decided to answer Mitchell’s question. “Colson says no, but he’s very touchy on the subject. Liddy does accept responsibility for one thing: picking McCord to do the burglary. He knows he should have hired an outsider, but says that cuts to his budget made that impossible.”
The group responded with what LaRue felt certain would be the final laugh of the evening; it was a weak one at that.
“And one last thing,” said Dean, who’d clearly been busy today. “There’s a safe in Hunt’s EOB office. Ehrlichman’s put me in charge of getting it open.”
“How are you going to manage that?” asked Mardian.
“Somebody from the General Services Administration is coming around with the combination in the next day or two.”
“No safecrackers available on the Committee staff?” Mitchell asked Magruder.
Nobody laughed.
LaRue remembered a meeting with Mitchell and Magruder at the end of March, down in Key Biscayne, a couple of houses away from Nixon’s. It was there that Mitchell, instead of vetoing it once and for all, had just deferred any decision to fund Liddy’s crazy gumshoe plans. They had so much money on hand, and they’d had so many more serious things to discuss, that the proposal had been gently ignored instead of spiked. But of all the guys to take the path of least resistance with: Liddy! That mustachioed nutcase who back in January had stood in front of them all in Mitchell’s office at Justice, tapping an easel and talking about prostitutes and wiretaps and knocking guys over the head. Thinking about it now, LaRue winced. Mitchell’s mind had already been elsewhere, and it had stayed adrift ever since.
The phone, again. LaRue went into the bedroom to answer it.
No, as it turned out, not Martha; the White House operator trying to track down Magruder.
As Jeb went to the bedroom to take the call, LaRue retook his seatin the living room and noticed a thick file folder on the couch cushion Magruder had vacated. GEMSTONE , said the label: Liddy’s James Bond title for his whole array of surveillance and sabotage operations, each stunt named for a different jewel.
While Mitchell discussed the status of fundraising in several states—a business-as-usual interlude, designed perhaps to lower Mardian’s blood pressure—LaRue leafed through the file, which bulged with miscellaneous newspaper clippings, photos of McGovern’s campaign headquarters across town, and some onionskin copies of what appeared to be the transcripts of telephone conversations picked up by the original bugs the burglars had installed in May:
DNC Employee: [
inaudible
]
have to change it from three to four
.
OUTSIDE TELEPHONE:
Yes
,
sir
,
four it is
.
DNC Employee:
This time we won’t take anything off the top
.
OUTSIDE TELEPHONE:
No
,
sir. This time no one will even be able to tell
.
LaRue wondered if this exchange had to do with some skimming operation the Democrats had going on with their own meager funds. Then he saw, at the bottom of the page, a notation pertaining to whoever the DNC employee had had on the line. OUTSIDE TELEPHONE (ACC. TO REVERSE DIRECTORY): WATERGATE BARBERSHOP. The whole conversation was about the guy’s appointment for a damned haircut.
Alarmingly, the file was crammed with stuff confirming the existence of the surveillance operation that had made this worthless transcript possible. Christ, there was even a bill to the CRP for the listening-post room at the Howard Johnson’s.
LaRue closed the folder as Magruder returned to the living room with a big smile on his face.
“Turns out I’ve got a tennis game tonight,” the deputy chairman informed everyone. “With the veep.”
Mardian shook his head in renewed disgust over this lucky clown. “I’m surprised it wasn’t an invitation to go bowling with the Old Man himself.”
Mitchell put down his pipe and picked up his cocktail. “You laugh,” he said. “The president called to cheer
me
up this afternoon.” He looked at his watch.
The group responded with what LaRue felt certain would be the final laugh of the evening; it was a weak one at that.
“And one last thing,” said Dean, who’d clearly been busy today. “There’s a safe in Hunt’s EOB office. Ehrlichman’s put me in charge of getting it open.”
“How are you going to manage that?” asked Mardian.
“Somebody from the General Services Administration is coming around with the combination in the next day or two.”
“No safecrackers available on the Committee staff?” Mitchell asked Magruder.
Nobody laughed.
LaRue remembered a meeting with Mitchell and Magruder at the end of March, down in Key Biscayne, a couple of houses away from Nixon’s. It was there that Mitchell, instead of vetoing it once and for all, had just deferred any decision to fund Liddy’s crazy gumshoe plans. They had so much money on hand, and they’d had so many more serious things to discuss, that the proposal had been gently ignored instead of spiked. But of all the guys to take the path of least resistance with: Liddy! That mustachioed nutcase who back in January had stood in front of them all in Mitchell’s office at Justice, tapping an easel and talking about prostitutes and wiretaps and knocking guys over the head. Thinking about it now, LaRue winced. Mitchell’s mind had already been elsewhere, and it had stayed adrift ever since.
The phone, again. LaRue went into the bedroom to answer it.
No, as it turned out, not Martha; the White House operator trying to track down Magruder.
As Jeb went to the bedroom to take the call, LaRue retook his seatin the living room and noticed a thick file folder on the couch cushion Magruder had vacated. GEMSTONE , said the label: Liddy’s James Bond title for his whole array of surveillance and sabotage operations, each stunt named for a different jewel.
While Mitchell discussed the status of fundraising in several states—a business-as-usual interlude, designed perhaps to lower Mardian’s blood pressure—LaRue leafed through the file, which bulged with miscellaneous newspaper clippings, photos of McGovern’s campaign headquarters across town, and some onionskin copies of what appeared to be the transcripts of telephone conversations picked up by the original bugs the burglars had installed in May:
DNC Employee: [
inaudible
]
have to change it from three to four
.
OUTSIDE TELEPHONE:
Yes
,
sir
,
four it is
.
DNC Employee:
This time we won’t take anything off the top
.
OUTSIDE TELEPHONE:
No
,
sir. This time no one will even be able to tell
.
LaRue wondered if this exchange had to do with some skimming operation the Democrats had going on with their own meager funds. Then he saw, at the bottom of the page, a notation pertaining to whoever the DNC employee had had on the line. OUTSIDE TELEPHONE (ACC. TO REVERSE DIRECTORY): WATERGATE BARBERSHOP. The whole conversation was about the guy’s appointment for a damned haircut.
Alarmingly, the file was crammed with stuff confirming the existence of the surveillance operation that had made this worthless transcript possible. Christ, there was even a bill to the CRP for the listening-post room at the Howard Johnson’s.
LaRue closed the folder as Magruder returned to the living room with a big smile on his face.
“Turns out I’ve got a tennis game tonight,” the deputy chairman informed everyone. “With the veep.”
Mardian shook his head in renewed disgust over this lucky clown. “I’m surprised it wasn’t an invitation to go bowling with the Old Man himself.”
Mitchell put down his pipe and picked up his cocktail. “You laugh,” he said. “The president called to cheer
me
up this afternoon.” He looked at his watch.
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