The Cassandra Project (22 page)

“You must be Teri,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Are you a teacher, too?”

“I was. High school math.” She smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

The place looked comfortable, with paneled walls, lush curtains, pictures of kids and other family members scattered around. As well as a few certificates. And a trophy.

“We play in the local bridge league,” Teri said.

He heard movement in one of the side rooms, and a giant, overfed man with a shining scalp and an unkempt black beard came out through the door, straightening the collar of a Xavier University pullover. He was carrying a magazine, which he put down on a side table. “Milton,” he said, extending a wrestler’s hand, “good to meet you. What can I do for you?”

Weinstein did his usual opening lines, made a few generalizations about Cohen’s contributions to the field, and saw a skeptical look begin to distort Gray’s features. He added that of course there had been differing interpretations of his work. “That’s why I’m here.” He expressed his hope that his host could shed some light “on things.” Teri left the room. “How well did you know him, Professor?” he asked.

“Call me Marvin. Please.” Gray shrugged. “I knew him from a distance. He was okay. Apparently, he was pretty good in the classroom. The only time I ever really worked with him, though, I mean closely, was in the doctoral program. He took everything seriously. Never neglected his responsibilities.” He paused, trying to frame what he wanted to say. “I guess the reality is that I’m surprised anybody would be classifying him among the top anthropologists of the century. And I told you that on the phone, so I’m actually surprised you wanted to come all the way out here anyway.

“He did what was expected of him. But he wasn’t—wasn’t brilliant. You understand what I’m saying? He was probably at my level. Wrote some papers and won some nickel-and-dime awards. Nothing major, though. He won the Ditko Award, I think, and one or two others, but he never showed up on the big stuff. I doubt Triple-A even knew he existed.”

“Triple-A?”

“The American Anthropological Association.”

“Well,” Weinstein said, “sometimes people aren’t appreciated until after they’re gone.”

“That’s probably true of all of us.”

Teri came back with coffee and cinnamon buns. Then she explained she had work to do and left them to themselves. Weinstein tried one of the buns. “Good,” he said.

“I’m not supposed to eat them.”

Weinstein grinned. Tried to think of something funny to say, but he decided Gray’s weight was a minefield. “I understand Cohen was a friend of John Ehrlichman.”

“Yes. He visited the White House a couple of times. Apparently, he got to see Nixon.”

“Did he ever do any work for the White House? That you knew of?”

“I don’t think so. But he sure as hell was broken up when they all got kicked out of office.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that when his drinking problem started?”

“Well, I don’t really know
when
it started. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” Gray picked up the magazine, opened it, turned a few pages, and handed it to Weinstein. It contained an essay by Cohen. “The Origins of Monotheism.”

Weinstein glanced at it, and they were suddenly back talking about ancient languages. He took notes and cited a couple of favorable references to Gray’s work, commenting that he’d wanted to talk to him because he had such a favorable reputation among his peers. “Everybody credits you with good judgment,” he said.

“That’s nice to hear, Milton.”

He let Gray enjoy the moment, then went back to Cohen. “I understand he was interested in the NASA spaceflights.”

“I suppose. Pretty much everyone was back in those years.” Gray refilled his cup and offered to pour more for his guest.

“Sure. Please.” While he poured, Weinstein asked whether he’d known Cohen when the Moon landings were happening. “The early ones,” he added. “In—what was it—’69?”

“No. I was still in the Navy then.” He glanced sidewise at a picture of himself, a much younger version, minus the beard, in a lieutenant’s uniform. “Didn’t get to GWU until 1972.”

Weinstein asked about his service. He’d been on a destroyer in the Pacific for two years. Then two years with subs, operating out of Norfolk. “I don’t guess, having been a naval officer, you had much tolerance for heavy drinkers.”

“There’s some truth in that. But I don’t think it had much to do with my time in service.” He sucked on his lips. “My father was a drunk.”

“Oh.”

He looked at his watch. “Anything else, Milton?”

Weinstein tapped his notebook with his pen. “Not really. Cohen’s history seems to suggest he didn’t have a drinking problem until he got to GWU.”

“I have no idea.” He pushed back in his seat. “I can tell you one really odd story about him, though.”

“What’s that?”

“We threw a farewell party one time for one of the people in the department. Lisa Rhyne. She was getting married, as best I can recall, and moving to Boston. I think she’d gotten a position at Boston College.”

“And—?”

“Anyhow, on the subject of Cohen’s reaction to Nixon and the scandal: We were all sitting around at the party. At one of the local restaurants. And Cohen had had too much to drink. At one point I heard him tell one of the women that
he’d
been one of the Watergate burglars.”

“Say that again?”

Gray laughed. “That’s right.”

Weinstein wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was a joke, Marvin.”

“He wasn’t smiling.”

Jerry entered Bucky Blackstone’s office, nodded to Gloria Marcos, and approached Bucky’s desk.

“My, don’t we look sharp today?” said Bucky with a smile. “New suit?”

Jerry nodded. “And tie.”

“I hope you remembered to use the company credit card.”

“I did. But I feel a little guilty about it.”

“Why?” asked Bucky. “You billed the government for everything for years.”

“Yeah,” said Jerry. “But that was the government. You’re a private citizen.”

Bucky smiled. “The only difference is that I’m not seventeen trillion dollars in debt . . . yet.”

“There is that,” agreed Jerry. “Anyway, I stopped by to see if there’s anything you want me to say or avoid saying. I won’t ask every time, but this is my first press conference.”

“Just answer their questions,” replied Bucky. “Well, as many of them as you
can
answer. I have no secrets from you or them or anyone else. But if you’ve been told anything in confidence, about the crater or anything else, keep it in confidence. We’re doing
them
a favor. I don’t need publicity as much as they need something to write about.”

Jerry grinned. “Now I
know
I’m not in the government.”

Bucky chuckled. “Three billion dollars insulates you from a lot of criticism.” He paused and continued smiling. “And the wild part of it is that I owe it all to one forty-two-inch bosom.”

“Yeah, I heard about how you got your start—or how
Suave
did. Whatever happened to Miss 42-D?”

“I married her.”

Suddenly Jerry felt very uneasy. “I didn’t mean . . . that is, I . . .”

“It’s okay,” said Bucky easily. “It lasted fifteen months.” An amused smile crossed his face. “I think the final nail in the coffin was when I ran Miss 44 DoubleD on the cover.”

“You’ve led an interesting life, Bucky,” said Jerry.

“I’ve had my moments.” Bucky checked his watch. “Yours is coming up fast. Want me to introduce you, or would you feel better if I was nowhere around?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Then I think I’ll watch from here. If I introduce you, I don’t think I could stop from saying that you quit NASA as a matter of conscience, and that’s all they’d ask about for the next hour.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“Oh, you’re not getting off the hook. I’d kind of like you to defend the guy who’s paying your salary, and that’s who they’ve come here to savage.”

Jerry frowned. “Why? You’re always a good news story.”

“They’ve been told to, of course.”

“By . . . ?”

“By the administration, of course.”

“Come on, Bucky,” said Jerry. “This is America. They can’t tell people what to write.”

“No,” agreed Bucky. “But they can make access to the president damned difficult for anyone who doesn’t play ball.”

“You really think they would?”

“This wouldn’t be the first White House, or the tenth, or the twentieth, to do just that,” said Bucky with conviction. “All of which is academic. They’re going to try to get you to admit that I’m an idiot or a madman.” Suddenly he grinned. “Might be interesting to see their reaction if you agree with them.”

“You really don’t care, do you?” asked Jerry.

“If I cared what the press thought, I’d sit in splendid isolation and clip coupons. Now you’d better get down there.”

Jerry turned and walked to the elevator, took it down to the studio, and was surprised to find the place totally empty. He was still looking around when Ed Camden walked in.

“Hi, Jerry.” He extended a hand. “I just want you to know there are no hard feelings.”

“Thanks, Ed,” said Jerry. “I appreciate that.” He looked around. “Where
is
everybody?”

“They get unruly if they have to wait, so we keep ’em outside until the spokesman is ready for them.” Another man came in, and Camden nodded to him. “Okay, Harry—unlock the cages.”

Harry radioed down to the main floor, and a moment later some forty members of the press, most of whom Jerry knew on a first-name basis, thundered into the studio.

“Please be seated,” said Camden. “As soon as you’re all comfortable and those with cameras have set them up, we can proceed. Everything said will be saved to video and audio and made available on our Web page tomorrow afternoon, which gives you a twenty-four-hour head start.” He paused, waiting for them to take their seats and set up their cameras. “Allow me to present the newest member of Team Blackstone, Jerry Culpepper, who will be our spokesman on all matters concerning our pending Moon shot.” He stepped aside. “Jerry, it’s all yours.”

Jerry came forward. “Good morning. I’m a little new on the job, so I may not have answers to every one of your questions, but I promise that anything I can’t answer today, or at any conference in the future, I will answer within twenty-four hours. That said, I have a few brief announcements. First, it has been determined that the ship will take off and land at a private field owned by Mr. Blackstone. Maps will be available to you on your way out. Second, the launch will take place exactly four weeks from this morning.”

“
That
soon?” asked
The
Washington Post
.

Jerry smiled. “The technology has been available since the late 1960s, though of course we’ve improved upon it.”

“How does it feel to be working for a nutcase?” asked
The
Los Angeles Times
.

“I don’t know,” answered Jerry. “I’ve never had the experience.”

“What does Blackstone expect to find up there?” demanded CNN.

“The Moon,” answered Jerry, breaking the growing tension and eliciting some chuckles.

“Come on, Jerry,” persisted CNN. “Isn’t this whole business about bringing you in here just a stunt to get publicity for your boss’s Moon shot?”

“He’s the second-most-recognizable man in the country after President Cunningham,” said Jerry, “and I don’t think you can find a dozen citizens who don’t know he’s flying to the Moon, so why does he need to create false publicity?”

“Maybe because he’d be lost without it,” said
The
Chicago Sun-Times
.

Jerry forced a smile to his lips. “I think he’d say that
you’d
be lost without it.”

He looked around the room and called on Fox News.

“Let me word this properly, so you don’t give us another runaround answer,” said the woman from Fox. “Once he reaches the Moon, what does he expect to find other than Moon rocks?”

“He doesn’t know,” said Jerry. “No one knows. That’s why he’s going.”

“How many people will be on the ship?”

“Four or five. I don’t believe it’s been finalized yet.”

“And he’s definitely going to be on the landing craft?”

Jerry nodded. “He’ll be on the ship. I don’t know whether he intends to go down to the surface.” Then: “I wish I was going, too.” He surprised himself with the comment. Would he really have been willing to ride the rocket for a chance to go to the Moon?

“Is he planning more flights?” asked
The
Miami Herald
. “Commercial ones?”

“I don’t follow you,” said Jerry, frowning.

“Well, there’s no resort hotel on the Moon, but would it be terribly far-fetched to suggest he could get a few million per passenger to go up there,
especially
if he hints that there’s something strange going on, something our government has been hiding.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jerry. “For one thing, he’d have to charge close to one hundred million a ticket to break even. For another, he’s simply not going to do it.”

“Will he be transmitting pictures back to Earth, or does he plan to hang on to them and sell them to the highest bidder?” asked
The
New York Times
.

“Wouldn’t you consider that immoral?” asked Jerry. “Given the importance of what might be in those photos.”

“Absolutely,” replied
The
Times
.

“But of course you’d bid for them anyway,” said Jerry irritably. “Fortunately, Mr. Blackstone has no need of any more money. All photos and videos will be instantly posted on our Web page and can be picked up by any news publications and networks at no cost.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” said CBS.

“Could you elucidate, please?”

“I’ve followed Bucky Blackstone’s career for twenty years now, and he doesn’t do
anything
that hasn’t got a profit motive. The guy practically defines everything I hate about capitalism, and suddenly he’s a public-minded citizen who’s spending a goodly part of his fortune getting us back into space and perhaps clearing up a half-century-old mystery, just out of the goodness of his heart. I don’t buy it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Jerry, searching for a quip or a put-down and not finding one.

“You know what I think?” continued CBS. “I think he’s doing this to embarrass President Cunningham, to somehow imply there’s some kind of nefarious conspiracy concerning the Moon and the space program.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Jerry.

“To enhance his chances when he runs for the presidency.”

“I can categorically state that Morgan Blackstone has absolutely no interest in running for any political office,” said Jerry, hoping that he was telling the truth.

“Then it doesn’t make any sense!” snapped CBS.

“Of course it does,” said Jerry. “Wouldn’t
you
go to the Moon if you could? And if you were convinced something had happened up there, something the government has been hiding for half a century, wouldn’t that be all the more reason to go? You’re a journalist. That bespeaks some sense of curiosity. Why do you feel that Mr. Blackstone can’t possess one as well?”

“Because everything he’s claimed is contradictory to everything we know!” snapped CBS. “The government wasn’t
hiding
Moon landings; it was
bragging
about them.”

“Bragging, certainly,” agreed Jerry. “And perhaps misleading as well.”

“If Blackstone doesn’t find anything up there that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin didn’t find, will he buy another half hour of TV time and admit he was wrong.”

“I assume he’ll do just that,” said Jerry, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. He glanced to his right, where Ed Camden was listening to his cell phone. Suddenly, Camden grinned, turned to Jerry, and raised a thumb in the air. “In fact,” continued Jerry, “Mr. Blackstone has just confirmed it. If he can’t find evidence of a governmental cover-up, he will go on TV and say so.”

“If there
were
secret missions, they’d have taken place at the beginning of Nixon’s first term,” said
The
Chicago Tribune
. “Now, we all know Nixon was secretive, and he had more than a few chinks in his moral code—but can you suggest any possible reason why he’d have secret missions just days and weeks after he took the oath of office? I mean, he had a government to set up, and a war in Vietnam to try to end. What the hell could divert his attention to the Moon and make him decide to keep whatever it was secret?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jerry. “That’s one of the things Mr. Blackstone hopes to find out.”

“I have a question,” said
The
Christian Science Monitor
.

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s say that Mr. Blackstone is right, and something happened up there.” He was almost shouted down by his own colleagues, but he waited patiently until the noise had died off and he could be heard again. “If Mr. Blackstone is right, clearly President Nixon felt there was a need to keep whatever it was secret.” He looked around, waiting to see if he would be shouted and jeered down again, but his colleagues were listening, trying to see where he was going with this. “And if that is so, doesn’t it imply that this was something that Presidents Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush 41, Clinton, Bush 43, Obama, and Cunningham have all agreed was important to keep secret? And if every president was in agreement, then perhaps there’s a pretty good reason
not
to try to expose what they are hiding.”

How the hell do I answer that?
thought Jerry.
It’s the same question that’s been bothering me when I go to sleep each night.

“You know what a secretive son of a gun Nixon was,” said NBC. “He’d probably never have told Agnew or Ford, so maybe it’s not a conspiracy of presidents, but a character flaw of
one
president.”

The journalists began arguing among themselves: Would Nixon tell anyone? Why would any president down the line feel compelled to keep Nixon’s secret?

Jerry relaxed with a sigh of relief. The relief passed when he realized that it was going to be like this every day, that in fact they were probably taking it easy on him because it was his opening day on the job.

The conference went on another twenty minutes. Finally, as it began winding down, one of them asked if Jerry would be on a future Moon rocket.

Jerry shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t even like airplanes. It’s
terra firma
for me.”

“Some spokesman for a space shot!” snorted a reporter.

“You didn’t seem to mind my being a spokesman for NASA,” said Jerry coldly. “I don’t remember your minding my setting up some private interviews for you when no one else would go out of their way to do so.”

The assembled journalists seemed to realize they’d pushed Jerry enough for one day, especially his first day, and they asked a few innocuous questions. Finally, Jerry said that he would take one final question and call it a day.

“Has the Moon rocket got a name yet?” asked
Newsweek
. “Maybe something like the
Enterprise
?”

“Yes, it has a name,” said Jerry.

“Well, what is it?”

Jerry turned until he was facing the bulk of the cameras. “The
Sidney Myshko
.”

And, twenty-eight floors above him, Bucky Blackstone smiled in satisfaction. “We hired a good one,” he said to Gloria Marcos. “I guess we’ll keep him.”