living version of Kentucky Fried Chicken’s Colonel Sanders, although the physical similarity was remarkable, enjoyed both. And expertly used both, to the public and private promotion of Senator Walter Burden. One day – a day of his choosing – he intended to occupy the White House. Which some pundits considered inevitable. And which was why, within twenty-four hours of the alert from Moscow, a conference was convened by Secretary of State Henry Hartz with the Directors of both the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Hartz’s seventh-floor office at the State Department, in that incongruously named part of the city called Foggy Bottom.
Hartz, who but for his German birth, which constitutionally precluded his seeking the office, considered himself a Presidential candidate, stood at the window overlooking the unseen, sunken memorial to the Vietnam war dead, his mind completely occupied by the news from Russia. Even before a moment’s examination of all the implications, it was obviously going to be hell: sheer and utter hell. Which worried him. Denied his presidential aspirations by the mischance of his birthplace, Hartz believed he had achieved the next best thing. His periods as Secretary of State had been times of unmarred diplomatic success, properly acknowledged by the incoming President who had asked him to remain in office, after succeeding the previous White House incumbent. Hartz had seen the request continuing under Burden. Ahead of any discussion of additional information from Moscow, he knew that expectation could be jeopardized if Burden were not handled like the prima donna he was. Hell, Hartz decided again.
The intercom warned him of the arrival of the two Directors and Hartz was at the door when they entered. Richard Holmes, head of the CIA, was a tall, dark-haired man with a sun-bed tan and the attitude of think-twice caution of a Washington survivor. He neither smoked nor drank and had been an intelligence professional all his life. There were outstanding offers, all in excess of $1,000,000, from three New York publishing houses for his memoirs. Holmes was a happy, contented man.
He entered ahead of the FBI chief. Leonard Ross had believed his political ambitions fulfilled the previous year with his appointment to head of the Bureau. But no longer. In just one year he had become first disillusioned and then sickened by the shadow-watching political intrigue of the capital until now he yearned to return to the New York State bench where he had served with distinction as its senior judge.
There were handshakes and greetings and Hartz led the group towards the couches and easy chairs in that corner of the office furthest from the windows and their hotchpotch view. Hartz said: ‘I thought we might benefit from some conversation ahead of Burden getting here.’
‘How’s he taking it?’ asked Holmes. He was pleased with the Agency’s legal advice that there was no way the CIA could become involved. He’d already wired the Moscow station to stay clear.
‘Predictably,’ said Hartz. ‘He’s already phoned our ambassador in Moscow direct. Asked me what the President was doing about it. He’s demanding investigation, from both of you. Actually told me he wants the bastard – his word – who did it brought back for trial in this country.’
The FBI Director shook his head in cynical bemusement. Washington at its best – or worst – he thought. ‘He can forget it.’
Apprehension settled heavily on Hartz. ‘What, precisely, is the legal guidance?’
‘The CIA doesn’t have any jurisdiction or authority,’ said Holmes, quickly. He wished the relief hadn’t sounded so obvious.
‘The Bureau has a criminal investigation capacity but again no jurisdiction or authority in the Russian Commonwealth,’ said Ross.
‘Burden expects there to be both.’
‘I don’t give a damn what Burden expects ,’ said Ross, who in addition to his disillusionment also had
Hartz, who but for his German birth, which constitutionally precluded his seeking the office, considered himself a Presidential candidate, stood at the window overlooking the unseen, sunken memorial to the Vietnam war dead, his mind completely occupied by the news from Russia. Even before a moment’s examination of all the implications, it was obviously going to be hell: sheer and utter hell. Which worried him. Denied his presidential aspirations by the mischance of his birthplace, Hartz believed he had achieved the next best thing. His periods as Secretary of State had been times of unmarred diplomatic success, properly acknowledged by the incoming President who had asked him to remain in office, after succeeding the previous White House incumbent. Hartz had seen the request continuing under Burden. Ahead of any discussion of additional information from Moscow, he knew that expectation could be jeopardized if Burden were not handled like the prima donna he was. Hell, Hartz decided again.
The intercom warned him of the arrival of the two Directors and Hartz was at the door when they entered. Richard Holmes, head of the CIA, was a tall, dark-haired man with a sun-bed tan and the attitude of think-twice caution of a Washington survivor. He neither smoked nor drank and had been an intelligence professional all his life. There were outstanding offers, all in excess of $1,000,000, from three New York publishing houses for his memoirs. Holmes was a happy, contented man.
He entered ahead of the FBI chief. Leonard Ross had believed his political ambitions fulfilled the previous year with his appointment to head of the Bureau. But no longer. In just one year he had become first disillusioned and then sickened by the shadow-watching political intrigue of the capital until now he yearned to return to the New York State bench where he had served with distinction as its senior judge.
There were handshakes and greetings and Hartz led the group towards the couches and easy chairs in that corner of the office furthest from the windows and their hotchpotch view. Hartz said: ‘I thought we might benefit from some conversation ahead of Burden getting here.’
‘How’s he taking it?’ asked Holmes. He was pleased with the Agency’s legal advice that there was no way the CIA could become involved. He’d already wired the Moscow station to stay clear.
‘Predictably,’ said Hartz. ‘He’s already phoned our ambassador in Moscow direct. Asked me what the President was doing about it. He’s demanding investigation, from both of you. Actually told me he wants the bastard – his word – who did it brought back for trial in this country.’
The FBI Director shook his head in cynical bemusement. Washington at its best – or worst – he thought. ‘He can forget it.’
Apprehension settled heavily on Hartz. ‘What, precisely, is the legal guidance?’
‘The CIA doesn’t have any jurisdiction or authority,’ said Holmes, quickly. He wished the relief hadn’t sounded so obvious.
‘The Bureau has a criminal investigation capacity but again no jurisdiction or authority in the Russian Commonwealth,’ said Ross.
‘Burden expects there to be both.’
‘I don’t give a damn what Burden expects ,’ said Ross, who in addition to his disillusionment also had
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