“Yes,” said the president, returning the smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”

One of the interns came in with more coffee. She refilled the cups. Poured one for Cunningham, asked if anyone needed anything else, and hurried out.

“It must have been difficult at times,” he said. “Especially during the scandal.”

“That’s true. But I wasn’t close to any of that. I didn’t see President Nixon much. Just in the hallways once in a while.” She stopped. Shook her head. “I know what they said about him. And I guess he had some faults. But I liked him.”

“Ms. Akins, you know about the rumors? That there were early landings, not reported, on the Moon?”

“It would be hard not to, Mr. President. It’s all over the news. But I don’t know any more than I told that man on the phone.”

“We thought that might be the case. But it seemed worth the effort to try. I’m hoping coming back here might jar your memory.” He tried to keep his tone light. “While you were here, did you ever hear anything about special lunar missions?”

She shook her head. “No, Mr. President. Not a word.”

He tried the coffee, but didn’t notice the taste. “Irene—Is it okay if I call you that?”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“You said something on the phone about NASA’s having seen something on the Moon.”

“That’s correct.”

“But you don’t know what it was?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“What actually did you hear?”

She adjusted her glasses. Brushed back a curl. She would have been, Cunningham decided, an attractive young woman in her day. “Mr. President, I wish I could tell you. But I really don’t remember any specifics. Mr. Haldeman might have said something. And maybe Mr. Ehrlichman. In fact, yes, definitely Mr. Ehrlichman. It’s fifty years ago. I just don’t recall—”

“Okay. You also said they’d made a big deal of it. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, I didn’t mean that they made a big deal about the Moon. Just that when I asked about it once, I was told there was nothing to it. And the guy telling me was really upset. It was the only time I can remember someone there losing his temper with me.”

“Who was it? Who lost his temper?”

“Gordon Brammer. He was a special assistant to the chief of staff.”

“Brammer?” said the president.

“He’s dead now, sir. Died a long time ago.”

“Okay. Thanks, Irene.”

The president started to get up. But Irene was lost in thought. “There was something else,” she said. “About Jack Cohen.” She frowned. “Funny. I haven’t thought of him for years.”

That brought Ray into the conversation. “Who’s Jack Cohen?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Chambers. He was just somebody who was in the office a lot at the time. The only reason I remember his name is—” She smiled. “I had a boyfriend with that name once. A long time ago.”

“And this was when? In 1969?”

“Well, it was somewhere in the late sixties when Cohen was hanging around the White House. Then I didn’t see him for a long time. Two or three years. He showed up one day seriously upset.”

“When was that?”

“That’s easy. It was right before the Watergate thing blew up.”

Three years later. It couldn’t be connected. “Was he a consultant of some sort?” Ray asked.

“I really don’t know. He just showed up at the White House sometimes. I don’t know who he was coming to see. As I said, the only thing that stuck with me was the name. I don’t even remember what he looked like.”

“So what was his connection with the Moon?”

“He came in that one day, looking really freaked-out. This was, as I say, right before Watergate. Now that I think of it, I remember they hustled him right into the Oval Office. Later, one of the bosses, Ralph Keating, I think it was, said something about it’s being that goddam Moon thing again. Forgive the language.

“The comment seemed so off-the-wall that I never forgot it. I never heard an explanation. But for the next couple of days, everybody looked really upset.”

—

Ralph Keating had been dead almost forty years. The official records contained no mention of a Jack Cohen who’d been connected in any way with the Nixon White House. The president was talking about it with Ray when Kim called to remind him of a 5:00 P.M. meeting with representatives from the National Economic Council. Cunningham hated economics and relied heavily on his treasury secretary to see him through discussions on fiscal policy. But the long struggle to right the economy was continuing, and his presence was necessary to demonstrate he was a serious player.

When it was finally over, and he got back to the Oval Office, it was after seven. Ray was waiting for him. He looked pleased.

“I found Cohen, George.”

“Good, Ray,” he said. “Who is he?”

“He was a friend of Ehrlichman’s. They were pretty close. Both World War II veterans. They flew together with the Eighth Army Air Force, I think it was. He was an anthropologist. Taught at George Washington University.”

“Okay.”

“Irene was right. He used to spend a fair amount of time in the White House.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Died in 1987.”

“We just don’t catch a break, do we?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. By the way, there’s something else that connects him with Ehrlichman.”

“What’s that?”

“They were both Eagle Scouts.”

23

Milt Weinstein thought that Ray Chambers and the president had lost their minds. Despite his conversation with Amos Bartlett, it was obvious to him that the entire affair was a chase after hobgoblins. It was so ridiculous, he’d wanted to tell his wife about it, but he’d been sworn to secrecy, and he knew his ability to keep his mouth shut was the critical reason he’d become Chambers’s most trusted aide.

He and Sheila had been the classic high-school pairing. There’d never been another woman in his life, and he more or less regretted that now. Not that he regretted Sheila. She was all he could have asked for. But there were times when he felt he’d missed something. And he suspected she felt the same way.

She lurked in the background as he leaned over the keyboard. “Milt, if we’re going to watch In Harm’s Way, we should get started before it gets any later.”

“Okay, hon,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.”

She came up behind him. Pictures of people dressed in clothes from another era lined the screen. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“This is The Cherry Tree,” he said.

“The what?”

“It’s the yearbook from George Washington University. Nineteen seventy-five.”

“That’s a little before our time, isn’t it?”

“A little.”

“Why are we interested?”

He shrugged. “Idle curiosity, babe.”

She caught the code word. More secret stuff from the White House. “Okay,” she said. “When you’re finished, I’ll be in the den.”

He was looking at pictures from the Anthropology Department. Professor John C. Cohen, the department chairman, was at the top of the page, dressed in a dark pin-striped suit with a black tie, gazing serenely back at him. He wore a neatly trimmed black beard, and his expression suggested a kind of amused superiority.

Weinstein switched over to the bio. Cohen had been born in Israel of American parents, had served during World War II with the Army Air Force. He’d piloted a B-17 in the raids over Germany. His navigator had been John Ehrlichman. After the war, the two men stayed in touch. Cohen taught for several years at the University of Pennsylvania before moving to George Washington. When Ehrlichman came to D.C. with the Nixon administration, the two reunited and remained close until Cohen’s death in 1987.