Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (11 page)

For the time being, Haldeman let the matter drop and I received no further instructions. The O’Brien inquiry lay dormant, but it was not lost from his memory, or from mine. The President began planning for his reelection campaign and reached out in a new direction, one that would later merge with a new O’Brien investigation.

Late in April 1971, the President reviewed a series of task-force proposals for the 1972 campaign, covering everything from advertising budgets to political strategies, and discovered there was no task force on campaign intelligence. He reached for his dictating machine and ordered Haldeman to rectify the mistake: Make sure we have a political intelligence capability better than we had in previous campaigns. Haldeman ordered ticklers Higby and Strachan to solicit thoughts on a campaign intelligence system.

It did not take me long to realize that Haldeman’s interest in intelligence had been intensified. He called me to his office and offered a stilted explanation: “Nothing has higher priority than the President’s reelection. We’ve got to take maximum advantage of the President’s incumbency, and I want every office in the White House to be thinking about how to help in the reelection effort.” He knew what he wanted from me. “One thing that can be improved, for example, is demonstration intelligence. That stuff you send over here is worthless. There’s more information in the newspapers. We’re not going to have a convention like the one the Democrats had in Chicago. Antiwar demonstrators would love to destroy our convention, but we’re not going to let it happen.”

I reflected on how I might take advantage of Haldeman’s preoccupation. I was still building my law firm, seeking new business, and I knew the campaign would be a steppingstone for those who distinguished themselves. But as I looked ahead I saw the counsel’s office performing rather menial campaign tasks—legal chores hardly important enough to get me admitted to the inner councils of the Nixon campaign.

If the counsel’s office could play the same role at the Republican convention we had played on Mayday—special White House tie-lines, half-hourly reports—I knew we would be in the thick of things. We had a jump on other White House offices in demonstration intelligence. Why not expand our role to all intelligence that would be of interest to the President in a campaign? I wrote a memo to Haldeman, seeking a grant of authority:

My office receives a great amount of intelligence information regarding the activities of domestic insurgents of the new militant left, civil disorders, etc. Other offices receive domestic intelligence regarding such matters as crime and drug statistics, civil rights problems of note, political intelligence, and other matters of domestic intelligence that I suspect never reach the President.

I would like to recommend and urge that a digest of this information be prepared on at least a bi-weekly basis for the President, with circulation limited to you, John Ehrlichman, and the President. I suggest the limited circulation because much of the information would be extremely sensitive, and not many members of the staff would “need-to-know.” I would think that if a matter reported in the digest deserved follow up by another staffer, one of you would so direct.

In late July 1971, I carried the memo into Haldeman’s office and made my pitch. I reviewed my proposal with him briefly and suggested, of course, that the counsel’s office would be a good place to have the intelligence digest prepared.

“We’ve done this before,” I said, hinting at previous demonstrations, “and I think we could beef it up. I’ve already talked to Bernie Wells at the IEC [Intelligence Evaluation Committee], and I think those guys over there will improve themselves in the election year.”

“That stuff isn’t worth a damn,” Haldeman said quickly.

“I know,” I said, already on the defensive, “but they see everything the Bureau and the police turn up from their informants. Which isn’t much. What they don’t see are all the tips I pick up from the advance men and friends who come out of the woodwork. I know there’s a lot more out there, political stuff, but nobody can collect it unless they have backing from you. Otherwise no one is going to send their stuff in to one place. They’ll want to give it directly to you so they can get the kudos for it.”

“You’ve got a good idea, John, but it’s already coming in. Strachan collects it. Besides, I’m not so worried about collecting information as getting it in the first place.”

“Jack Caulfield might be able to help,” I offered. “I know he’s been working on a plan for campaign security and intelligence. I don’t know how good it will be, but Jack tells me he’s preparing a proposal to cover everything. He wants to present it to you and Mitchell and Ehrlichman.”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of faith in Jack Caulfield,” said Haldeman, “but let’s see what he comes up with.” He looked away. I could almost hear his stopwatch ticking in his head. The meeting was over. I had been shot down.

At Haldeman’s instruction, his assistant, Gordon Strachan, had begun to educate himself on the kind of tactics savvy insiders used in the big time.
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He had never been in a Presidential campaign before, and sought the advice of those who had worked in the 1968 campaign: Dwight Chapin, speechwriter Patrick J. Buchanan, and chief advance man Ronald Walker. Strachan was surprised when the veterans regaled him with tales of what Richard Nixon’s opponents had done to him in 1968—infiltrated his campaign staff, disrupted and sabotaged his rallies, leaked false stories, planted rumors. Buchanan, who popularized the term “political hardball,” argued for such tactics. We should expect the opponents to do what they had done in the past, and we should do it first, and better. There was general agreement. The Nixon campaign would not be soft.

On August 14, 1971, Strachan wrote to Haldeman that he now had “oral recommendations for political intelligence and covert activities.” Haldeman expressed interest only in independent operations, so that any slipups could not be traced back to the White House. Things began to move. Chapin called an old college friend, Donald H. Segretti, and hired him to disrupt, ridicule, and harass the Democratic candidates, and stir up as much intramural bickering as possible. Strachan called Jeb Magruder at the Reelection Committee, and Magruder agreed to infiltrate the office of Senator Muskie, the Democratic frontrunner.

Political intelligence was now lodged in the tickler, and it would remain there until Haldeman was satisfied. Every week or so, Strachan tickled me with the same questions: “Anything new on demonstrations?” “Does Caulfield have anything on Kennedy?” After making his rounds, Strachan would write a report for Haldeman. His September 18 memo was typical:

Monitoring of Democrats – Colson submitted a memorandum expressing surprise and dismay that we did not have a list of attendees of the Muskie “Fat Cat” week-end. [We did have such a list and had sent him a copy.] His other concern is that no arrangements have been made to tape record all of Muskie’s statements, including the “offhand” comments. Colson suggests that Nofziger arrange for this, but Lyn said he had no money for this type of project.

The most recent EMK [Edward M. Kennedy] report has been submitted. It contains nothing.

The question is whether or not the subject of intelligence shouldn’t receive a greater allocation of time and resources than it is receiving now.

Strachan recommended more resources for intelligence, and Haldeman wrote his “H” in the space marked “Approve,” but added a cryptic note: “Resources as to what?” Accordingly, Strachan sprayed calls around, asking for specific ideas about how to organize the intelligence operation. When he called me, I told him that Caulfield was working on a plan and Jack’s project went into the tickler.

Caulfield’s campaign intelligence plans had grown out of his personal disappointment. Ehrlichman had tried to have him appointed director of the Alcohol, Tax, and Firearms Division at IRS, but Internal Revenue Commissioner Randolph Thrower had blocked the move (using up his last credit at the White House in the process). Caulfield, knowing that he had no future in the counsel’s office, began looking for a niche outside government. He had hit upon the idea of establishing a private security firm, using his White House connections. If he could land the President’s reelection campaign as his first client, he might find entree to lucrative corporate accounts after the election. He had worked on his plans for months, and in late September he produced a twelve-page memorandum outlining “Operation Sandwedge.” I assumed that the code name had something to do with Jack’s love of golf. A sandwedge digs the ball out of the sand, deep weeds, or mud. Rather a sporting metaphor for political intelligence, I thought.

The plan read like a grade-B detective story, but Jack was thinking big. Sandwedge called for a budget of half a million dollars, which would pay for everything from convention security to undercover investigations and, Jack added privately, electronic surveillance on request. As support, Caulfield had enlisted some hefty names as Sandwedge partners: Joseph Woods, Rose Woods’s brother, a former Cook County sheriff; Roger Barth, assistant to the commissioner of Internal Revenue; and Mike Acree, a career IRS official who would later become commissioner of customs. Tony, Jack’s New York operative, would be in charge of covert activities.

I had mixed emotions when Jack asked my help in selling Sandwedge to the triumvirate of Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell. Caulfield did not really belong in the counsel’s office; there was not enough demand for his specialty. He was looking for an opportunity to move, and I wanted to fill the slot with another lawyer. This weighed in favor of sponsoring Sandwedge, but I hesitated. I sensed that an Irish cop without a college education would not be entrusted with such a sensitive assignment in an Administration of WASP professional men. There was risk involved in supporting a losing proposition. I told Caulfield I would speak with “the Big Three,” as he called them, after they had read Sandwedge.

I heard first from Mitchell as I was leaving his Justice Department office one day. “Say, incidentally, John, I read that damn memo Caulfield sent me on Operation Sandwich,” he said.

“Oh, yes,
Sandwedge.
”

“Whatever the hell he calls it. I don’t know, but I don’t think Caulfield should handle an operation like that, nor do I want Rose Woods’s brother involved in it. I’ll talk with Haldeman, but I want a hold on it for now. I want a lawyer to handle it. If Caulfield wants to work for the lawyer, fine.”

“I think Jack sees himself as chief bottle washer of the operation,” I said.

“Well, put a hold on it for now. Jeb was over here asking me about it, and I told him to sit tight until the thing is properly structured.”

A few days later, Caulfield came to my office looking unhappy.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Jeb called me a few days ago and said that since there was a hold on Sandwedge, he had to go ahead. He’s under pressure to get information on Muskie and asked me to check some guy named Buckley out as a possible informant. I checked him out with Rumsfeld, since he used to work for Don at OEO.” Caulfield was distressed about young, inexperienced people at the Reelection Committee setting up an intelligence operation. This was the kind of thing Sandwedge was designed to deal with, and he was offended. I had not told him of my discussion with Mitchell, hoping to spare his feelings until Mitchell met with Haldeman. Also, I did not want Caulfield to mount a personal lobbying effort that might displease them.

Curious to know what Jeb Magruder was doing, I called him with Jack’s report on John R. Buckley.
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Jeb was coy. “We’re setting up a little operation over here of our own,” he said. “I can’t wait for Caulfield.”

“Jeb, if I can be of assistance let me know,” I volunteered.

“I’ll tell you one thing you can do. You can get Colson off my back.” He said it half jokingly, but I knew he meant it. Jeb and Chuck had never gotten on well. “He’s driving me crazy,” Jeb claimed. “He has one request after another. There’s no end to it. Currently he’s all worked up that we’re not providing good intelligence on Muskie’s campaign, and he’s got Haldeman worked up, too, Strachan tells me.”

Obviously, the tickler was at work on him.

Operation Sandwedge was blocked with Mitchell’s hold, but Gordon Strachan’s tickler had not released it. On October 7, 1971, Strachan again raised the fate of “Sandwedge and covert activities” with Haldeman, suggesting that Haldeman and Mitchell meet to make some decisions about it and about other pending campaign matters. After the meeting, Mitchell said Sandwedge had been scratched because neither he nor