Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (15 page)

“That’s no surprise. I had a little encounter about that thing over the weekend. The investigation is proceeding as it should.”

I had no idea what that meant. Kleindienst was being cool and businesslike. He was the Attorney General. I didn’t know whether he was not yet clued in or was already stonewalling.

“I’m sure it is. Say, Dick, my people over here are concerned about all the leaks coming out of the investigation. That shouldn’t be going on. Do you have any idea where they’re coming from?”

“Whoever’s concerned is wasting his time, Junior. It’s all coming out of the Metropolitan Police, and there’s nothing you can do about it. That place is a sieve.”

“I guess so.” I decided not to press. “Well, it looks like a pretty strange case. I’ll talk to you later.”

Now it was time for Liddy, from whom I had learned to expect horrendous surprises. I braced myself and called. He was not in, so I left word. As soon as I hung up, I kicked myself mentally: Real smart, Dean, Liddy’s all mixed up in this and you’re leaving word for him to call you. How will you explain the call? Wait a minute, I thought. I’m not supposed to know anything about Liddy and this break-in. This can be explained as a perfectly innocent call—legal work, campaign finance laws. I steadied myself, but the fears had already set in.

I summoned Fielding into my office and told him to go to the White House personnel office and pull Howard Hunt’s employment records. I would need some hard facts if I ended up refereeing a dispute about when, and if, Hunt had worked for Colson. Fred did not question the assignment. He could feel emergency in the air. There might as well have been air raid sirens going off. He sprang to his duty like a military officer in battle. No questions asked. Lives at stake.

Jane buzzed. It was Liddy.

“Gordon,” I said, “I’d like to meet with you.”

“I’ll be right over,” he replied instantly, words clicking. I detected relief. “Have me cleared.” He signed off in a hurry.

I buzzed Jane and told her to clear Liddy past the guards downstairs. I sat back to compose myself, and then another wave of self-recrimination washed over me. Another dumb move, John. You’re not thinking straight. Liddy has just been involved in a crime, and now you’ve built a record of meeting with him. I grimly pictured the Executive Protection Service clearance log: “Mr. Gordon Liddy; June 19, 1972; 11:15 A.M.; Northwest Basement Entrance, EOB; cleared by Miss Thomas for Mr. Dean; official business.” There was nothing I could do about it now. I finally decided, rather irrationally, that I would intercept Liddy in the hall to lessen the number of people in my own office who would see him with me. I hurried out to the bathroom and then paced slowly in the hallway, trying to look as if I were going somewhere. Just as I was heading for the water fountain, I saw Liddy coming toward me.

“Gordon, I think we ought to take a little walk.”

He nodded. He knew exactly what was going on, and he could read on my face that this was a very sensitive meeting. We walked briskly and wordlessly out the nearest exit.

“Let’s walk down this way,” I said, turning south on Seventeenth Street. We walked toward the Ellipse, with the EOB and the White House on our left, the FDIC building across the street on our right.

This was not the crisp Gordon Liddy I had dealt with before. His heavy beard was no longer shaven to the nubs. The black-and-gray stubble was long enough to glisten in the sun. His usual snappy three-piece suit had given way to a rumpled cord summer suit, the kind I associated with fraternity parties at the University of Virginia. He looks almost disheveled, I thought, he seems flustered, no longer the commanding presence. I noticed lines etched in his forehead.

I began with what I thought were calming remarks. “Gordon, I think I have to... I think you can understand why it’s important for me, for the White House, to know exactly what’s happened. I’ve spoken with Jeb, and Jeb has told me—”

He interrupted. “This whole goddam thing is because Magruder pushed me. I didn’t want to go in there. But it was Magruder who kept pushing. He kept insisting we go back in there.”

“Back?”

“Yes. We made an entry before and placed a transmitter and photographed some documents. But the transmitter was not producing right. I think it was because of the range. The equipment we used was only effective up to an air distance of about five hundred yards. Our pickup was within range, but we got interference from the support girders running up the building. They’re steel, and they can deflect a weak signal if they are placed so the transmission passes through their magnetic field. Anyway, it’s defective, and the batteries might be weak. So we went in to find out what was the matter. The other thing is Magruder liked the documents we got from the first entry and wanted more of them… ”

Liddy was gushing now. We stopped on the corner across the street from the Corcoran Art Gallery. I turned away from the traffic, facing the Ellipse. It was nearly lunchtime. I knew that the buildings would soon emit hundreds of familiar faces, and I didn’t want to be seen with Gordon Liddy. I edged over to a park bench and stood there, my back to the sidewalks. Liddy followed me like an awkward dance partner learning a new step. I felt very conspicuous.

“…And, John, I know using McCord was a serious mistake. I accept full responsibility for it. It’s my fault, and I don’t want to put off responsibility on anybody else. But I do want you to know why I did it. And that’s because Magruder cut my budget so much and was pushing me so hard I had to use McCord. I didn’t have time to do anything else. Jim’s a professional, and I trusted him. He was the only guy I could turn to.”

“I understand, Gordon.” I had heard enough. “But what about Hunt?”

“Well, Howard Hunt. He was the guy who got me the Cubans.”

“You mean the ones who were arrested?”

“That’s right. He knew those guys, and he got them for me.”

“I see. Well, how about the people in the White House? Is anybody in any way connected with this? I’ve got to know that, Gordon.”

“I don’t think so. The only person who might have known about it is Gordon Strachan.”

I turned away from Liddy for a moment to absorb Strachan’s name. This was the worst blow since Magruder’s call. I felt queasy. I really didn’t want to know more, because I had to assume that if Strachan knew, Haldeman knew. And if Haldeman knew, the President knew. It made sickening sense. Now I understood why Strachan had called earlier.

Liddy interrupted the silence. “John, I’m worried about the men who were arrested. We’ve got to get them out of jail. They need bonds and lawyers. We can’t let them sit there in the D.C. jail. It’s a hellhole.”

“Well, look, Gordon,” I said, fishing for a clear thought. I wanted to end the conversation. “I can’t do anything about that. And I think you can understand why I can’t do anything about that.”

He stopped for an instant, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Well, that’s right. I can understand.”

I saw more and more people on the street out of the corner of my eye. “Ah, Gordon, I think I’d better be heading back to my office now, and, ah, I really think this is the last conversation we’ll ever have until this whole thing is resolved.” I was now more flustered than Liddy, who seemed to feel better after unburdening himself.

“I understand that perfectly, John,” he said, straightening himself up. “I’ll walk on the other side of the street. That’s probably best. But before I go over there, I want you to know one thing, John. This is my fault. I’m prepared to accept responsibility for it. And if somebody wants to shoot me…” My head shot around. His eyes were fixed and hard, his face full of emotion, his words coming out in bursts. “…on a street corner, I’m prepared to have that done. You just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.” He ended with a gesture of finality.

“Well, ah, Gordon,” I said tightly, flashing back to his burned hand and to Mafia movies, struggling for the strength to calm him again, “I don’t think we’re really there!”

“Oh, no, no,” he said, holding up his hands to hush me. “Look, John, I’m not going to talk about what’s gone on. None of these men will talk, you can be assured of that. They’re all soldiers. But we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Okay,” I said softly.

We turned and headed back up the street. I was looking at my shoes.

“John, I’ll tell you one thing,” Liddy said quietly. “Since you’ve got the responsibility in the White House to find out what’s going on, one thing you ought to do is get the 302s from the FBI.” He was giving me advice, completely recovered. The drama of the previous moment had already blown away on the breeze.

“What’s a 302?” I asked, relieved to return to dull information.

“Well, I’m an FBI man. I know how investigations operate. I used to be a prosecutor up in Dutchess County. What the agents pick up on those raw files will tell you how the investigation is proceeding. Those are the 302s. And the other thing you need is the AirTels. Those are the orders to the agents. They tell the agents whom to interview and what to ask. If you have those, you’ll know what’s going on.”

I responded to his mood rather than to his advice. “Well, Gordon, I’m sorry this whole thing happened.” It was the best leave-taking I could think of. “It sure is a mess now.”

He didn’t say anything, easing away from me with a look of both sadness and determination. I watched him cross Seventeenth Street and break into a brisk walk, and then I went back into the EOB.

I had to get something into my stomach, having fasted since Manila with no good result. I thought of the White House mess and was repelled by the thought of both the cuisine and the company. I wanted to be alone. Soup, I thought, was the answer. I bought a Styrofoam cup full of hot vegetable soup and went to my desk.

I was carefully drinking the soup when I looked up and saw Gordon Strachan at the door. His neck was flushed bright red down to his collar. The splotches stood out in relief against his fair skin and blondish hair. Gordon always looked like a fresh Scandinavian youth; on this day he was a troubled one.

“Have a seat, Gordon,” I said uneasily. But he stood.

“John, I just wanted to talk to you about a couple of things. Sorry to drop in like this. I wanted to let you know I had a call from Haldeman. And I’ve destroyed all the documents in our files relating to that operation over there at the Committee.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I think there are wiretap logs we received, I’m not sure. And there’s a message there, notes I made, of instructions from Bob to tell Liddy to change his operation from Muskie to McGovern.”

I didn’t say anything. Strachan continued. “Now, John, Bob’s files are clean. I’ve gone through everything. I’ve gone through all the political-matters memos, and I’ve taken out everything sensitive and shredded it. Some talking papers and budget stuff. I don’t think there are any problems in there now.”

I shoved my soup away and stared. “Well, Gordon, that’s pretty heavy.”

“I know it is,” he sighed.

I sensed he wanted to talk some more, get things off his chest, but I didn’t. I cut him short and he left.

Hugh Sloan called. He was upset. As treasurer of the Reelection Committee, he had passed large bundles of cash to Liddy. I asked whether he knew what the money was for, and he said no, but he was worried about a Campaign Act violation for not having reported the expenditure. He was worried about whether fingerprints could be detected on hundred-dollar bills. I told him a campaign violation was minor, there were far larger things at stake. Using my standard line about having just gotten back to the country, being under pressure, etc., I got him off the phone. He was not satisfied.

I told Jane not to take any more calls. I wanted to concentrate on what I would tell Ehrlichman shortly in my report. Fielding came in and out of my office on routine business. He was a blur. I didn’t see him. What I was seeing was Jack Caulfield again, several months earlier, whispering to me with conspiratorial delight a story—which Bud Krogh had confirmed—about how Gordon Liddy and some other people had broken into the office of Daniel Ellsberg’s psychiatrist in Los Angeles, on a “mission” for Krogh and Ehrlichman: “…They didn’t get anything, and tore the place up…It was a bust. But they got away clean.” It was not so clean now. This guy Liddy is at a real beggar’s crossroads, I thought. He leads to disaster in all directions. Through Magruder up to Mitchell; through Strachan up to Haldeman and the President; through Krogh up to Ehrlichman and the President. I felt way over my head.

I walked over to Ehrlichman’s office and found him in his white shirtsleeves, with a note pad before him. He offered me a chair next to his desk and motioned me to get on with the report. He was writing, but I couldn’t tell, as usual, whether he was taking notes or doodling. As I recounted my interviews, he was at his unflinching best. I piled up the gory details, receiving only a few raised eyebrows and several uh-huhs. He mustered a drawled “That’s interesting” upon hearing of Liddy’s offer to be shot on the street.

His interest picked up a bit when I blurted an account of the two meetings I had attended in Mitchell’s office on the Liddy plan. Ehrlichman was the only person I could turn to for counsel, but it was only the news of Mitchell’s involvement that made him perk up. Here was some leverage over his nearly vanquished rival. Maybe Mitchell could be made to carry some water for the White House on this break-in.