign Relations thrown in. They all fit the bill. The invisible hand that rocks the cradle.”
“This isn’t a conspiracy, Professor,” said Jenny soberly. “It’s a real group of men who are trying to shape government policy for their own ends.”
“And this club is still around?”
“Definitely.”
Walsh narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he picked up a paperweight made from an old World War I shell casing and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. “Okay, then,” he said finally. “The first thing that comes to mind is a group led by Vincent Astor that called themselves ‘the Room.’ They helped out Wild Bill Donovan during the thirties when he was setting up the Office of Strategic Services. Strictly volunteers. Businessmen, mostly rich New Yorkers, who’d meet on Astor’s yacht upon returning from their world travels and trade gossip while getting silly on bourbon. Sound like who you have in mind?”
“No. These guys are concerned about what’s going on in the country. With affecting the course the nation takes. They kill people who don’t agree with them.”