Murder at Union Station

FORTY

Lights in the White House burned bright that night.

Political adviser Chet Fletcher had been at work since early morning, as had every other member of the president’s most trusted senior staff. A siege mentality existed in offices manned by press secretary Robin Whitson and her aides. “We have no statement at this time” was the official party line.

“When will the president address this directly?” reporters repeatedly asked.

“We have no statement to make at this time.”

“Does the president deny his involvement in the Eliana assassination?”

“We have no statement at this time.”

While Whitson’s staff fielded the barrage of media calls, the press secretary spent most of her day and evening conferring with other presidential handmaidens. Sides had been taken early in the day; Whitson lobbied for the president to hold a press conference and issue an official denial of the claims in the Marienthal-Russo book. Others, led by Chet Fletcher, argued that to do so would only bestow credibility on the book’s charges.

“No,” Whitson said during one of a dozen meetings since the news broke-she’d lost count of how many there had been. “That’s exactly what stonewalling will accomplish. The longer it festers, the more the story will be believed.” She’d become uncharacteristically strident during that particular debate with Fletcher, and left the room to calm down, hopefully to formulate a more reasoned case for her position. But she was painfully aware that no matter what tack she took, she would lose out. Fletcher’s power within the Parmele inner circle was unquestioned, particularly when it involved politics-and this was politics pure and simple, although a silent minority thought it might be a crime, impure and not so simple.

Robin Whitson twice met directly with the president. During those meetings, Parmele acted as though the issue was whether he wore boxer shorts or briefs, nothing more significant than that. “This is Widmer’s last gasp,” he told her. “He’s an old fool who’s grasping at straws, and I don’t intend to dignify this ludicrous, blatantly political ploy.” He came around the desk, his smile wide and reassuring, and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just let it ride a while, Robin,” he said in a measured voice. “Chet has had a handle on it from the beginning. We’ll put out a statement when he thinks it’s appropriate. In the meantime, let’s not become distracted. Stay on message, Robin. Widmer wants us to lose sight of the prize, that’s all. You’re doing a great job. Keep at it.”

His tone during one-on-one meetings with Fletcher was not quite as relaxed and heartening.

“How did we lose control of this?” he asked his political adviser.

“I don’t think we have, Mr. President,” Fletcher responded.

“It sure as hell sounds that way to me! I thought that when the old Italian-what’s his name? Russo-Russo? What kind of name is that? I thought that when he died, it was over.”

“It was, sir, at least as far as the Widmer hearings were concerned. We didn’t take into consideration that there were tapes. We couldn’t stop the book. Hobbes House-”

“The book isn’t what concerns me, Chet. Yeah, it’s bad enough, but how many people will read it? Not enough to make a difference. But those tapes the writer is supposed to have are another story. They’ll play them day and night on cable news channels and right-wing radio talk shows. Walt Brown tells me Widmer intends to go through with the hearings as long as he has the tapes.”

“He won’t have those tapes, Mr. President.”

“You sound damn sure, Chet.”

“He won’t have the tapes, Mr. President!”

“Do you have them?”

“Not yet. Shortly.”

Parmele’s tone softened. “Good. I appreciate the way you’ve handled this. As unfortunate as it was, the murder of Widmer’s witness in Union Station was-well, how can I put it so that it doesn’t sound callous? It was fortuitous. What’s the status of the murder with the police?”

“The attorney general’s office is following up on that,” said Fletcher. “It’s my understanding that it’s been ruled a revenge killing by the people he-Mr. Russo-testified against some time ago in New York. I’m also told that the man who killed Russo was in all likelihood hired by the mob for that purpose and was himself eliminated to assure his silence.”

The president leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. “The whole Mafia notion is interesting, isn’t it, Chet? What do they call it, ‘my thing’? Their society is so insular, governed by its own rules. Omertà. Their code of silence. Judging from all the turncoats I’ve read about, including this guy Russo, they aren’t always silent. Once the code is broken… I’ve always wondered whether there was any truth to the story about the mob being contracted to kill Castro. I know they prevented sabotage on the New York docks during World War II, and advised on the invasion of Sicily. Were they involved in JFK’s assassination? Marilyn Monroe’s death? Joe Kennedy didn’t have any trouble dealing with them or with Hollywood moguls like Wasserman and Mayer.”

“I’ve never put credence in any of it, Mr. President,” Fletcher said. “They’re just a bunch of goons trying to look legitimate and big-time.”

“Like Mr. Russo.”

“Exactly.”

Parmele straightened in the chair. “Maybe Robin is right, Chet. Maybe I should stand up at a podium and simply dismiss the charges in the book.”

“At some point that would be in order, Mr. President. Not now.”

“When?”

“After we let the press play its cards, show us what they’ve got.”

“Nixon stonewalled and look where it got him.”

Fletcher’s frown wasn’t lost on Parmele. “Forget I said that, Chet. I know this isn’t precisely stonewalling.”

Fletcher gathered papers in preparation for leaving.

“Chet,” Parmele said.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“It’s important to me that you know the truth.”

“Sir?”

“About the Eliana assassination.”

“Mr. President, there’s no need to-”

Parmele held up a hand to silence his political guru. “Hear me out, Chet,” he said. “When I was over at the Company, I was aware that there were cells within the agency that preferred to follow their own agenda. It was the same with some people at NSA and the NSC. Cowboys. Have all the answers. I used to think that the toughest part of my job at the Company was figuring out who they were and corralling them, keeping them from playing out their fantasies about what was good for America. I wasn’t always successful.”

A knock on the Oval Office door interrupted. An aide poked her head in, but Parmele waved her away: “Not now.”

“Where was I?” he asked after the aide was gone. “The cowboys, the rogues. I knew there were people in the agency advocating assassination as a public policy tool, and I knew Eliana was high on the list. I heard all their arguments during my years there, and there were times when they seemed to make sense. It would have been a hell of a lot cheaper in money and lives to assassinate Saddam Hussein than to invade Iraq.”

Fletcher listened impassively.

“But no one was going to assassinate anybody on my watch. The administration wasn’t sanctioning assassinations, at least as far as I knew. Besides, all those bungled attempts on Castro’s life before I got there-botulism in his cigars, which didn’t work because he’d stopped smoking; depilatories in his shoes to cause his hair to fall out-made the agency the laughingstock of the intelligence world. So, no, Chet, Eliana wasn’t assassinated on my orders. Maybe the buck stopped at my desk. Maybe I should have kept a tighter rein on the cowboys within the agency. But I never gave the go-ahead, never even knew that killing Eliana was in the works.”

“I understand,” Fletcher said.

Parmele wasn’t finished.

“Congress held the obligatory hearings, and I testified. You know the result of that: ‘Constantine Eliana was assassinated by unknown persons loyal to his opposition back in Chile. Case closed.’ Until now.”

“Yes. Until now.”

Parmele ended the meeting. “You’ll let me know once those tapes are no longer a problem.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. We’ll ride this out, Chet. We’ll leave egg on the Alaska senator’s face and keep the country moving in the right direction. Your service to me is deeply appreciated.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Anything else?”

“No. Grab a nap. You look like death warmed over.”

Fletcher left the Oval Office and stood just outside its door. Ordinarily, he would have gone directly to his office. He was not known within the White House as someone who mixed easily with others, who enjoyed chewing the fat or passing along the latest insider joke. But this evening he slowly walked the corridors of the nation’s house, stopping to look into offices that he customarily avoided, accepting a greeting with a wan smile and flip of his hand, file folders cradled to his chest, large, thick glasses perched on his small nose, his expression that of a man sinking beneath a massive weight.

“Anything new with the chief?” Robin Whitson asked when she almost bumped into him as he turned a corner.

“No, Robin,” he said. “Nothing new. But you have credibility with him.”

He entered the reception area of his office, where his personal secretary and an aide conversed. “No visitors,” he said.

Inside, the door closed, he settled heavily behind his desk and dropped the folders on it. The drapes were drawn; the only illumination came from a brass gooseneck lamp that spilled yellow light on the polished surface. He was overwhelmed with fatigue. His reputation with colleagues for having an unusually high level of energy was misleading. It was more a matter of will, talking himself through bouts of exhaustion that frequently threatened to consume him.

He called his wife to say he might not be home that night, told her he loved her, and settled in to review upcoming campaign plans. An aide brought him a cup of tea at nine-thirty, and a platter of small sandwiches from the White House mess. It was almost ten when a call came from Wayne Garson.

“They’re drawing in the wagons, Chet?” the AG asked.

“You could say that,” Fletcher replied.

“I need to talk with you, Chet.”

“All right.”

“Not on the phone. I’ll be freed up by eleven. I’d appreciate you heading over here to Justice.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure the president can spare you for an hour.”

“All right. I’ll be there.”

He called the president to inform him he would be away for an hour.

“The president has retired for the evening,” he was told by a staff member. “You’ll be with the attorney general if we need you?”

“Yes,” Fletcher said. He hadn’t said where he’d be; his meeting with Garson was obviously known to the Oval Office.

He arrived at the Justice Department a few minutes before eleven and was told the attorney general was wrapping up a meeting and would see him shortly. Ten minutes later, Assistant Attorney General Gertrude Klaus emerged from the office and walked past Fletcher, a quick smile her greeting.

“You can go in now, Mr. Fletcher,” the aide said.

Garson’s white shirt was open at the collar, a colorful flowered tie pulled loose from his neck. He wore black suspenders. Fletcher felt physically consumed by the big, strapping former Louisiana attorney general as he shook Fletcher’s hand and invited him to take one of two high-back red-leather chairs in a corner of the spacious office, at a glass-topped Chippendale table.

“Something to drink, Chet?” Garson, a teetotaler, kept an assortment of soft drinks on hand to offer guests.

“No, thank you, Wayne,” Fletcher said, adjusting himself to the chair’s contour.

“Hell of a day, huh?” said Garson, taking the other chair. His voice was deep and resonant, tinged with New Orleans.

“Yes.”

“Sorry to ask you here so late, Chet.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure you’re aware, Chet, of how highly the president values your contributions and service to him and to the nation. I have to admit that even though I’ve been around politics most of my life, the subtleties escape me now and then. Good thing the president has people like you who understand what’s goin’ on.”

Garson sounded as though he was speaking off the cuff, saying what came to mind at the moment. Fletcher doubted it. The AG had decided what he would say long before Fletcher’s arrival, and had the ability to make predetermined speeches sound spontaneous, a useful talent for a politician. And Garson was a politician, regardless of claims or titles to the contrary.

“I appreciate the kind words, Wayne.”

“No kindness intended. Just speakin’ the truth. Look, Chet, to the chase. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that.”

Yes, please, Fletcher thought. His fatigue was causing his mind to wander, to think of Gail home in bed and wanting to be with her.

“Know what I could never figure, Chet?”

“What?”

“Why somebody like you-I mean, hell, let’s be honest, you’re a brilliant man, got your Ph.D., written books, had a nice, cushy, relaxed job at a big university, married to a real nice woman, got a fine daughter, all of it-why somebody with all that would toss it over to get in the political rat race.”

Does he expect an explanation?

“None a my business, of course,” Garson said. “The important thing is that the president found himself someone of your caliber to help him advance his vision for this great country of ours.”

“It’s my pleasure to serve him.” It seemed the thing to say.

“And I want you to know, Chet, that the president and I are aware of the extraordinary steps you had to take to protect him against these scurrilous charges by this writer, Marienthal, and that liar, Russo.”

“… the president and I are aware…”

Translation: Whatever I say here has the blessing of the head man.

“Politics are almost as exciting as war, and quite as dangerous. In war you can only be killed once, but in politics many times.” Churchill’s words drifted through his consciousness. How true, he thought.

“You ever think about goin’ back to teaching, Chet?”

“Of course. One day-”

“I don’t mean four or five years down the road.” He laughed. “Hell, not one of us can see down that road very far, now can we? You’ve always struck me, Chet, as somebody who believed in sacrifice, willing to fall on the sword for the greater good. I admire that in a man.”

Fletcher felt light-headed. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, put them on again. He hoped the attorney general wouldn’t say more. But he did.

“So much of what we have to do in government involves weighing one thing against the other, doesn’t it, Chet? I get a lot of flak for beefing up security to keep the terrorists from hitting us again, for keeping prisoners of war locked up, and such, even looking at library cards, see what people are readin’ or researching. They say I’m trampling on civil liberties. But what’s the alternative? Let the bastards kill more Americans? The American people put us in office to make those sort of tough decisions. If we’re not up to the task, we shouldn’t be here. Agree?”

“Yes.”

“Still, I was personally appalled to see Mr. Russo gunned down like that in our Union Station. I suppose he asked for it, ratting out his buddies the way he did and going underground or to Israel. Same thing. But when I view it in the larger scheme of things, there’s only one conclusion to come to: The life of a bottom-feeder like Russo doesn’t mean much when you compare it to the damage he might have done to a great president. That’s what I mean by having to weigh things. That’s what you had to do, Chet, and you made the right decision.”

The right decision.

How many meetings had there been on that subject of Russo and the Widmer hearings once there was a whiff of information about the allegation against the president? Four? Five? They’d taken place around Washington, away from the White House or major agencies, in hotel rooms and private homes, small groups, the lid on tight, the agenda secret until those from the administration or agency representatives with unquestioned loyalty to the White House were behind secure doors.

Strategies had been offered on how to derail the Widmer hearings and Russo’s testimony. They ranged from launching an aggressive public relations campaign to digging into the pasts of Republicans on the subcommittee in the hope of turning up damaging dirt on them; smearing the writer of the book and his subject, Russo, to more aggressive solutions, including buying Russo and the writer off or letting Russo’s former criminal colleagues know of his plan to travel to the United States and stoking the need for revenge.

During this intense period of meetings, he’d received a call from someone at the CIA, Mark Roper, who said it was urgent that they meet. A call to Garson confirmed for Fletcher that a meeting with Roper might be useful.

They met just after dark one evening in a cutout on the Washington Memorial Parkway, across from Theodore Roosevelt Island. Clandestine after-dark meetings with members of the nation’s lead intelligence agency were not something with which Fletcher was comfortable. Roper, who struck Fletcher as surprisingly young, climbed into the passenger seat of Fletcher’s Oldsmobile sedan, introduced himself, and said, “I know you’re busy, Mr. Fletcher, and I’ll take as little of your time as possible. We’ve analyzed the situation with this Russo and the Widmer hearings and have come to the conclusion that extreme steps might have to be taken. We’re also aware that you, above all others, are responsible for the president’s political life. I’m certain you agree that a second term is vitally important for the nation.”

“Extreme steps?”

“The details aren’t important, but time is. We know Russo plans to travel to Washington to testify. No matter how untrustworthy his testimony might be, its impact could be, in our opinion-and after careful analysis-severely damaging.”

Fletcher agreed with the CIA man’s statement. The potential political fallout for the man he served in the White House had caused sleepless nights and bouts of stomach distress. He nodded.

Roper looked out his window at a car that pulled into the same cutout, and saw it contained a young couple, probably looking for a place to neck. He turned to Fletcher. “We need your permission to take whatever action we deem necessary to protect the president.”

“My permission?”

“As the man most involved in preserving this presidency for the future.”

“Yes, I understand,” Fletcher said. “Yes, I-it must be stopped.”

Roper looked at him intently. “Your reputation isn’t exaggerated, Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “The president is in good hands.”

He left Fletcher’s car without saying another word, got into his own, and drove off. Fletcher stayed there for a few minutes until he felt he was intruding on what was going on behind the steamed-up windows of the other vehicle. As he drove home, he was tormented by what had transpired. Extreme steps! Did Roper mean something as extreme as doing physical harm to Russo? The thought was wrenching; it assaulted him physically, and he feared he might not be able to continue driving. But after sitting up alone and late in his home office and sipping a brandy from a seldom opened bottle, he’d calmed down and had a less dramatic perception of what Roper had meant. More comforting was the realization that it was out of his hands.

Initial reports that Russo had been killed by mobsters seeking revenge salved any pangs of conscience he might have suffered, allowing him to focus on his responsibility of guiding Adam Parmele to a deserved second term. The meeting with the CIA’s Roper had never happened.

The attorney general stood and came around behind Fletcher, placing large hands on the political adviser’s shoulders and kneading them. “Russo and Widmer and his hearings will die their natural death, Chet. Business as usual, which is what the country needs to go forward.” He released his grip on Fletcher and stood silently behind him. Fletcher didn’t move, feet planted on the floor, waiting to hear what was inevitable.

“The best way to put this behind the president, Chet, is for us to put some distance between you and the administration. The president will accept your resignation-for personal reasons. He’ll respect your wishes to spend more time with your family and to get back to the thing you love most, shaping the young minds of our future leaders. I’m sure you’ll have no problem lining up a job at a top university. And there’ll be the lecture circuit, Chet, after this dies down and blows away like dry seed in a gale.”

“I didn’t realize what would happen,” Fletcher said, realizing how feeble he sounded. “When I agreed to extreme measures, I-”

Garson came around to the front of the chair and loomed over Fletcher. “You’re a brave man, Chet Fletcher, and I admire brave men.”

Fletcher looked up and swallowed against bile in his throat. “In the same honor are held both the coward and the brave man,” he said. “The idle man and he who has done much meet death alike.”

Garson’s expression was quizzical. He smiled. “That’s true,” he said, although Fletcher doubted that the attorney general truly understood what he’d said.

Fletcher slowly got up and went to the door. He stopped, turned, and said, “The president knows?”

He was met with stony silence.

Fletcher returned to his office in the West Wing, closed the door behind him, sat behind his desk and reached into a drawer, withdrawing a sheet of paper carrying his letterhead. He uncapped a favorite Montblanc pen, and slowly, carefully, methodically wrote a letter of resignation, which he placed in an envelope, sealed, and wrote on it: The President of the United States. He locked the envelope in a drawer, pocketed the key, and drove home.