It went on like that all day. But he couldn’t get his mind off Bartlett. He’d been briefed on the radio transmissions, on how only Bartlett had responded. On the strange notation by Aaron Walker stating he’d made his landing in April 1969. On the indications that something similar had happened on the Myshko flight. Thin stuff. Still, when you put it all together, and threw in the Blackstone videotape, it was hard to explain. And Blackstone did not seem like the kind of guy to back a dead horse.

Richard Nixon had been president in 1969.

Cunningham needed to talk to one of the inside people at the Nixon White House. But they were mostly gone. Had been gone a long time.

John Dean was still around. But he doubted Dean had been close enough to the president for something on this scale. There was someone else though—

—

He was in his quarters that evening when the call came through. No Skype this time. Just audio.

“Mr. President. This was a surprise.” Everybody in the country knew that voice, still strong, still carrying the ring of authority after so many years. “What can I do for you?”

“Henry,” Cunningham said, “how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. I suspect we could use you here.”

He laughed. “The world keeps getting more complicated, doesn’t it?”

“It seems so. I don’t suppose you’d consider coming out of retirement?”

Another hearty laugh. “I think you have a very efficient secretary of state.”

“Yes. John’s quite good.” He paused. Music drifted in from the next room, where his wife, Lyra, was playing a board game with the girls. “Did you see Blackstone last week?”

“No, Mr. President. I’m aware, though, of what he said.”

“You were National Security Advisor to President Nixon when we landed on the Moon.”

“That is correct.”

“Would you care to comment on Blackstone’s assertions?”

Outside, he could hear the wind in the trees. “No. I have no comment.”

“All right, Henry. Would you be good enough to tell me what’s going on?”

The girls giggled. Anna said something, and they were all laughing. He went over and closed the door.

“Mr. President, surely you’re not taking any of this seriously?”

“I just want to get at the truth.”

“I see.” The wind picked up, then went away. “Mr. President, at the time I was a bit too busy with foreign affairs to become involved in Moon flights. May I offer you a piece of advice?”

“You may answer my question, Henry. That is not a request.”

“If I had any knowledge of the matter that contradicted what everyone already knows, you may be assured I would not hold it back. You’ve established yourself as an effective president, sir. You’re the man the country needs in these turbulent times. Please do not do anything to damage that perception.”

“Henry—”

“Mr. President, stay away from this absurd business. You have nothing to gain. Even if Blackstone were correct, a curious premise in itself, it cannot harm you or the country. Your obligation is to preserve the respect the nation has for you.”

“Then whose concern is it?”

“No one’s. And that is my point. Stay away from this matter. Very likely nothing will ever come of it. If it does, it is best that you remain at a safe distance.”

19

Milt Weinstein was known in the trade as a fixer. He didn’t like the connotation, because to him it sounded as if he fixed horse races and baseball games, but in truth he had almost no interest in either of them. What he fixed were political problems—leaks, indiscreet statements, bimbo eruptions (odd how quickly that became an accepted political term), and the like.

He wasn’t thrilled with the thought of going to Los Angeles to speak with a ninetysomething astronaut who hadn’t said anything that could embarrass his employer. In fact, he had no idea what kind of answer he was trying to elicit from Amos Bartlett. For all he knew, he’d be trying to have a conversation with a drooling, incontinent old man who barely remembered his name, let alone his Moon flight.

But he’d been ordered to go by Ray Chambers—and Chambers was close to the president, so here he sat on a commercial airliner, in economy class yet, reading some news magazine that was two weeks behind where he was and wondering how long it had been since they had stopped selling booze in those cute little bottles.

Finally, he landed. As he picked up his suitcase, he automatically looked around for someone in a chauffeur’s uniform holding up a sign with his name on it, and then remembered that, of course, there wouldn’t be one, not when he was traveling incognito. He then spent a couple of minutes wondering why the hell a man who was unknown to 99.99 percent of the public had to travel incognito in the first place.

He walked out of the building, waited patiently in line for a cab, and gave it the name of his hotel. When it arrived, he gave the driver an extra twenty to stay put for a few minutes. Then he went to the front desk, got his key, and tipped a bellhop to take the suitcase up to his room while he went back out and climbed into the cab again.

Then it was off to the military hospital, a dull, rectangular, unimaginative brown building. The cab pulled up to the front door, let him off, and sped away while he walked through the glass doors that opened automatically when they sensed his presence.

He stopped at the front desk and got the name and room number of the general who was in charge of the facility, and was then given an escort to his office. The sign on the door told one and all that this was the office of Major General Samuel H. Glover. The young sergeant who had accompanied him knocked on the door, waited for a gruff “Come!” from the other side, then opened it and stepped aside as Weinstein entered.

The general looked at him with a total lack of interest.

“Yes?” he said.

“General, my name is Milton Weinstein. I believe I’m expected?”

Glover frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“I’m here to speak with one of your patients. I’m just checking in to announce my presence and make sure there won’t be any hassles.”

“Which patient?”

“Amos Bartlett,” said Weinstein.

The frown deepened. “Press?”

Weinstein shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Then what’s your business with him?”

“Actually, I work for your boss.”

“General Landis?”

“His boss,” said Weinstein with a smile. He pulled his White House pass out of his wallet and handed it to Glover.

“Are we to assist you in any way?”

“No. I just want to make sure I won’t be stopped or have to go through a mile of red tape.”

“All right,” said Glover. “I’ll have the young man who brought you here escort you to Bartlett’s room. But first, you will stop by this room”—he scribbled down a room number on a piece of paper, then handed it over—“and dictate and sign a statement that you have been sent here by the president of the United States. If you are telling the truth, no one else will ever see the statement or know of your visit unless you choose to make it public.” Another frown. “But if you’re lying, or here under false pretenses, I can promise you a long, not very enjoyable stay in another government facility not too far from here—Terminal Island.”

“Understood,” said Weinstein.

He turned to the door, prepared to open it, only to find his sergeant standing there. He escorted him down the corridor to the office indicated on the paper. When they arrived, Weinstein dictated his statement to a young officer at a computer, waited for it to be printed out, and signed it.