American tabloid

47

The clerk handed him a gold-plated key. “We had a reservations glitch, sir. Your room was inadvertently given away, but we’re going to give you a suite at our regular room rate.”

Check-ins pushed up to the desk. Kemper said, “Thanks. It’s a glitch I can live with.”

The clerk shuffled papers. “May I ask you a question?”

“Let me guess. If my room is being charged to the Kennedy campaign, why am I staying here instead of at the Biltmore with the rest of the staff?”

“Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”

Kemper winked. “I’m a spy.”

The clerk laughed. Some delegate types waved to get his attention.

Kemper brushed past them and elevatored up to the twelfth floor. His suite: the double-doored, gold-sealed, all-antique Presidential.

He walked through it. He savored the appointments and checked out the north-by-northeast view.

Two bedrooms, three TVs and three phones. Complimentary champagne in a pewter ice bucket marked with the U.S. presidential seal.

He deciphered the “glitch” instantly: J. Edgar Hoover at work.

He wants to scare you. He’s saying, “I own you.” He’s satirizing your Kennedy fervor and love of hotel suites.

He wants potential bug/tap intelligence.

Kemper turned on the living-room TV. Convention commentary hit the screen.

He turned on the other sets-and boosted the volume way up.

He grid-searched the suite. He found condensor mikes inside five table lamps and fake panels behind the bathroom mirrors.

He found two auxiliaries spackled into the living-room wainscoting. Tiny perforations served as sound ducts- nonprofessionals would never spot them. He checked out the telephones. All three were tapped.

Kemper thought it through from Hoover’s perspective.

We discussed standing bugs a few days ago. He knows I don’t want to set Jack up with “Bureau-friendly” women.

He said he thinks Jack is inevitable. He may be dissembling. He may be seeking knowledge of adultery-to aid his good friend Dick Nixon.

He knows you’ll see through the “reservations glitch.” He thinks you’ll make your confidential calls from pay phones. He thinks you’ll curtail your in-suite talk or destroy the bug/taps out of pique.

He knows Littell taught you bug/tap fundamentals. He doesn’t know Littell taught you some fine points.

He knows you’ll uncover the main bugs. He thinks you won’t uncover the backups-the ones he plans to sucker-punch you with.

Kemper turned off the TVs. Kemper faked a vivid temper tantrum-”Hoover, goddamn you!” and worse expletives.

He ripped out the primary bug/taps.

He grid-searched the suite again-even more diligently.

He found secondary phone taps. He spotted microphone perforations on two mattress labels and three chair cushions.

He went down to the lobby and rented room 808 under a pseudonym. He called John Stanton’s service and left his fake name and room number.

Pete was in L.A., meeting with Howard Hughes. He called the watchdog house and left a message with the pool cleaner.

He had free time now. Bobby didn’t need him until 5:00.

He walked to a hardware store. He bought wire cutters, pliers, a Phillips-head screwdriver, three rolls of friction tape and two small magnets. He walked back to the Statler and worked.

He rewired the buzzer housings. He recircuited the feeder wires. He muffled the bells with pillow stuffing. He scraped the rubber off the lead cables-incoming talk would register incoherently on all the backup-tapped phones.

He laid the pieces out for easy reassembly. He called room service for Beefeater’s and smoked salmon.

o o o

Calls came in. His squelch system worked perfectly.

He barely heard the callers. Line crackle would drown out all second-party talk-the taps would only pick up his voice.

His LAPD liaison called. As planned: a motorcycle escort would accompany Senator Kennedy to the convention.

Bobby called. Could he get some cabs to shuttle staffers back to the Biltmore?

Kemper called a car service and implemented Bobby’s order. He had to strain to hear the dispatcher talk.

Horns blasted down on Wilshire Boulevard. Kemper checked his watch and the living-room window.

His “Protestants for Kennedy” motorcade passed by. On time to the minute-and prepaid at fifty dollars a car.

Kemper turned on the TVs and paced between them. History beamed out in crisp black amp; white.

CBS called Jack a first ballot shoo-in. ABC flashed panning shots-a big Stevenson demonstration just erupted. NBC featured a prissy Eleanor Roosevelt: “Senator Kennedy is simply too young!”

ABC ballyhooed Jackie Kennedy. NBC showed Frank Sinatra working the delegate floor. Frankie was vain-Jack said he spraypainted his bald spot to cut down camera glare.

Kemper paced and flipped channels. He caught a late-afternoon potpourri.

Convention analysis and a baseball game. Convention interviews and a Marilyn Monroe movie. Convention shots, convention shots, convention shots.

He caught some nice shots of Jack’s HQ suite. He saw Ted Sorensen, Kenny O’Donnell and Pierre Salinger.

He met Salinger and O’Donnell once only. Jack pointed out Sorensen-”the guy who wrote Profiles in Courage for me.”

It was “compartmentalization” classically defined. Jack and Bobby knew him-but no one else really did. He was just that cop who fixed things and got Jack women.

Kemper wheeled the TVs together. He created a tableau: Jack in closeups and mid-shots.

He turned the room lights off and dimmed the volume. He got three images and one homogeneous whisper.

Wind ruffled Jack’s hair. Pete called Jack’s head of hair his chief attribute.

Pete refused to discuss the Littell assault. Pete sidestepped the issue to talk money.

Pete called him while Littell was still in the hospital. Pete got right to the point.

“You’re jazzed on the Pension Fund books, and so’s Littell. You’re goosing him to find them, so you can work a money angle on it. I say, after the election we both brace Littell. Whatever the angle is, we split the profit.”

Pete emasculated Ward. Pete delivered the “scare” that he said he would.

He called Littell at the hospital. Ward compartmentalized his response.

“I don’t trust you on this, Kemper. You can get the forensic particulars from the Bureau, but I’m not telling you WHO or WHY.”

The WHERE was Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The location had to be Pension Fund pertinent. “I don’t trust you on this” could only mean one thing: Lenny Sands was talking trash to Littell.

Pete knew compartmentalization. Ward and Lenny knew it. John Stanton said the CIA coined that particular concept.

John called him in D.C. in mid-April. He said Langley just erected a compartmental wall.

“They’re cutting us off, Kemper. They know about our Cadre business, and they approve, but they will not budget us one nickel. We’re on salary as Blessington campsite staff, but our actual Cadre business has been excommunicated.”

It meant no CIA cryptonyms. No CIA acronyms. No CIA cede names and no CIA initial/oblique-sign gobbledegook.

The Cadre was purely compartmentalized.

Kemper flipped channels with the sound off. He got a gorgeous juxtaposition: Jack and Marilyn Monroe on adjoining TV screens.

He laughed. He snapped to the ultimate tweak-Hoover embellishment.

He picked up the phone and dialed the daily weather number. He got a monotone buzz-barely audible.

He said, “Kenny? Hi, it’s Kemper Boyd.” He waited four seconds. “No, I need to talk to the senator.”

He waited fourteen seconds. He said, “How are you, Jack?”- bright and cheerful.

He waited five seconds to allow for a plausible reply. He said, “Yes, everything is set up with the escort.”

Twenty-two seconds. “Yes. Right. I know you’re busy.”

Eight seconds. “Yes. Tell Bobby I’ve got the security people at the house all set up.”

Twelve seconds. “Right, the purpose of this call is to see if you want to get laid, because if you do, I’m expecting calls from a few girls who’d love to meet you.”

Twenty-four seconds. “I don’t believe it.”

Nine seconds. “Lawford set it up?”

Eight seconds. “Come on, Jack. Marilyn Monroe?”

Eight seconds. “I’ll believe it if you tell me not to send my girls over.”

Six seconds. “Jesus Christ.”

Eight seconds. “They’ll be disappointed, but I’ll extend the raincheck.”

Eight seconds. “Right. Naturally, I’ll want details. Right. Goodbye, Jack.”

Kemper hung up. Jack and Marilyn bumped television heads.

He just created Voyeur/Wiretap Heaven. Hoover would cream his jeans and maybe even spawn some crazy myth.